It was a quiet, late evening in one of Seoul’s rundown alleyways, where a few dim lights flickered over a lone street food stall. The smell of budae jjigae—a hearty stew of kimchi, spam, and instant noodles—mixed with the sharp tang of soju in the chilly night air. A middle-aged man sat slouched over the counter, his face flushed, eyes bleary, and his hand clutching a bottle of soju.
He had been drinking for hours, the harsh burn of the liquor not quite numbing his bitterness. “A violation of the Anti-Corruption Act, they say,” he slurred, speaking to no one in particular. “Stock manipulation? Ha! That was over a decade ago. They want me to apologize for every little thing.”
The stall owner, an old woman with a keen eye for troubled souls, stirred the pot of stew but kept quiet. She had seen all types come to her stall to drink their worries away. But this man was different—he had an air of burden that went beyond a typical office worker’s stress.
“Do they think they know pain?” he continued, pouring himself another shot. “Do they understand the weight of running a country? They can’t even imagine what it’s like to be accused of meddling with the military, the elections… Who would’ve thought? Me, struggling like this…”
He took a gulp of his drink, shaking his head. “And now, my approval rating is… 19 percent! 19! I ask you,” he suddenly turned to the stall owner, eyes blazing with frustration. “Do you know what approval ratings are? You wouldn’t understand this pain.”
The old woman said nothing, only nodded slowly, her face impassive. She had no need to speak. This man wasn’t here for advice, after all; he was here to let off steam.
Finally, he slapped some bills on the counter, swaying as he tried to get up. He stumbled a few steps, his feet tangling as he lost his balance and crashed to the ground, face-first into the damp mud of the alley. The stall owner watched him silently as he lay there, motionless, gathering himself.
And then, as if to himself, he muttered, “I’m the president of this country.”
The words, soft and barely audible, hung in the air as he slowly picked himself up and trudged off into the night, a solitary figure weighed down by the burdens of a title that once felt like a promise but now seemed more like a curse.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
What are the achievements overshadowed by Yoon’s rock-bottom approval rating?
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