“Please cooperate during entry, you bastards.”
“It’s simpler than you think. Just remember three things.”
That’s what I was told on my first day as an immigration officer.
“First. When referring to others, use ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam.’ When referring to yourself, use ‘this official.'”
The woman who hired me extended one finger as she spoke.
“Those entrusted with state duties must distinguish themselves from ordinary citizens. They need to speak in a way that makes their role instantly clear. That’s how we avoid misunderstandings or unnecessary conflicts. The foundation of that… is how we address people.”
In other words, changing the basic language of address makes it obvious that we’re government officials.
Not a bad idea.
That way, even if we’re in plain clothes and not in uniform, people will know who we are—as long as nobody copies our way of speaking, of course.
She held up her second finger.
“Second. No matter who you’re dealing with, never speak down to them. Always be polite.”
She emphasized the words “no matter who.”
“Immigration officers are the first people anyone sees when entering our country. For them, we are the nation’s first impression.”
“In other words, we are the face of the country, so we must be courteous yet firm.”
Put more simply: treat everyone the same regardless of gender, race, or status.
Makes sense.
First impressions matter even in regular interactions between people.
On a national level, the significance must be even greater.
‘Be respectful and kind, but never let them look down on you’—that’s what she meant.
“If you remember these two rules, you’ll avoid most problems.”
I felt a little more at ease with such straightforward and intuitive rules.
‘But wasn’t there one more?’
“Uh… what about the third one?”
“Ah, the third is even simpler. And it’s the most important.”
She raised her last finger.
“Any misconduct by an immigration officer, regardless of severity, results in immediate execution.”
“…Sorry, what?”
‘Did I hear that right?’
‘Execution? As in that word I think it means?’
‘Execution, like beheading?’
“Uh… you’re joking, right?”
“Oh, I suppose I forgot to mention. One of your seniors was executed three days ago.”
She pointed to a notice on the wall.
[Breaking News: Southern border immigration officer executed immediately after sudden arrest and brief questioning—public in shock—]
Looking closely, the date really was three days ago.
“…Is this real?”
‘Did they really cut someone’s head off? A government worker?’
“For… for what crime? What did he do?”
She looked around cautiously, then lowered her voice, as if about to share something forbidden.
I leaned in closer, and after a long pause, she answered.
“He was fifteen minutes late for work.”
“…”
“Hard to believe, I know. But it’s true.”
“…Shit.”
I came to the wrong place.
I really came to the wrong place.
‘But it was already too late to run. Why?’
“Now then, it’s time to enter the Immigration Inspection Office.”
Her hand was already firmly gripping my arm.
“Welcome to your new post, Nathan Kell. I’m very pleased to have you on board!”
And just like that, my fate was sealed.