It was another casual night after work on Dec. 3, replete with glasses of "somaek," a beer cocktail mixed with a shot of soju.

No one at the reporters' unofficial dinner gathering with the administrative staff of President Yoon Suk Yeol's office had any idea that one of the biggest threat to South Korea's democracy in the 21st century was about to break out.

Not too long into the dinner, news that the presidential office would make a "shocking announcement" spread rapidly among the press corps. The other reporters and I quickly ended our dinner and rushed to the briefing room, where Yoon was said to be delivering the speech, only to find ourselves locked out.

At around 10:20 p.m., President Yoon's martial law declaration was broadcast on television. Reporters were unable to reach the president and could only watch his statement from the presidential office's press room.

It was an unprecedented moment for a 34-year-old, as I heard the incumbent president say he would use his executive power to crack down on dissenters for their "pro-North Korea, anti-state" activities.

This was followed by the decree, implemented nationwide at 11 p.m. on Dec. 3 -- the first in over four decades. The decree stipulated that, among other measures, the press and publishers would come under the control of the martial law command immediately.

Then clips of South Korean troops deployed to the National Assembly came.

Scenes of helicopters, armored vehicles and soldiers armed with rifles advancing to the legislative institution in western Seoul lit up social media and messaging apps.

Media outlets livestreamed the troops forcing their way in.

Dozens of my acquaintances quickly joined Telegram. Meanwhile those covering the presidential office were left aghast -- and just as clueless as the rest of the nation -- glued to the television. We did what we could instead, publishing pieces attempting to evaluate the situation and predict potential ramifications with what little information we could obtain.

An eviction order to the presidential office press corps became effective at 12:45 a.m. on Dec. 4. But no one asked or forced reporters to leave, and few were willing to do so.

Things seemed surreal. Only the incessant KakaoTalk pings from the desk editor and a colleague asking about what was unfolding at the presidential office kept me planted in reality.

At around 1 a.m., 190 lawmakers of the 300-member unicameral chamber passed a resolution to nullify martial law. Relieved and perplexed, some of my fellow reporters mused, "Was it that easy?"

Three hours later, President Yoon had no choice but to accept the situation. Both the martial law declaration and the eviction order were rendered null and void.

That night and the tumultuous week that followed revealed a difficult truth: Press freedoms in our hard-won democracy had been taken for granted.

To this day, I can hardly fathom what it would be like if this country were under the command of the martial law headquarters.

Would it mean any of my writing in the future could be censored? Or might I be detained someday for having written something perceived as unfavorable to the Yoon administration? I cannot stop asking myself this because, at this moment, the trauma of martial law is reaching a new generation.

Four decades ago, imagining the press freedoms we enjoy today was a tall order, as regulations ran rampant across newspapers, magazines, television and radio.

In May 1980, during the previous nationwide martial law imposition by military coup leader Chun Doo-hwan, journalists were forced to leave their workplaces for refusing to comply with government instructions or for alleged sympathies with Chun's political dissenters.

Chun rose to power and massacred pro-democracy protesters in Gwangju with military force. Neutralizing his political opponents and the mass media, Chun eventually lifted martial law in January 1981. He was inaugurated as president two months later, but his notoriously restrictive curbs on media lingered.

An association of the dismissed journalists in the 1980s counted the number of journalists who could no longer pursue their careers at 2,000.

Journalists who remained in their workplaces were left frustrated. Some were moved to submission by forced mergers of media outlets, the government's power to revoke the license of any news publication or the issuance of daily press guidelines by the Ministry of Culture and Information instructing them as to what they could and could not publish.

A 1986 revelation of a chronological listing of press guidelines over 10 months shocked South Koreans, who had little idea of what was behind newsroom decisions until then.

The revelation came at a high cost. Five people, including Kim Jeu-eon, then a copy editor for the Hankook Ilbo who had leaked the daily press guidelines, were arrested for violating the National Security Law, divulging diplomatic secrets and insulting the nation's sovereignty, among other charges. All of them were eventually acquitted of their crimes in 1995 -- eight years after South Korea transitioned to democracy in 1987.

Had martial law remained in effect today, the people of this country would have been forced to look at the world through the lens of a powerful media manipulator, and freedoms built through the sacrifices of so many would have been rendered to nothing.

We should remember that for so long the true nature of the 1980 Gwangju Uprising was kept firmly under wraps. For years, few knew that pro-democracy protests had swept the city in May that year, as the uprising had been labeled by the government as a "riot" incited by pro-North Korean forces. Gwangju citizens did not manage to hold their first anniversary commemoration of the uprising until 1984, due to crackdowns on previous attempts.

This Reporter's Notebook might later become a record, should the next round of martial law come into effect.