Prologue

Nine people are dead and twelve in critical condition following a shocking random killing spree in a luxury apartment in Yamu. Around 4pm Friday, the culprit, posing as a kindly neighbor, distributed poisoned rice cakes to residents. Police have mobilized their entire force to track down whoever is responsible for this heinous crime…

All stories start with money. It’s a cliché. But in the year 2025—when the death toll of Koreans too poor to afford AC in heatwaves has reached triple digits—what can you do without money? You can’t find housing, eat, hook up, or socialize. If you want to hook up, you’ll first need to grab coffee on a date or at least pay for a hotel room. If you want to socialize, you’ll need designer shoes, a designer smartphone case, a designer wallet. That’s not all. Even revenge costs money. Sure, you can slap some kid walking down the street and vent your frustration. But that’s not really revenge; It’s a cheap move that only proves you’re the one that has been defeated. Therefore, all seventeen-year-old Hwang Hwayoung can do right now is to seize money, the new god and the mightiest weapon of our age. Money works miracles. A story that starts with money can only end with it—that’s what Hwayoung believes, an important lesson someone once taught her.

But a weapon that isn’t lodged in another’s flesh is a weapon that can always wound you. Unless you were born holding one, you’ll need to sell your soul at the very least just to grasp the handle.

Chapter One

The Teddy Bear Holding a Hatchet

Hwayoung eyed the wad of cash in front of her. Youngjin, the “room boss,” was counting the rent money he had collected from the kids. The mildewy smell rising from the grubby banknotes gave her a headache. How much was all that? she wondered. Over ten people lived in this run-down, eighty-square-meter apartment, each paying at least several hundred thousands of won in rent. While Hwayoung did the math in her head, Youngjin finished counting and turned to her. She stood still as a defendant awaiting the verdict. He announced her sentence: “Fifty percent hike on your rent. Starting next month.”

“Are you insane?” Hwayoung burst out.

“Got a problem with that? Leave. I’ve got plenty of kids dying to take your place.” Youngjin swept the cash into his duffle bag without batting an eyelid. Hwayoung glared at him, biting her lip. She had no retort.

This was Rainbow Apartments, located in Wolpyung-dong on the fringes of Yamu City. Well over four decades old, the small apartment complex had been built by cheating numerous locals, merchants, and investors. From the day it opened, Rainbow Apartments was plagued by conflicts big and small, including allegations of poor construction and the suicide of the developer’s CEO, gaining decades-long notoriety as The Cursed Apartments. Add to that the complicated web of interests and even inheritance disputes following the deaths of stakeholders—Rainbow Apartments was a lost cause.

For a while, rumors spread that Rainbow Apartments was precisely the reason Wolpyung-dong didn’t make the list of neighborhoods up for redevelopment. Meanwhile, Yamu’s extensive redevelopment plan gave other neighborhoods in the city a facelift, the dramatic changes leaving nowhere else to go for some people, who then trickled back into this old district. As a result, Rainbow Apartments alone maintained an eerie dreariness that gave it the disgraceful nickname, “the Cesspool of Yamu.”

Naturally, living conditions were far from perfect. In embarrassing contrast to its hopeful name, Rainbow Apartments was tattooed all over with curses and obscenities in garish red spray paint. Residents of nearby neighborhoods treated the apartment complex like a pandemic hotbed, not daring to come within a hundred-meter radius.

So residents of the complex weren’t refusing to leave, but simply couldn’t. The majority of them were vagrants or criminals who squatted in empty homes, or people who paid far-cheaper-than-average rent for units the landlords put on the market without even requiring deposits. Youngjin belonged to the latter group. But the difference was that he had the money to buy this unit—he just chose not to. He said there was no reason to own a property that may never get redeveloped, and didn’t want to deal with all its scandalous baggage. The way Hwayoung saw it, Youngjin was practically the owner of the unit, just not on paper. He had probably chatted up some homeless person around Yamu Station with a bottle of soju and used their name. Hwayoung’s roommate Jua told her that Youngjin had dabbled in all sorts of illegal activities since he was a minor; no doubt he had many reasons to hide behind another person’s identity.

Another difference was that Youngjin was subletting his rented unit. His tenants? Kids who had nowhere to go. No matter the era, no matter the city, there were always children without a place to stay. Children who hid in dark, damp corners and lived in packs, like sewer rats. Hwayoung was one of them.

“Use your brain,” Youngjin drawled. “I’ve been charging peanuts. You know damn well there’s no place this cheap, even with the fifty percent hike.”

Hwayoung hated to admit it, but he was right. The tiny gosiwon room she stayed in before moving here had charged double her current rent. After months of missed payments, she had been kicked out, and hadn’t even gotten any of her belongings back.

Housing prices in Yamu were skyrocketing. The first spike came immediately after the Ministry of Land and Infrastructure announced plans to bulldoze the entirety of the aging—or rather crumbling—city, and build in its place a state-of-the-art, eco-friendly, and education-focused metropolis. Once the public-private joint planning committee was launched, news stories abounded of out-of-town investors flocking to Yamu with bags of cash to buy up land. And people did arrive in droves, rapidly changing the face of Yamu. High-rises cropped up on a daily basis, noises of construction ringing constantly in every corner. People fighting over land ownership grew common as street pigeons. While Yamu was indeed turning into a state-of-the-art (but maybe not so eco-friendly) city, time stood still at one place: Rainbow Apartments.

Hwayoung’s answer was decided for her already. The moment she moved out from the Cesspool of Yamu, she would have to struggle just to tread water, never mind save any money. As Youngjin hummed nonchalantly, Hwayoung asked, “Why raise the rent all of a sudden?”

“Landlord raised my rent. Got no choice.”

“Cut the crap. I know you’ve got dozens of us offering up rent money every month. And the other kids don’t seem to know about the hike yet. Shouldn’t you let them know in advance so they can—”

“‘Course they don’t. Their rent’s the same. I’m only raising yours.”

“What? Why?”

Youngjin narrowed his eyes as if to size her up. Hwayoung had never gotten used to those unpleasant pupils, a pair of sinkholes sucking in an endless desert of greed. Youngjin’s lips curled as he added, “You asked for this. Should’ve obeyed me like the others.”

“Don’t tell me this is about last week.”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”

A week earlier, Youngjin had offered to take Hwayoung “fishing.” The terms were that she would get a ten percent cut. “Fishing” was the room boss’s second source of income. First, he lured people from anonymous secondhand marketplaces or random chatrooms using runaway teens as a front, usually pretty-faced young girls who looked harmless and not all that strong. To make the most cash out of the transaction, the goods Youngjin posted for sale were home appliances, electronics, illegal drugs, or sometimes even the teenager baits themselves. There was no shortage of sickos who would do anything for pleasure. They came waving wads of cash, grinning from ear to ear as they stepped into the trap. Youngjin liked to use a motel in a nightlife district nearby. He and the owner seemed to have some kind of arrangement. How else would he have a duplicate key to every single room? If the target entered the motel, it was game over. The moment they let their guard down, Youngjin and the others ambushed the scene. “Fishing” was basically slang for mugging. Robbing someone clean through physical, psychological, and verbal abuse, protected from the police or any potential lawsuits due to the target’s own participation in illegal dealings.

“The others” referred to the big, obedient boys also handpicked by Youngjin. A number of Hwayoung’s housemates not only admired but even made a role model out of Youngjin, who had accumulated wealth through a colorful history of crime and nastiness. The boys were practically fixed members of Youngjin’s gang, unlike the girls he used as bait and frequently replaced, saying their faces had become known.

“You’re doing this because I refused to be bait? Grow up,” Hwayoung hissed.

“You grow up. Being precious about your ego when you ain’t shit. Acting like you’re the only one with clean hands here, when I know for a fact you’ve scammed your way into that fast-food job.”

“Oh, so even you know your money’s filthy.”

Stung by the accusation of a precious ego, Hwayoung had really let her ego talk. Instantly realizing her mistake, she fell silent. The mood was icy. Youngjin growled in a dangerously low voice, “Hey, Hwang Hwayoung. You fucking watch it.” His hand moved in a flash and his ashtray flew in her direction. Hwayoung managed to twist out of the way, arms shielding her face. The black ashtray, printed with a Chinese restaurant logo, hit the kitchen cupboard and fell, clouding her face with ash. She began to cough uncontrollably.

“Quit the chest-beating and show up for the next fishing. This is about you proving that you still want to live here. Behave and I’ll cancel your rent hike.”

“Gimme some time to think.”

“Think fast, ’cause D-day’s next weekend. Either you stick with the fam and score big, or watch your rent jump fifty percent every month and end up on the streets.”

The frosty silence was broken by the sudden buzzing of Youngjin’s mobile. The screen showed eleven digits of an unsaved number, which Youngjin seemed to recognize. He snatched his phone up quickly as if he’d been waiting for the call. Dismissing Hwayoung with a gesture of his chin, he stepped out onto the balcony. Who was he on the phone with that he had to shut the door behind him? Somehow, he looked tenser than usual. Hwayoung brushed the ash off herself and glared at the money on the table.

Despite all her protests, the reason she turned down the fishing gig really wasn’t anything special. Her sense of justice? Her last remaining ounce of conscience? To hell with all that. Her reason was that she simply had to work a shift at the restaurant that evening. Of course, her wages from the part-time job were far less than what Youngjin would pay her. But she wasn’t going to quit her job after this one big gig with him. Hwayoung needed money. Lots of it. But not many employers were willing to hire a minor with a fake address and no proper guardian. That was why her hard-won job at the fast-food joint by the intersection was so important.

Ten bus stops from Rainbow Apartments was Bakhak intersection, Yamu’s mecca of education and its largest hagwon district. The fast-food joint was the intersection’s landmark, an enormous outlet that was always bustling with time-pressed, hungry students. Working there was so draining that even adult employees rarely lasted long. The manager hired Hwayoung only because the outlet was desperately short-staffed, but he remained apprehensive about having taken on someone so young. If Hwayoung hadn’t made up a tear-jerking story about losing her mother to illness and being sent to live with a heartless aunt who left her to starve, she wouldn’t have landed the job. If she gave even the slightest impression of slacking off, she would surely get the axe faster than she could say, “Wait.”

There was one more reason. As Yamu’s redevelopment plans ramped up, the slogan “Yamu, the Family-Friendly City” was plastered all over the streets. Barely a week had passed since the police department announced increased crackdowns on crime. If Hwayoung got caught helping Youngjin, who profited off not only fishing but other crimes both petty and serious, Youngjin would make sure that she would be the one to take the hit. If she got arrested and ended up in juvie or a shelter, forget earning money—she’d lose all her savings. The worst of the worst was always a possibility, and Hwayoung had an expensive goal to achieve. Until then, she had to quietly persevere.

Youngjin was still on the phone with his back to her. Hwayoung reached for the duffle bag, filled with the cash he had finished counting. In the blink of an eye, she nabbed a 50,000-won bill and shoved it into her pocket just as Youngjin turned around. She gave him the middle finger, then hightailed it out of Unit 303. She was due for her shift.

✕ ✕ ✕

Account balance: 4,469,000 won. Just one-fifth of her target amount of twenty million won. Repeating the seven-digit number to herself, Hwayoung took the westbound subway to the opposite side of town from Rainbow Apartments. She was headed to the first neighborhood in Yamu to undergo redevelopment, now the posh stronghold of the city’s most expensive and pleasantly dispersed apartments and houses: Green Village.

The time was 3pm. Hwayoung had two hours till her shift. As usual, she changed in the subway station restroom, donning a school uniform with a silly green necktie. She had found it in a shopping bag dumped in front of a donation bin. Twice a week, she put on the uniform and transformed into a student at a private Christian boarding school. The school was the perfect choice, as it was neither too close to nor too far from the posh neighborhood. Hwayoung looked into the mirror, practicing her kindest, demurest, and devoutest expression. Holding the portable collection box and Bible stolen during her one-day job for the Salvation Army, she set out for the Seaview Parc with a spring in her step.

The Seaview Parc at Yamu.

Put simply, it was the largest, swankiest apartment complex in Yamu—the very antithesis of Rainbow Apartments. Residents included politicians and financiers from out of town, celebrities who had retired after a good run, high-ranking government officials, and native Yamu bigwigs who, tipped off by said officials about the redevelopment, purchased large swathes of land early on. With a total of twenty buildings in the complex, the Seaview Parc was an ultra-opulent community where every unit had the entire floor to itself and enjoyed private elevator access. To forestall any noise complaints, the floors and ceilings were soundproofed with such painstaking care that residents, it was said, could party all night without their neighbors hearing a peep.

The gated community was, of course, heavily protected. Security guards in three-piece suits stood like totem poles at every corner, inspecting every last person who came and went. No one was allowed into the complex without an access card, and outsiders were required to use visitor-only entryways and elevators. For food deliveries, the management office held on to the vehicle key and even checked the order details before providing the elevator access card. All this Hwayoung had learned from Jua, who worked as a delivery person.

Apparently, things had been different when the community first opened. The visitor-only entryway was also a later addition. Back when it was still in the presale stage, the Seaview Parc was actually branded as an eco-friendly and cozy apartment complex boasting sweeping views of the Yellow Sea on the higher floors and a proximity to Mount Muwang, the backbone of Yamu. Certain circumstances had driven the Seaview Parc to pivot to being such a radically gated luxury residence.

The shift happened three years ago. A lunatic decided to leave out poisoned rice cakes during moving season. The incident left nine dead and twelve gravely ill. Shortly afterward, the culprit uploaded a video confession, and was then found dead by suicide. It was the worst mass murder in Yamu’s history.

Hwayoung fought down the old memories threatening to resurface. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. Money, she had to make money. The hours of her day could be converted to money, because that was what everything boiled down to. She had two hours till her shift at the fast-food restaurant. How much she could earn within that time depended on her skills. Confidently, she strode up to the security office by the iron gates and held out her visitor access card. The guard, who was familiar with her face, let her in without inspection. After notifying Unit 508, whose resident had given her the visitor card, the concierge remarked, “You’re a devout kid, I’ll give you that. But tell me, does God reward you for praying so hard?”

Putting on “Amiable and Relaxed Smile No. 1,” which she had perfected in the subway station mirror, Hwayoung replied, “Amen.” The concierge muttered audibly, “Folks here have everything. What more could they pray for?”

Gee, I’m curious myself. But you know, you’d be surprised how many families have sad stories even if they’re rich, Hwayoung answered him in her head, and, maintaining her amiable smile, crossed the courtyard and reached the building entryway leading up to Unit 508. She worked twice a week here. Her job was to pray for and chat with the Protestant ma’ams and sirs of the Seaview Parc. Her pay wasn’t fixed, but the good madams rolling in money and time were magnanimous with their spending. The sentence written on Hwayoung’s little collection box—Proceeds will be donated to those in need, under Yamu Younggwang High School’s Christian Club, PRAISE—was a magic spell that sucked in cash. These donations were the reason Hwayoung had money left to save after paying rent with her welfare benefits. She had gotten the idea from the Salvation Army’s Red Kettle campaign and a documentary on a Christian student club. She didn’t know at first that she had hit the jackpot.

But her success shouldn’t have come as a surprise, really. Countless red neon crosses dotted the neighborhood and the rest of Yamu, and churches towered impressively over every block of apartment complexes. But the ministers of such large congregations were busy. Mad busy, Hwayoung supposed. Even if they weren’t, they had no reason to go out of their way to visit homes and hold prayers when their church was already overflowing with worshippers. She had discovered an untapped market. Plus, her sweet, open face and unthreateningly small frame proved useful in disarming these guarded ma’ams and sirs.

The madam of Unit 508, who gave Hwayoung the visitor access card, had lost her younger brother in the incident three years ago. Since then, the pious Christian woman had stopped going to church and confined herself to her house. So perhaps it was natural that she was reminded of her brother’s young daughter when she saw, on the anniversary of his death, Hwayoung scuffling with a security guard by the apartment gates. She lent a ready helping hand to Hwayoung, who repaid her with prayer and consolation. That was already a year ago. Nowadays, Hwayoung spent more time talking with the madam than praying. She told Hwayoung every little detail about her daily goings-on: how a newly released perfume was just to her taste, how the tea leaves flown in from England smelled sublime, what she ate for lunch and what movie she had enjoyed over the weekend. The Unit 508 madam was also the one who had introduced Hwayoung to the other women and seniors living in the apartment. Hwayoung rang the doorbell, and the door opened almost immediately.

“Come in. Let’s talk inside,” the madam said. Hwayoung greeted the madam brightly as always, hugging her Bible. She noticed that her hostess’s expression was darker than usual. The living-room coffee table was already set—as if the madam had been waiting for her—with cups of freshly brewed peach Earl Grey, a tea that had become Hwayoung’s favorite despite her untrained palate. She was savoring the beautiful sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling window when the madam said calmly, “You can stop coming here now.”

Hwayoung almost dropped her teacup. “Is something the matter?”

“After your visit last week, a neighbor—a student around your age—brought something to my attention. That your school uniform, and the name of your Christian club, changed a long time ago. That the club doesn’t do door-to-door fundraising anymore.”

Hwayoung’s mind went blank. She felt as though she had forgotten how to speak.

“At first I didn’t believe it,” the madam continued. “Given how long we’ve known each other—well over a year, you know. And after everything I’ve confided in you? It just couldn’t be true. But I remembered that a distant relative of mine recently got into that school. So I asked for a favor. I asked her to check if there was a first-year club member named Hwang Hwayoung.”

Hwayoung was silent.

“Do you have any idea how I felt waiting for the answer?”

“I’m so sorry,” was all Hwayoung could bring herself to say. The madam’s knuckles were chalk-white as she clutched her teacup. Hwayoung wouldn’t blame her if she poured that tea right over her head.

“Listen, I get it. You must’ve needed the money. And there are a million reasons in the world a person might need money. I don’t begrudge you that money. But what I cannot stand… is that all your sweet gestures, all our conversations—it was all a performance. How much of you is real? Everything you showed me and told me—was any of it true? You also ‘lost someone’ in the incident? You can ‘understand my grief’? No matter how young and desperate you are… there are lines you don’t cross.”

Hwayoung thought her heart might burst. She had known a day like this might come, but no way had she expected this pain, this realization that she had harmed and hurt someone she actually held dear. Should she have backed out before she felt this way? But how was she to know when that point was?

“I’ll leave it at that,” the madam said. “I never wish to see you again.”

“I am so sorry…” Hwayoung whispered. She wanted to flee this suffocating space. What had been her cozy refuge and workplace until last week was now a living hell. She got up and nearly ran to the door, but stopped just before she stepped out. The madam sat looking devastated. With her back to the madam, Hwayoung muttered, “It wasn’t all a lie. Please believe me.”

Hwayoung dashed out of the apartment complex and all the way to the subway station, tossing her donation box onto a heap of uncollected garbage by a utility pole. She knew she was in the wrong, but she wanted to cry. Yet with no one to comfort her if she broke down, and being no comfort to herself, she held those tears back. It was time for her to get to her next job. Once again she changed in the subway station restroom, then waited for the bus as she chewed over the last thing the madam had said to her. There are lines you don’t cross. But Hwayoung was on her way to cross many more lines. Was any of it real? Who knows, she thought. If “real” meant the core inside a shell, did she even have one after losing her mom?

Yet in all the moments she spoke and cried with the madam—no matter what anyone said—Hwayoung had been sincere. That truth, at least, she hoped would reach the madam. But like the moral of The Boy Who Cried Wolf, a tiny truth among countless lies would not be heard. On the bus ride to the fast-food restaurant, Hwayoung sang dully under her breath, “Twenty million won, twenty million won.” She needed twenty million won. Twenty million won wasn’t such a huge amount. Twenty million won wasn’t enough to pay for a single window fitting in one of the many high-rises sprouting up in Yamu. But it was enough to kidnap one person. Whatever it took. Closing her eyes, Hwayoung thought of a voice. The voice that kept her going.

Do you know why I do this work? Because human life is equal before a gun or a knife.

Therefore, she would buy herself a gun and knife, her truth and revenge.

✕ ✕ ✕

There are many types of lies in the world. Good lies and bad lies, big lies and small lies. Some lies are catastrophic in and of themselves, while some are pretty harmless. For example, if someone asked you what you did last night, you might lie that you studied when really you lay in bed playing games on your phone. Or you might fib about your birthday being April 24 when it’s really April 18. Or say you’re seventeen when you’re actually fifteen. But all lies inevitably lead to catastrophe. A big lie, by its very nature, ruins everything; a small, everyday lie will be used against you when exposed. And Hwayoung, who armed herself with lies in the swiftly changing city of Yamu, was today exposed for both.

She had just finished frying some three hundred chicken nuggets and four hundred baskets of French fries when she was summoned by the manager. Sometimes you just knew. Standing before the firmly shut staffroom door, Hwayoung felt a déjà vu: opening this door would cause a rupture. Something was about to begin… But she couldn’t not open the door. She had no power to refuse. Taking a deep breath, she carefully turned the handle. The manager seemed to be in a mood, her arms crossed. A document lay in front of her—the resumé Hwayoung had submitted as part of her job application.

“Why did you lie to me?” the manager asked.

That shitty God of Truth had it in for her today, Hwayoung thought. How else could these things happen back to back? The resumé contained her youthful student ID photo along with an endless list of her one-off jobs and the restaurants she had served at. The manager pointed to the birthdate field next to her photograph. “You said when you applied that you were seventeen.”

Hwayoung broke out in a cold sweat. She’d had no choice: she was fifteen at the time, two years younger than she was now. Though seventeen and fifteen were both underage, few employers were willing to hire a fifteen-year-old middle schooler. Even on the off chance that a middle schooler got hired, they would get replaced as soon as another applicant turned up, or, worse, get preyed on by ill-intentioned adults. Besides, Hwayoung had thought her manager had known. Known, but cut her some slack.

“Lying on your resumé is one thing, but forging official documents? That’s a crime,” the manager went on. She was referring to the family register certificate, parental consent form, and medical certificate Hwayoung had submitted on her first day of work. The family register certificate had to be fudged because she had to fake her age, and the parental consent form and medical certificate because she had no one to sign them. Woo Youngjin, you piece of shit, Hwayoung cursed in her head. Forgeries won’t get caught, my ass. And to think of the crapload of money she’d paid him.

All day she had been a mess. A strange, scalding heat erupting from her chest like lava, yet no words able to escape. Before Hwayoung could even begin to make an excuse, her manager informed her coldly that she didn’t need to come in anymore—her replacement had been hired. Hwayoung felt as though an invisible hand was once again depositing her at Youngjin’s feet.

Hwayoung left the staffroom and took her place before the deep fat fryer again. It was exam season, as luck would have it, so the staff were worked off their feet. Keyed-up students and their parents flooded into the restaurant and left with bags of burgers. A little before midnight, Hwayoung switched off the fryer and, just like that, her last shift was over. The lights of the hagwons around the restaurant still shone bright. Her manager, maybe feeling belatedly sorry, told her that head office had sent down auditors after the city adopted the slogan, “Yamu, the Family-Friendly City,” and so she had no choice.

This wasn’t something the manager had to apologize for, Hwayoung knew. She was the one at fault. She was the one who had deceived and betrayed the madam for a year, written lies on her resumé and forged her medical certificate. She returned her apron and cap, and left the restaurant. Her stomach gave an overdue growl. All she had eaten the whole day were French fries she had accidentally burned in overheated oil, and one burger.

“I’m hungry,” she said aloud. She resented the tactlessness of her rumbling stomach. Uniformed students walked briskly past her down the street. A mother and daughter caught her eye. The girl, who had irritation written all over her face, was wearing the uniform of Hwayoung’s old school. The comfortably dressed mother opened a lunchbox and scooped a spoonful of rice, which she brought to her daughter’s mouth, but the girl swatted the hand away and darted into the hagwon building. As class schedules were often back to back, parents delivering packed meals for their children were a common sight on this street. Hwayoung’s mouth watered. “I want my mom’s food…” she mumbled.

There had been a time like that for her once, too. A time when every morning she would eat breakfast cooked by her mom, in a house that wasn’t spacious but snug enough for a family of three. Her dad would do the dishes after dinner, while her mom quickly seated herself on the living room sofa to catch her favorite weeknight soap. That was Hwayoung’s cue to plop down next to her mom, drumming her full belly, her mouth bulging with the fruit that her dad had sliced for her. The sour tang of kimchi jjigae wafting around the house, the chatter of the TV and the clink of dishes mingling peacefully. A memory so old it felt like another lifetime.

It had also been ages since she went to school. Where had she put her uniform? She couldn’t even remember now. Just barely meeting the minimum attendance requirement, Hwayoung had managed to graduate from middle school—that was her last time in classes of any sort. Whenever she veered off course, it had always been her mom who put her back on track. But now her mom was gone. She had no reason to return to school. Hwayoung stood on a corner of the intersection, staring at the sea of hagwon signs and neon lights. Everywhere she looked were parents and their children, but their lives felt distant. She took out her phone and messaged Youngjin:

I’ll do it. I want a fair cut.

Bout time you stopped playing hard to get.

Youngjin’s reply was prompt, like he had known she would contact him. Hwayoung started out toward Rainbow Apartments. She was in the mood for a long walk today. She wanted to walk until she was worn out like her dog-eared sneakers, worn down into a tiny speck nobody could find.

An hour or so passed. Her starved stomach had quieted, as if catching on that no amount of whining would result in a meal. Hunger had a peak. Once you passed that stage of itching to shove anything into your mouth, you settled into a strangely serene state. Your appetite gone, as if your stomach was on strike.

Rainbow Apartments loomed in the distance but it seemed closer now. Hwayoung was passing a residential area steeped in darkness. Something moved down the alley. She squinted. The dim yellow glow of a lamppost shone down on piles of uncollected garbage, which several hungry stray cats were digging around in for scraps. Then she noticed something else: leaning between the piles of garbage and a perimeter wall was a familiar rotund shape. Black, round eyes glinting in the lamplight. Two shiny orbs looking out between tufts of dirty, bedraggled fur. Hwayoung took a step forward. The cats circling the fuzzy lump scowled at her and slinked away, leaving her alone with it in the hazy light of the alleyway.

She whispered its lost name: “Happy Smile Bear.” For a long moment, Hwayoung stared at those plastic, scratched-up eyes. Then, reaching out, she scooped up the teddy bear in her arms and greeted it out loud. “Hey there. Long time no see.”

✕ ✕ ✕