The next morning, I felt like a ghost in my own skin. My father was gone for work, leaving our Jiseong District apartment dead quiet. This place, built for teachers like him, was clean and decent, but cramped compared to the elite districts he bragged about—Baekho Ward, Haneulcheon, where the rich lived like kings. He thought he'd climb there by smashing anyone in his way, especially Mudang Strip kids from the slums outside Cheongrim's walls.
I slid into my desk at the back of the classroom and froze. CLOWN was scratched across it in thick black marker. No shock there—they'd called me that forever. When Mudang kids mocked me for my father's attacks, I'd just stand there, forcing a fake grin—astretched mask, no joy in it. A clown's grin. It was easier than fighting back, proof I was spineless, and they ate it up. The word hit like a slap, telling me I was nothing.
Class dragged, the teacher's voice a dull hum. My head was stuck on last night—chopsticks clattering like gunfire, Mom's bruised arm. Everything felt numb, like the world moved in slow motion. I wasn't in the classroom. I was by the river, her hand in mine.
School ended, and I headed out, Cheongrim's gates looming ahead. A guard stood at the exit, baton tapping his palm, eyeing a group of Mudang kids. "Move it, slum rats," he barked. "No staying after hours." One kid in a patched jacket glared but shuffled toward the Strip, their shacks just outside the walls. The chairman's rules were iron—20% got them in school, but Cheongrim kicked them out after. I kept walking, stomach tight, knowing my father's name was a curse to them.
Near the Strip's edge, where shacks leaned against rusted fences, four Mudang kids blocked my path. Their shoulders filled the alley, eyes burning with rage—at my father, not me. The leader, a kid with a chipped tooth and a nasty smirk, grabbed my shirt, his grip like iron.
"Teacher's brat," he snarled, so close I smelled cheap candy and sour sweat. "Your dad broke my cousin's arm to feel big, and you think you can stroll by?" His knuckles whitened, yanking my collar. Another kid stepped up, fist hovering, spitting, "He smashed my brother's face last month! You're his blood, ain't you?" A third blocked the alley's end, eyes cold, trapping me.
He shoved me hard, my back hitting a rusted fence. I was gone—back by the river, her words echoing: Your father is just a manic. But the people in this world… they are far more dangerous. Those words were my shield. These kids aren't dangerous. Mom said so. I didn't move, didn't flinch, my eyes blank. I stared through him, holding back like always.
The chipped-tooth kid froze, inches from my face, still gripping my shirt. My dead stare—no fear, no anger—threw him off. "What's wrong with you, freak?" he growled, disgust flashing. He slammed me against the fence again, the hit jarring, but I barely felt it. He scoffed, glanced at his friends, and let go. "Not worth it," one muttered as they walked off, leaving me standing, untouched but shaken deep inside, like a puppet with cut strings.
At home, my mother folded clothes in the living room. A small, locked box sat on the table—old, scratched, with a strange symbol like the one on her hidden photo. She slid it under a cloth when she saw me. "Mom," I said, voice small, "who's your father? What'd you mean?" She didn't look up, hands steady. "Don't talk about it, Jin. Forget it." Her voice was flat, a brick wall. She'd hide the truth to keep me safe, acting like nothing happened. My fists clenched, not from anger but a helpless ache.
The door burst open, and my father stormed in, voice buzzing with manic energy and nerves. He hung up his phone, grinning wide. "Time to shine at the chairman's party," he said, like the spotlight was his drug. He faced my mother. "You coming?"
She shook her head, face a blank mask. "No," she said softly. She never went with him. People thought it was the abuse—half-right, it made her a recluse. But only I knew the truth. I knew she was hiding from someone, guarding a secret fiercer than her bruises.
His excitement didn't fade. He turned to me, voice too loud. "You're coming, Jin! Get ready!" I looked at my mother. Her eyes met mine, giving the smallest nod. Go. Be safe. I hesitated, the party's shadow looming in my head, but her nod pushed me forward.
We piled into his beat-up car, the engine coughing as he floored it. He swerved through Jiseong's narrow streets, humming wildly, nearly clipping a cart. "They'll all see me tonight," he muttered, grinning like he'd won a fight. My gut twisted, dreading his need for eyes on him.
Cheongrim changed as we drove. Baekho Ward opened up—wide streets, green trees, houses like palaces. The air felt cleaner, like Jiseong's dirt couldn't touch it. Then we hit Haneulcheon, the elite core. Glass towers gleamed, parks neat as a picture. Guards checked our invite three times, their stares cold but not aimed at me—I was invisible, just another face.
The auditorium dwarfed Jiseong. A crowd poured in, suits and dresses, their laughter sharp and fake. Strong fellows guarded every door, built like tanks, eyes scanning for trouble. This elite party was locked tight, no chaos allowed. A suited man nearby whispered, "The contract's set," ignoring me like I wasn't there. I was an ant among giants, not worth a glance. My father vanished into the crowd, a small relief. It was the 12th birthday party for Chairman Kang Do-hwan's grandson—the man who ruled Cheongrim. I didn't see the kid, just felt the weight of his world.
The noise was too much. I slipped outside, drawn by a faint roar—the waterfall, somewhere in the forest that wrapped Cheongrim's edges. The auditorium's grounds melted into trees, the air cool with pine and mist. I followed the sound, stepping over roots, the rush of water growing louder. Jiseong's river started here, its calm pulling me in.
That's when I saw him, standing near the waterfall. He was a mountain, shoulders wide as a door, skin a mix of brown and yellow, tribal tattoos glinting in the moonlight—an Indian, not from Korea, radiating a strength bigger than Cheongrim itself, like he was one of the strongest alive. His eyes scanned the distance, sharp as blades. I walked up without thinking. "Excuse me," I whispered, voice barely there. "Is this the waterfall tied to Jiseong's river?"
He turned, slow, and stepped closer, bending his knees until his face was level with mine, his shadow swallowing me. His eyes locked on my body, like he saw something I didn't. No words, just silence, heavy and cold. My heart pounded, pinned by his gaze. He lingered, breath warm on my skin, then straightened, eyes flicking to the party. As he turned away, a shadow moved in the trees—watching me.