As days passed by, Min-jae's frustration simmered like a pot about to boil over in the orphanage's stuffy halls. The days blurred into a cycle of futile gestures—pointing at his mouth for food, waving his hands like a mad conductor to the caretaker, only to get blank stares and muttered Spanish. The old woman, her face a map of wrinkles, didn't even know basic English. "Great, now I'm stuck in this Eiffel tower with no ladder," he grumbled in Korean, slamming his fist lightly on the creaking wooden door. His thirty-five-year-old mind screamed for a plan, but the language barrier chained him tighter than any cage.
After five agonizing days, the caretaker grabbed his arm and dragged him to the director's office, her grip like a vice. The man, with a greasy mustache, said something in rapid Spanish, his tone unsettling. Min-jae blinked, his brain scrambling. "English… me understand English," he stammered, the words clumsy on his tongue. His mind flashed back—those late nights in 2032, a corporate slave drowning in spreadsheets, blasting English songs to drown his frustration. He'd heard them so much—fluent enough to catch the lyrics—that he could understand the language well. But speaking? That was a different beast. He'd never focused during English classes, bunking them with zero regrets, and never took any speaking coaching. It was only in his late twenties that his eldest sister, So-yeon noona, introduced him to an English song launched a few years prior, and he'd fallen in love with its rhythm. Now, staring at this creep, he thought, If I'd learned English properly, escaping this God-forsaken place might've been easier. Regret stung like a slap.
The director coughed twice before switching to broken English tone, "Take off your clothes, niño," as he motioned to a stained backdrop. "We make pretty pictures, sí?" Min-jae's stomach dropped, his mind blanking. Thank God for English, so I can understand this nightmare perfectly—clear as crystal, every twisted word. But curse Him for the cosmic irony, the divine prankster pulling strings like a bored kid with ants. What kind of joke is this life, anyway? Handing me a second chance on a silver platter, only to flip the table and serve up this garbage? From one hell to another, universe—you're killing me, and not in the funny way. No way this is my fate; no damn way. He raised his pinky finger, hinting at the toilet to relieve pressure, his face a mask of innocence. The director nodded, waving him off with impatience. Min-jae bolted, heart pounding, weaving through the corridors like a ghost. Back in the hostel, he collapsed against the wall, breath ragged. "No more," he whispered. That night, he couldn't sleep properly, his mind racing with thoughts—anywhere beat this den of horrors.
In the days that followed, the director summoned him every couple of days, his demands growing with each creepy grin. Min-jae dodged with excuses—a fake cough, a limp—or resorted to bawling like a toddler, tears streaming as he wailed in Korean. It worked, the director backing off with a scowl, but the backlash hit hard. The old caretaker turned icy, her cold glares piercing like daggers. Small beatings followed—slaps for "misbehaving," her bony hands leaving bruises on his arms. His meals devolved into bland punishment: a crusty bread hunk dipped in murky water, barely edible. Min-jae stared at it, flashing back to the warehouse cage, the stale scraps he'd shared. "This is worse than chains," he muttered. He thought, If I stay here any longer, sooner or later I will be violated by that pedophile, let alone missing the golden opportunity of investing in Bitcoin. Escape wasn't a choice; it was survival.
Night cloaked the orphanage in shadows. Min-jae slipped from his bed, the floor cold under his bare feet. He crept down the corridor, heart thumping like a drum, avoiding creaky boards. A soft patter behind him froze his blood—someone followed. He spun, spotting the four girls, their eyes wide in the moonlight. The blonde clutched a torn doll, the white-haired one clutched her side, the black-haired one stayed silent, and the pink-haired one fisted her hands. "Go back!" he gestured wildly, shooing them with hand signs. The message passed their deaf ears, their blank faces unmoved by his frantic signals. Frustrated, Min-jae joked in Korean, "Only those who wanna marry me can follow me outside!" A cheesy line, lost to the barrier. Their blank stares sealed it—they weren't leaving. "Fine, you masochists," he sighed, waving them on.
The escape kicked Into high gear. Min-jae led, prying open a loose window with a stolen spoon, the metal groaning like a complaint. He boosted the pink-haired girl through, her small frame slipping easily. The black-haired one followed, her movements steady. The blonde hesitated, doll clutched tight, but Min-jae nudged her on. The white-haired girl stumbled on the sill, twisting her ankle with a muffled cry. "Damn it," Min-jae muttered, scooping her onto his back, her light weight a reminder of their fragility. They darted into the yard, dodging a patrolling guard's flashlight beam by inches, hearts racing. Scaling the fence was chaos—the blonde scraped her knee, but Min-jae hauled her over. Sirens wailed in the distance as they hit the streets, a ragtag band of five fleeing into the unknown. "Keep up, salon squad," he panted, his sarcasm a shield against fear.
They ran until lungs burned, collapsing on a bridge under the moon's gaze. A ship's honk echoed below, massive hull gliding through the water. The white-haired girl winced, her ankle swelling from the fall—Min-jae adjusted her on his back, her small arms tightening around his neck. "Hang in there," he murmured, caring seeping through his gruff tone. They rested as dawn crept, the city stirring: joggers in tracksuits, workers shuffling to jobs, morning walkers with dogs. Worry gnawed as black, muscular guys eyed them—their small stature, diverse hairs, and foreign faces screamed "easy prey." Min-jae growled, "Act normal, salon squad." He pulled them into the crowd, blending with the local people of varying races—black, white, native, mixed. Can't be Africa—too diverse. Not Europe or Asia either. His mind flashed back to his history professor droning in class, the old man's voice a monotonous chant: "Back when the massive American continent was found, the Europeans were the first to go there, dragging their greed along. For their work and chores, they bought slaves from Africa—cheap labor to build their empires—hence resulting in the current day of many races living together, a chaotic stew of survival." Min-jae smirked, thinking, Not the States(USA) — too much English jabber there. He pieced it together: the lack of dominant English, the racial blend—it had to be a country in the South American continent. Taking the rest they needed, he urged them on, running toward an unknown horizon.
They hit a railway yard, fatigue dragging like chains. The girls tugged at him, silent but curious, their faces a silent plea. Min-jae's resolve ignited—he couldn't let them fall back. Two outcomes loomed: first is to return to that pedophile director, dreams dead by adulthood, or being re-trafficked in this port city by other human traffickers. Glancing at the "clueless chickens" trailing him, he growled, "It's not only me now, if they are left behind God knows what atrocities will befall on them." Their combined fate drove him. He hoisted the white-haired one onto his back again, her injury throbbing, as they climbed a rusty iron ladder into an open freight car. No cozy passenger coach—this was a raw, flatbed compartment, a plain weathered iron base with small metalic boundaries welded on both sides, like a shallow box on wheels. It hauled massive rolls of steel sheets, bound by thick, rusted chains to prevent shifting, the air thick with the tang of metal and grease. Dangerous? Absolutely. But no other choice. Min-jae nestled them behind a roll, the girls resting on him and falling asleep—the blonde girl leaned on his shoulder on one side, the pink-haired one on the other shoulder, the white-haired girl nuzzled on one thigh taking a rest, and the black-haired one on the other side. "Stay low, or we're pancakes," he whispered, sarcasm masking fear.
The train jolted to life, hauling them from the port city's shadow toward the unknown. Wind whipped their faces as landscapes blurred—only God knew if it led to paradise or perdition. But Min-jae's mind raced ahead: Bitcoin, stardom, an empire built from nothing. This second life, It's mine to conquer!
"To be continued..."
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