The Bright lights of Seoul didn't offer warmth; they offered a headache. They flickered in shades of electric blue and poisonous green, reflecting off the oily puddles that collected in the gutters of the backstreets.
Vivian Ahn stumbled out of the 24-hour convenience store, the chime of the door sounding like a mocking bell behind her. She was a ghost of the woman who had once graced the screens of millions. Her hair, once perfectly styled by the city's top stylists, was now a drenched, tangled mess clinging to her neck. Her makeup, the armor of an influencer, had smudged into dark, bruised-looking streaks beneath her eyes.
In one hand, she gripped a green soju bottle as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. In the other, her phone remained dark—until it didn't.
[One year later... she had nothing left.]
She collapsed against the cold glass wall of the store, the vibration of the refrigerators humming through her spine. She pulled her black hoodie lower, trying to vanish into the fabric, and let out a sob that was mostly a gasp for air.
"...I'm so tired..." she whispered, her voice slurred by exhaustion and the cheap alcohol.
Her phone screen suddenly screamed to life, the brightness cutting through the rain.( 3 missed calls — LOAN SHARK OFFICE) . She flinches so violently she almost dropped her bottle. The ultimatum echoed in her mind: they had given her a week. Today was day six.
The walk back to her apartment was a blur of wet pavement and dragging steps. Every shadow looked like a debt collector; every splash of a car felt like a threat. Then, she saw it.
Under a low angle of the streetlamp, a torn poster flapped violently against a wall covered in jagged graffiti. The paper was soaked, but the ink was bold and red, screaming at her through the downpour:
"Earn 1,000,000 won a day! GIRLS ONLY."
Vivian stopped. Her eyes, blurred by rain and salt, fixed on that number. One million?. In her old life, she had spent a million won on a pair of shoes. Now, it was the price of her life.
With a sudden, desperate movement, she reached up. -Shrrrip-. She ripped the poster from the wall, her fist clenching the wet paper so hard it began to tear.
"...Just one million could... could save me..." she whispered to the empty, rain-slicked street.
Her apartment was a tomb. It was a tiny, dim space where the wallpaper peeled like sunburnt skin and a thin mattress lay directly on the floor. She threw her wet coat aside, the heavy thud of the soaked fabric echoing in the silence.
Without a second glance, she tossed the crumpled poster onto the kitchen counter.
[She didn't know if it was fate... or another mistake.]
Morning arrived with the subtlety of a hammer to the skull. Vivian groaned, her head throbbing with a hangover that felt like glass shards behind her eyes. Her hair was a bird's nest against the thin pillow.
She dragged herself toward the kitchen, her throat parched, reaching for anything to make hangover soup. That was when her eyes froze.
The poster was still there. It had dried overnight, its edges wrinkled and its red ink looking like dried blood against the laminate counter. The phone number felt ominous, a beckoning finger from the dark.
...I brought this? she wondered, her hand shaking as she picked it up.
A memory flashed through her mind—not of the party, but of the man who had come to her door three days ago. A loan shark slamming his fist onto her tiny table until the wood groaned.
"You have ONE WEEK," he had roared. "After that, you pay with your life!"
Vivian pressed the poster against her forehead, her breathing coming in shallow, jagged hitches. The cold reality of her situation was far more terrifying than the mystery of the poster.
"...I don't have a choice..."
She sat at her tiny table, her thumb hovering over the dial pad. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
[Maybe this was another trap... but living? That was no longer guaranteed.]
Beep... beep... She pressed call.
The entrance to her new life was a hidden door in a narrow, trash-strewn alley. A red neon arrow glowed with a sinister hum: CLUB B1 — STAFF ONLY.
When the door opened, she stepped into an underground world that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. The office was vast and concrete, lit by red LED strips that made the room look like it was bleeding. On a giant desk, stacks of cash sat carelessly piled next to CCTV monitors showing grainy footage of dark club rooms.
Behind the desk sat a muscular man, his bald head reflecting the red light. Gold chains hung heavy around his neck, and tattoos wound like snakes down his arms. He looked her up and down with a slow, predatory gaze.
"So... you're the one who called," he said, his voice a low rumble.
Vivian stood stiff, her heart in her throat.
He smirks
"Pretty face, Sexy Attractive body with the perfect curves. Good," the Bald Owner grinned, revealing a look that made Vivian's skin crawl. "Clients will like you."
He slid a contract across the dirty wooden desk. The letters were bold, red, and final:
YOU MUST OBEY CLIENT REQUESTS.
NO REFUSAL.
NO COMPLAINTS.
BREAK RULES = YOU PAY WITH YOUR LIFE.
The pen felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Vivian's hand trembled so violently she had to grip her wrist with her other hand to steady it.
"Sign it," the Owner commanded. "Your job starts tonight."
Vivian's eyes widened, She was having second thoughts.. but the image of the loan shark's fist flashed in her mind again. She leaned down and signed her name in shaky, jagged handwriting.
[And just like that... she stepped into the darkest part of Seoul.]