It had been five days since Jang Hun started working in the Eastern Market.
Five days of hauling crates on an exhausted shoulder, of walking over dry grass and dung, of avoiding the eyes of guards who watched every movement as if waiting for the smallest mistake to strike.
On the fourth day, one of the workers tried to steal a small piece of bread from his belongings. It wasn't enough to fill anyone's stomach, but Jang Hun had saved it for the children.
He didn't shout, didn't curse—just instinctively swung his hand to push the thief away.
His palm struck a jagged stone. The skin split, and blood flowed.
He didn't stop. He tore a strip of fabric from his robe, wrapped his hand, and continued working in silence.
That evening, he sat in the usual alley behind the abandoned temple, the two children beside him.
Bai An was more exhausted than usual, and his body had started to burn with fever.
He sat at first, leaning against the wall, then slowly crawled and rested his head on Jang Hun's thigh, as if seeking a warmth the world refused to offer.
In a faint voice, he said:
—"You're not like the others… you know?"
Jang Hun didn't answer.
Bai An continued, eyes closed:
—"I feel like… you won't just disappear."
Jang Hun said nothing. He just pulled the tattered edge of his robe and covered the children's bodies.
He didn't own a real blanket, but the fabric was dry and warm enough for a night like this.
The next day, his hand throbbed with pain—not just from the wound, but from a fever slowly draining his strength.
He wasn't used to slow pain. Pain had always been a sudden blade, not a hidden dagger slicing from the shadows.
While bending to lift a crate of herbs, he noticed a man watching him from afar.
He wasn't from the market.
Too neat, hair tied carefully, eyes sharp and scanning the place without ever truly being seen.
Jang Hun ignored him at first. But the man appeared again—once at a far corner, then a third time near a side entrance.
He wasn't a guard, and he wasn't a beggar.
He was… curious.
At noon, a young boy approached, carrying a plate of rice and cooked vegetables.
He whispered:
—"Mister Li Mo told me to bring you this."
Jang Hun looked up:
—"Who is that?"
—"He said you work here. That your hand is injured. That you sleep behind the old temple.
He also said you haven't eaten real food in days, because you refuse the rotten market scraps."
Jang Hun didn't reply, but his expression changed briefly.
He didn't ask how the man knew. He just took the plate and kept working.
At sunset, for the first time in days, he didn't return straight to the alley.
Instead, he sat on a wooden bench at a small tavern on the market's edge, near a teahouse.
He didn't order anything—just sat there, pretending to wait for someone.
He had no money.
A few minutes later, the neat man sat beside him.
—"You don't look like you're from here."
Jang Hun didn't look at him. He said in a low voice:
—"I told the same thing to my shadow today."
The man smiled:
—"Li Mo. You probably don't know me, but I've known you since the second day."
—"You sent the food?"
—"I wanted to see what you'd do if someone showed curiosity."
Silence.
Li Mo continued:
—"You don't speak, don't approach, don't run, don't bow.
But you also don't strike.
That balance… is strange.
And I like strange."
—"Do you watch all the workers?"
—"Only the ones who seem like they don't want to be here.
Or anywhere else."
Jang Hun turned to him for the first time, looked him in the eye, and asked:
—"Are you here to enjoy me?"
—"Maybe.
Or to see if you deserve to stay alive in this hell."
When he returned, the children were asleep, breathing heavily.
He sat down, leaning his back against the wall.
The sky was gray, veiled by the smoke of burning stoves.
No stars. No moon.
Only darkness.
> "The city is like a spider's web... it doesn't care if you're prey or hunter, as long as you keep moving inside its threads."
He closed his eyes and whispered to himself:
> "But I... I won't move the way they want."
And he smiled—
that bitter smile that comes not from hope… but from defiance.