***

The excitement I’d felt at finally touching the cards faded quickly. As the sharp edges of the cards were smoothed down, my hands wore down along with them.

On nights when the throbbing in my fingertips kept me from sleeping, I would suddenly think of the poetry book I had left behind at the inn.

It was the first book I had ever read. The first one I had ever owned. It had been written by a poet who once lived in the shantytown.

“Writing poetry won’t earn you money. Money kills me. Poetry lets my soul live. Money kills me.”

Everyone disliked her, saying she spoke nonsense no one could understand.

But I liked her.

She was the only person who ever called me by my name.

“Chun-hee. I really like your name. Every time I say it, it feels like spring.”

“What’s your name, auntie?”

“A name only lives if it’s spoken. Mine died because no one calls it anymore.”

She often spoke in the form of her own poems.

“My name is gone. It died. Just call me ‘Poet.’”

Sometimes, I would ask her things I didn’t understand.

‘What does it mean—to want to die?’

“I don’t know. Death doesn’t really mean anything.”

On a spring night heavy with blooming flowers, Poet hanged herself.

I was fifteen that year.

My mother only clicked her tongue in irritation.

“She couldn’t even pay off her debt, and now she’s leaving a will and belongings behind? Unbelievable. Tch, what a nuisance. Why the h*ll should I be the one to take care of her funeral?”

All she left behind was a single letter, saying that everything she owned would be given to me.

There were only two things.

A poetry collection she had published when she was young, and a notebook filled with her poems.

Those things became my entire world.

I spent every last bit of money I had and secretly arranged her funeral without my mother knowing.

In her poetry collection, it said:

[My death means nothing.
Because those who live as the dead are not freed by dying.]

A lie.

At least to me, her death had meaning.

Because there was no longer anyone left who would call my name.

I carried that book with me everywhere, memorizing every line until I knew them by heart. Even when I was sold to the inn, I held onto it tightly.

“What the h*ll does a girl like you need a poetry book for? Acting all high and mighty.”

In the Mia red-light district, poetry was nothing but a joke.

And maybe that made sense.

A girl sold for debt, standing there in nothing but her underwear, the poetry book in her hands wasn’t worth a single coin.

When they took the book and the notebook from me, I screamed and thrashed like I’d gone mad. One of the thugs slapped me hard across the face—then dragged me into the storage room.

“Hey, look carefully. See that? Our boss says he’ll give it back—once you’ve paid off all your debt.”

My stolen poetry book and notebook were stuck to the floor of the inn’s storage room. Even then, I already knew I would never get them back in my lifetime.

Since I had run away, they were probably thrown out like trash by now. Or maybe… they had simply been forgotten, left to rot in that storage room.

I made up my mind.

I had to get them back.

I decided to go just before sunrise—when the inn would be shutting down for the night.

As I stood up, Gyeong-seok grabbed me.

“I’m not running away. I just need to go somewhere. I’ll be back before the shift change.”

I whispered it, but she shook her head violently. Her trembling hands fumbled through her locker, trying to find a scrap of paper to write on.

There was no light to read by, no time to wait.

“I left something behind. I can’t live without it.”

As I turned to leave, she grabbed my leg.

I wasn’t going to die—yet she clung to me, silently mouthing for me not to go.

“I’ll be right back. If I wear the work uniform, they won’t notice.”

I didn’t know if she understood.

Leaving her there, eyes brimming with tears, I pulled myself free.

It was pitch dark—but soon, the cold blue of dawn would come.

***

The inn was strangely quiet.

It was the end of the month—the busiest time for business.

Something felt off.

Moving on the balls of my feet like a cat, I crept toward the storage room in the back.

I had stolen a poker from the coal shop nearby to break the lock—but it turned out to be useless.

The storage room door was already open.

I tapped it lightly with the poker.

Aside from the faint creak as it shifted open, there was no sign of anyone inside.

In the far corner, I saw a dozen or so bundles piled together. If my things were somewhere among them, I figured I’d find them quickly.

The floor of the storage room was damp, but I didn’t care. Even if it was wet, even if it was torn—a poetry book was still a poetry book.

I felt my way forward with my hands, moving deeper into the pitch-black room. Crouching low, I rummaged through the piles.

Something caught at my fingertips.

A book.

Slightly larger than my palm, a thin bundle of pages no thicker than my little fingernail—it was the poetry book I had been looking for.

I grabbed it immediately and reached back in, searching for the notebook—

Then I heard voices.

“Protect the boss first!”

I rushed to the door and slammed it shut.

The sounds of fists and blows echoed outside. Punches landing, blades cutting—there was no mistaking it. Blood splattering. Women’s screams tore through the noise.

My hands trembled as I clamped them over my mouth and sank to the floor. At least in a place this dark, there was nothing to see—even with my eyes open.

I don’t know how much time passed.

Eventually, the chaos faded, and silence returned.

After hesitating, I cracked the door open just a sliver.

I couldn’t see anything at first—so I opened it a little wider.

A man staggered backward into view.

“You think this’ll make the boss trust you, k*lling me like this?”

The man shouted—and then collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain.

I recognized him.

He was the one who ran the inn—the head of the thugs, the pimp.

From where his arm should have been, blood was gushing out.

“Argh! You—traitorous b*stard!”

“The traitor is you. That’s why you’re the one dying.”

A tall, broad figure stepped over him in one smooth motion, pinning him down with overwhelming force. His back was wide, imposing.

The man pressed a hand over the pimp’s mouth.

“The boss will see it that way too.”

Holding him down as he struggled, the man adjusted his grip on the knife.

For a split second, the handle lifted—

Then it plunged down.

Blood sprayed everywhere.

The pimp’s trembling legs went still.

When the man stood, drenched in blood, the storage room door creaked softly in the wind.

Before he could turn his head, I ducked back, hiding my face completely.

A chill ran through my entire body. My teeth clattered uncontrollably, and I clenched my jaw tight, forcing them to stop.

‘Just go. Please—just go.’

But just as my life had always toyed with me, this time too, my wish didn’t come true.

Footsteps echoed—slow, deliberate. A long shadow stretched toward me, stopping right at my feet.

“Why are you here again?”

His voice was deep, but his tone was light.

It felt… familiar.

“Again.”

‘Again? He knows me?’

I tried to lift my head—but the tip of a blade hovered so close to my nose it nearly touched. The metallic stench of blood made my stomach turn, tears welling in my eyes.

Maybe it was the tears blurring my vision—but I couldn’t make out his face beyond the knife.

“You should take better care of those eyes. Hm?”

“……”

“What do you think you’ll do after seeing me?”

“I—I didn’t see anything. Really, I didn’t see anything! Please—just let me live!”

I squeezed my eyes shut and begged. The tears that had gathered spilled down my cheeks.

“Count to ten. Then run—straight to the temple. As fast as you can.”

My whole body trembled uncontrollably, rooted to the spot. Clutching the poetry book and notebook tightly, I couldn’t stop shaking.

The man leaned in, wiping the blood-stained blade against my cheek.

His voice, heavy and damp, clung to my ear like something rotten.

“You can count to ten, can’t you?”

“Ah… ah…”

I couldn’t even answer.

So he began counting for me.

“One… two… three…”

His voice pierced through my ears like a needle.

I ran.

Without opening my eyes, I ran as hard as I could. Even if I slammed my head into something, it was better than looking.

“Let’s not meet again, Poet.”

‘Poet.’

That was what the thugs at the inn used to call me.

He knew me.

But I didn’t know him.

Who was he? And even if I knew—what could someone like me possibly do?

Trying to shake off the thoughts, I ran faster—until my foot caught on something and I went crashing down.

My eyes snapped open.

It was a person.

No—more than one.

The yard of the inn was littered with bodies. Thugs sprawled across the ground, blood everywhere.

‘I… I didn’t see anything. I didn’t see anything.’

I forced my heavy, unresponsive body up, about to run again—when a voice, softer than the wind, called out to me.

“Help… me…”

It was a girl slumped on the steps of the inn. I only knew her by face. She was trembling, crying, her cheeks and body smeared with blood.

I turned back toward her.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

“Anyone else inside?”

She shook her head again.

I rushed into the inn, grabbed the phone at the counter, and dialed 119.

“This is Mia Market—someone’s been stabbed! People are dying!”

I didn’t care what the person on the other end was saying. I shouted what I needed to and hung up, then dragged the girl along and started running.

We hadn’t gone far when she pulled back.

“Idiot! If you stay here, you’ll die too!”

I tightened my grip on her wrist, about to run again, but the wail of sirens cut through the air as a police car turned into the alley.

The girl collapsed right there, losing consciousness.

And just like that, I was taken to the police station.

It was that cold, blue hour just before sunrise.