“Why did you bring me here?”

I wanted to understand why I had to go through all of this.

Had I witnessed a m*rder?

If so, he should have taken me to the police station.

Or was it because I had run away from the brothel without paying my debt?

He could have just taken me back to Mia.

I didn’t know how many days had passed.

I didn’t know where I was.

But there was one thing I knew: That b*stard was going to kill me. Or sell my organs.

There was no other explanation that made sense.

The thug pulled the sack off my head and removed the rag from my mouth. It had been days since I’d last seen the light, but it didn’t hurt my eyes.

Everything was still dark.

The man standing in front of me was dressed in dark clothes, too.

The only light came from a faint strip of pale moonlight slipping through the cracks in the boarded window, barely illuminating what lay before me.

“If you knew why you were brought here—what would you even do about it?”

Nothing.

There had never been a single moment in my life where I had any real choice.

“Don’t waste your strength.”

“….”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Hearing it made my throat tighten.

At that point, I would have swallowed anything.

The thug went into the kitchen, filled a bowl with tap water, and brought it back.

Seeing him hold it out as if he were doing me a great favor made me want to knock it from his hands.

I wanted to claw his face apart.

But I didn’t have the strength to speak, let alone fight back.

I could only look up at him.

He was as dark as death itself.

He tilted the bowl and poured the water straight into my mouth.

For a moment, I considered holding it in and spitting it back in his face.

But as the water soaked my parched throat, it tasted unbearably sweet.

Not that I could have turned away anyway — his massive hand was pressed hard against the back of my head.

I swallowed greedily.

Half of it went down my throat.

The rest spilled over my chin.

Only when every last drop was gone did he pull the bowl away.

But water fills nothing except itself.

My stomach felt tight and empty, and it ached, but the gnawing hunger inside me refused to fade.

“It’s one in the morning. You’ve been starving… three days now.”

“……”

“I’ll feed you. If you behave until morning.”

His voice echoed hollowly through the room, as though reverberating in a cave.

Then he left.

I couldn’t sleep.

Not because I was afraid, but because I was hungry.

It was disgusting.

Even on the verge of death, the hunger wouldn’t go away.

My breathing was shallow and uneven, and I couldn’t move a muscle.

Lying there, I slowly scanned the room.

There were just a few hooks on the wall and an ashtray.

The only window was boarded shut.

A thin sliver of moonlight slipped through the cracks; it was the only thing that felt like any kind of comfort.

It didn’t feel like a house.

It felt more like a storage room.

Outside, there was no sound: no footsteps, no voices.

Time dragged on endlessly.

Then—

The door opened.

He had come back.

I closed my eyes again.

There was no way he would actually bring me food.

“Get up.”

Get up.

Get up.

He kept repeating it.

How many times did he call me?

His voice grew clearer and clearer.

Just when I thought I didn’t even have the strength to open my eyes, they snapped open.

I smelled food.

“If you’re awake, sit up.”

In front of me was a full meal.

A bowl of thin porridge. A bowl of white rice. A clear soybean sprout soup. Steamed eggs. Seasoned radish.

Had I ever seen a meal like this before?

“What are you staring at?”

Maybe it annoyed him that I was just staring, because his voice turned sharp with irritation.

“Fine. Forget it.”

“I’ll eat. I said I’ll eat!”

What a temper!

He couldn’t wait a moment before trying to pull the table away.

I gripped the edge with all my might.

My fingers dug in hard.

My vision swam.

My empty stomach twisted so violently that I couldn’t take my eyes off the food.

The moment I drove the spoon into the rice, I heard him click his tongue.

“Porridge.”

Without arguing, I took the spoon out of the rice and placed it in the bowl of porridge next to it. Steam rose in pale wisps.

He had gone to great lengths to make something gentle, worried that I might upset my stomach after running and then being dragged back like this.

What a strange man.

That thought lasted only a second.

The moment the warm porridge slid down my throat, I realized it was a waste of time.

I finished the bowl instantly and reached for the rice.

“I’m not taking it away. It’s yours.”

As if I could trust him!

With a temper like his, who knows when he might change his mind?

I shoveled food into my mouth without stopping, barely chewing, swallowing or breathing.

For a thug, he was an amazing cook.

Only after I had scraped every dish clean did I finally look up.

I could see his face clearly now.

The corner of his mouth was tilted upwards, and he had a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

Annoying.

He wasn’t even smoking it.

I glared at him and took a gulp of water.

“Ugh—!”

A burp rose in my throat, and suddenly everything I had forced down threatened to come back up with it.

I clamped a hand over my mouth and then realized: The handcuffs were gone. The rope that had been coiled around my legs like a snake was gone, too.

And there was light.

This storage room had a light?

Under the cold glare of the fluorescent lamp, I could finally see everything: His face. The table he had set up.

My eyes, long accustomed to the darkness, stung sharply.

I hadn’t even noticed — I was too busy eating.

“You’ve got quite an appetite, don’t you?”

The thug spat out the cigarette between his lips and jumped to his feet.

The sudden movement knocked the empty table over, sending the dishes crashing to the floor.

I forced the rising vomit back down, but tears burned in my eyes.

‘D*mn it… what a waste.’
‘Do you know how hard that was to eat…?’

As I struggled to hold it in, he grabbed my hand.

“Trying to choke on it and die?”

Why on earth was he shouting so loudly?

My head was ringing.

The vomit I had thrown up spread across the floor beside the overturned bowl and blurred my vision.

Even his sharp, angry voice sounded distant, as if it were coming from beneath thick blankets.

I blinked slowly.

The pale porridge I had vomited came into focus. Suddenly, my shoulder was yanked up.

He dragged me across the floor like a sack of potatoes, all the way to the wall.

My head struck the hard surface, and I could only watch him move.

Each time his large frame shifted, an even larger shadow stretched and crawled along the wall behind him.

He scooped up the mess with a dustpan and brush, then wiped the floor clean with a rag. Instead of washing it, he shoved the rag and the vomit into a black plastic bag.

The floor was spotless again, but the sour stench lingered.

I lay there, barely able to move, my gaze drifting weakly.

If only he would remove the boards from the window, the air might clear.

I felt like I was going to suffocate from the smell.

Click. Flick.

He lit another cigarette.

A red glow flickered at the tip and a thin ribbon of white smoke curled through the air.

It reminded me of a stray dog in the alleys of the shantytown, though that dog’s tail was probably not as clean and pale as the smoke drifting through the air.

Through the bitter haze, his long, narrow eyes appeared and disappeared again.

It didn’t matter.

I drew in a deep breath.

The smoke filled my lungs and made breathing easier somehow.

The nausea slowly settled.

“Get up.”