***

I scrubbed my clothes in freezing water, which made my hands tremble.

The factory uniform, which had ‘Lee Chun-hee’ stitched over the left br*ast pocket, was made of stubborn, cheap fabric.

Every time I wrung it out, I felt as though my nails might tear off.

People are strange.

When I was gagged, blindfolded and tied up, I was too scared to notice anything because I was afraid of dying.

Now that I had eaten and my mind had cleared, however, my whole body ached and throbbed.

Even while washing my clothes and obsessing over every stain, I refused to use that b*stard’s soap.

It was a ridiculous kind of pride at a time like this.

Squatting there in my underwear, scrubbing my clothes against the cement floor, I suddenly remembered the fight in the factory dorm just a few days ago.

In that tiled washroom, we had shouted and sworn at each other while pulling each other’s hair, just to stay in the warm water a little longer.

A bitter laugh slipped out.

Memories? What memories.

Nothing I had experienced had lasted long enough to merit such a word.

Nothing worth holding on to.

That’s why even events from last week felt like they belonged to another lifetime.

But as soon as I thought of Gyeong-seok, the tears came flooding back.

I wish I had listened to her when she told me not to go.

I should have listened to her.

“Lee Chun-hee, you stupid b*tch… you stupid b*tch…”

I swallowed my tears and forced myself to my feet.

Crying was never my role.

Who did I think I was?

I had always survived, no matter what.

When people cursed at me or beat me up, I didn’t cry. I cursed back harder. I spat in their faces.

I cheated the women who sold their bodies, as well as the men who paid for them.

If thugs beat me up, I would shove burning ash into their good eyes just to leave them crippled.

If you knew all the kinds of people I’d encountered in my life, you’d understand that trash doesn’t die easily.

Having survived for so long, there was no way I was suddenly going to lie down and accept death just because it had come knocking.

Even if I died, there was a debt I had to repay — to Gyeong-seok.

I could ignore the debts I owed to the thugs, but not to her.

No matter what it took, I would repay her.

She was the first person to ever make me feel grateful.

Judging by the way that b*stard had untied and fed me, he didn’t seem to be planning to drag me off and harvest my organs anytime soon.

If they had intended to sell me, they would have done so by now.

Whether I ended up as a pr*stitute or a corpse, they wouldn’t have bothered locking me up like this.

Besides, I wasn’t the kind of woman to stay put — I had escaped from a den full of thugs before.

As soon as I stepped out of the bathroom and my swollen toes touched the floor, they were stung by the freezing water.

This d*mn place didn’t even have a coal stove or a heater.

The whole house felt like a block of ice.

My breath came out in pale clouds as I searched every corner of the kitchen until I finally found a single-burner gas stove.

I turned the flame up to its maximum setting and held my hands over it, trying to warm fingers that felt as though they might shatter.

Then I roughly shook out my work clothes.

At this rate, when would they ever dry?

My toes curled painfully from the cold.

Shifting from one foot to the other, I hopped in place and spotted a pair of oversized slippers near the sliding door.

They were so big that both my feet could fit into one.

The memory of that night, when I fled Mia and hid in the temple with my ears and toes frozen stiff, still lingered as a dull ache.

But even if I ended up with frostbite, I refused to put my feet in that b*stard’s slippers.

As I stood there, drying my clothes by the fire, I looked around.

Only now, after being trapped here for what felt like a week, did I truly take in how wretched this place was.

It was a cramped, suffocating room.

There was a flimsy sliding door that looked like it would give way with a single kick.

Beyond that was a kitchen that was even smaller than the room itself.

The floor was made of grey cement, like briquette ash.

The bathroom provided nothing but ice-cold water, even in the depths of winter.

While it had all the bare essentials, not a single corner felt finished.

There was nowhere to sit or relax.

It felt like a prison.

“What kind of place is this…?”

There was no fridge.

No rice container. No kimchi jar.

There wasn’t a single dish in the sink.

The underfloor heating system was intact, but there wasn’t a single briquette or piece of coal.

The house was completely empty.

“How the h*ll did he even live here?”

I tiptoed around the kitchen, scanning every inch of it.

I needed to find a way out.

The first thing I tried was the front door, which he had used to come in.

I grabbed the flimsy handle and pulled.

Then I pushed.

I shook it hard from side to side, and the dull rattle of a lock echoed in response.

It was locked from the outside.

For a shack patched together with slate panels, it was frustratingly solid.

No matter how many times I kicked it or slammed the table against it, it didn’t budge; it only clattered loudly in protest.

I tried prying off the boards covering the window, but I only succeeded in tearing my already ruined nails.

“D*mn it!”

I was so frustrated that I kicked the door.

I was the one who got hurt.

If the house collapsed, I’d be the one buried under the rubble.

Then—bang!

— a sound louder than anything I had made.

The lock clicked open.

The front door swung open.

A shadow spilled inside.

It was darker than the pitch-black room.

It was him.

He stepped inside, one foot at a time, and looked down at me, frozen to the spot.

“What are you doing?”

“….”

“Not moving?”

His voice dropped like a weight onto my head.

I hesitated, then slowly took a step back.

He closed the door behind him and took another step inside.

The cold air that followed him in made my body tremble instinctively.

I clenched my mouth shut, forcing myself to stay silent — I didn’t want to appear weak.

“Get dressed.”

Only then did I realize I was still in my underwear.

“…You think I wanted to be like this? My clothes aren’t dry—I didn’t have a choice.”

“Aren’t those clothes over there?”

He cut me off and kept talking—only his words mattered.

“Who the h*ll would wear your clothes? They stink like cigarettes.”

His clothes smelled of soap—clean, almost too clean. That kind of scent, the kind only decent people seemed to carry, was harder to endure than the stale reek of smoke.

The b*stard brushed past me, strode inside, and tossed a bundle of clothes straight at my face.

What the h*ll was wrong with him? Why did he keep throwing his clothes and towels at me like that?

I felt my temper flare.

Fine. Let him have a taste of it.

I swung the clothes back at him—but he caught them instantly and shoved them over my head before I could even react.

“I said I won’t wear it! I’m not wearing your stuff!”

He didn’t say a word.

I just kept yelling.

He forced them onto me, but I ripped them off.

I’d throw them and he’d grab them and shove them back over my head.

It was the same madness, over and over again.

In the end, of course, I won.

Looking at his clothes scattered across the floor, I finally felt relieved.

I kicked them hard.

They landed right on top of his shoes.

“Hah.”

He let out a short laugh, as though he couldn’t quite believe it either.

That expression reminded me of the day at the police station.

I remembered the way he smiled when he asked for the poetry book and said, ‘Help me.’

That same mocking grin.

That look that said I was nothing.

“What the h*ll are you laughing at, you b*stard?”

“Don’t know?”

A cigarette hung loosely from his lips.

Now!

Now’s my chance!

I can run!

The lighter flared up, illuminating his face.

Seeing the flicker of the flame, I shoved his hand towards his face with all my strength.

He didn’t budge.

Not even a little.

Still, I didn’t stop. I kicked the door open.

The moment it swung wide, he clamped his hand down on the back of my neck.

“Ah!”