Hostage Handbook

Chapter Nine | Opening like a Grin

YEOREUM

I decide to stay in the guest house for another day to wallow in the lingers of Yoongi's presence.

Soon, I come up with a list of places I want to visit. I spent my entire life studying for a dream I can't realise now. I might as well make a new bucket list I can actually complete.

From Seoul Tower to grand temples, I carefully tread through all the places I fantasise about going with Yoongi during the day and hide in bathhouses and homeless shelters at night. Maybe my life experience of hiding from my father's loan sharks is useful, or perhaps Jungkook got sick of me, and I did him a favour by running away. I somehow cruise through the city for three weeks without getting caught.

The cool night breeze hits the side of my cheek with a dry, grainy touch. I can feel the dust particles graze against my skin, threatening to chafe the pimple on my lower jaw.

This neighbourhood has always been filled with dingy restaurants that never have a working EFTPOS machine. The ugly weather-beaten walls don't house anything dangerous, no menacing mob hideouts or sinister cult shrines, just the annoying itches that do not yet ache.

I remember when my mother led me through the houses across the rowdy slope. It was our first lunar new year after she divorced my father. Mother owned up to her cultural background, and she even recognised the people who lived around us as neighbours for the first time. I felt like I was introduced to a new mother that day.

My mother seemed so happy. Even the rough stitches of her cheap red sweater failed to wane the broadness of her smile. When we walked past a blue metal gate that seemed shabbier than all the battered houses around it, she turned to me with a solemn expression that made me square my shoulders.

Yeoreum, remember this, Mother told me, try hard in life to avoid getting yourself in places like this.

But ironically, that blue metal gate—a homeless shelter for women in need—is why I am back here. However, I don't feel a gasp of shame.

Taking advantage of these services is bad, but I have no choice. I told them about a physically abusive boyfriend hunting me down to carve out my uterus because I called the police on him. A narrative that is not so exaggerated that it'd leave me an impression but convincing enough for them to pity me and give me a couple of nights' refuge and a pretty care package.

According to my memory, I scramble up the slope and turn into the second path on my right. I would be able to find my childhood home if I turned left, but that place doesn't conjure any pleasant emotions. My father sold it a day after my mother died to pay back a new mahjong debt, only leaving me enough money for the cheapest coffin.

The gate in front of me is rustier than how I remembered it. The blue surface that fuses a feeling of security chips off at the yellowing edges. I extend my hand towards the doorbell, and a neat set of footsteps abruptly clatter towards me. Six tall men in black suits encircle me in a cornering formation that prevents me from making a run.

"Miss Song," a man says. His metal voice turns my entrails cold. "Please stop."

I take a deep breath. This situation has happened countless times in my nightmares, so I am not even bothered to give myself into fear.

"Are you guys here to catch me?"

"Please refrain from making any sudden movements," the man says as he pulls a gun out of his holster, obviously not trusting my lack of rebellion. "We will not hurt you. We are only here to bring you back to Mr Jeon."

A nauseous feeling tugs at my stomach as I stare into the dark barrel of the man's pistol.

I have been feeling under the weather. I haven't had the chance to verify my rather daunting prediction, but I know I'm probably right.