In a parallel universe, Woo Do Hwan is not a South Korean actor but a young man born in North Korea. Do Hwan's life has been a series of escape attempts, survival strategies, and small victories over hardship. Together with his mother, he fled North...
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( had an idea to loosely base this story off of the Netflix film, My Name Is Loh Kiwan. )
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The plane trembled as it climbed into the air, the engines roaring like a beast awakening from slumber. Woo Do Hwan sat in his cramped seat, gripping the armrests with white knuckles. His heart raced not from fear of flying, but from the burden of his past, the memories that haunted him like shadows. He looked out the tiny window, watching as the patchwork of fields and towns blurred into a tapestry of colors. Below him, he left behind a world that had been both a cage and a grave.
"Where are you now, Omma?" he whispered under his breath, the weight of her absence heavy on his chest.
They had fled North Korea together, a dangerous journey that had taken them through jungles and across rivers, driven by hope for a better life. China had promised refuge but delivered only fear. When the authorities caught wind of their defection, chaos erupted. Do Hwan remembered the night they had to run, heart pounding, adrenaline surging, as he watched his mother fall. She had pushed him away, urging him to escape. "Go, Do Hwan! Run!" Her voice echoed in his mind as he was forced to abandon her to save himself.
Do Hwan had never known freedom, only the hollow promise of it. For as long as he could remember, the boundaries of his world were drawn by invisible lines: curfews, checkpoints, and whispers behind closed doors in his childhood home in North Korea. His mother had taken every risk to smuggle him out of that life, out of the endless surveillance, hunger, and fear. But as he sat on a cold, steel seat on a night flight to Belgium, it was hard to believe that this was the new life she'd wanted for him.
As the engines hummed beneath him and the in-flight announcements crackled in languages he couldn't understand, he tried to ground himself. He had only a few precious possessions in the worn backpack resting at his feet—a spare set of clothes, a thin notebook filled with hastily scribbled phrases in English, and his wallet, with just enough Chinese yuan and euros to get by. Belgium had become his only option after that last incident with the Chinese authorities, and with his mother gone, he had no one left to turn to.
When the plane touched down in Brussels, he felt a strange mix of relief and dread. The sprawling airport was a world of organized chaos, unlike anything he'd ever seen. He clutched his backpack tightly, his gaze darting around, trying to blend in as best he could.
"Excuse me," he murmured to a security officer, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables. "Where... can I find... the exit?"
The officer gave him a puzzled look but pointed down a long corridor. "Straight ahead. Welcome to Belgium."
The words felt almost kind, but Do Hwan couldn't allow himself to trust kindness. Outside, he found himself in the dim evening light of a new country, feeling more alone than ever.
The days that followed were a blur of survival. His few euros dwindled quickly, and he resorted to scouring the streets for glass bottles and scraps he could sell for cash. By day, he'd wander around Brussels, learning the rhythm of the city, watching the people who passed him without so much as a glance, and listening to the foreign hum of the city. By night, he'd find corners in alleyways or beneath overpasses where he could curl up and sleep, though the city never let him sleep for long.
He had found a small shelter offering free meals, but they were reluctant to let him stay without papers. The woman behind the counter had seemed sympathetic, handing him a sandwich with a whisper.
"I wish I could do more," she'd said, giving him a gentle smile.
"Thank you," he'd replied, bowing his head slightly. But he'd had to leave that night, understanding that even kindness had its limits.
One night, Do Hwan found himself in a part of the city he didn't recognize, searching for bottles along a quiet stretch. He'd heard it was safer here, but even in places marked as safe, trouble found him.
He was bending down, reaching for an empty beer bottle wedged between two trash bins, when a voice slurred behind him.
"What do you think you're doing here, huh?" A tall, scruffy man with reddened cheeks staggered forward, his hands balled into fists.
Do Hwan froze, unsure whether to run or try to explain. "I'm... just... working," he said, his voice small, his English halting.
The man scoffed, taking a swig from a half-empty bottle of his own. "Workin', he says. Workin' in my neighborhood. You don't belong here."
Before he could respond, the man's hand shot out, gripping Do Hwan's shoulder and shoving him back. Do Hwan stumbled, his body slamming against the cold, unforgiving wall. He tried to fight back, but hunger and exhaustion had stolen his strength. The man's fists collided with his side, his ribs, and finally his face. Do Hwan's vision swam, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue as he sank to the ground. By the time he found the strength to lift his head, the man had staggered away, muttering to himself, leaving him bruised and alone.
~
For weeks afterward, Do Hwan's body ached, but a deeper, gnawing sensation began to take hold. He was constantly nauseous, his appetite unpredictable. He figured it was the stress, the lack of sleep, or some infection from living rough, and he pushed through it as best he could, scavenging to make enough money for his next meal. But when the sickness persisted, he began to worry. A month passed, and he scraped together enough money to buy a simple test, the kind he'd heard about only in whispers, though he hadn't considered it until now.
The night was cold, and the thin walls of the public restroom did nothing to keep out the wind. His hands shook as he held the test, struggling to decipher the instructions. He closed his eyes as he waited for the result, every nerve in his body taut.
When he opened them again, he felt a surge of panic. Two lines.
"No... this... can't be," he whispered, pressing his trembling hands to his stomach. He hadn't even known it was possible. Alone, far from home, with nothing but a few euros in his pocket, the weight of this revelation was almost too much to bear.
Do Hwan sank to the cold tile floor, his mind racing. "What am I supposed to do?" he whispered, hoping that somehow, someone, somewhere, would hear him and offer an answer.
But there was only silence.
Do Hwan wrestled with his own thoughts, torn between fear and an unshakable resolve. He had survived North Korea, a daring escape, life in hiding in China, and now homelessness in a foreign land. And somehow, against all odds, he knew he had to survive this too.
He closed his eyes and imagined his mother's face, the soft lines around her mouth when she'd smile, the warmth of her hands as she held his face, telling him everything would be alright.
He began to make plans, small but concrete, determined to find a way forward. He would need to find work—something, anything more stable than bottle collection. He had heard of churches that sometimes took in those who had nowhere else to turn. Perhaps he could find one that would understand, that wouldn't ask questions. And there were other refugees, people like him who were looking for a way to make Belgium their home.
The next morning, he pulled his backpack closer, feeling the faded fabric beneath his fingers as if it were an old friend. His heart was pounding, but he whispered to himself, "I can do this. I've made it this far. I won't give up now."
He walked out into the busy streets of Brussels, his breath visible in the morning air, a quiet determination settling over him. His journey was far from over, but with each step he took, he held onto the faintest hope that maybe, somehow, he would find a way to start over—both for himself and the life he now carried with him.
