Rebel Seoul

by Axie Oh

  “I’ve only had one person ask me to stop in the middle of this bridge. A young woman. Right after the Second Act of the Great War. She’d asked me to stop here. She said she was going to walk the rest of the way. I told her what I’d told you, that I’d take her to the end, but she insisted. Her last words to me: ‘I want to see the river.’ I left her here, and in the morning, I saw the news.”

  I tighten my hand on the door handle. “I’m not going to jump.”

  “You wouldn’t, would you? How badly I want to believe you.”

  I sigh and lean back against the seat. “It’s four minutes past midnight,” I say. “You have a place to stay?”

  The Dome, non-corporeal during the day, solidifies at midnight, allowing entry only at certain military checkpoints.

  The ajeossi looks to the digital clock on his dashboard. “Ah, so it is. I guess I’ll have to stay in Old Seoul tonight.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I’m the reason he’s been caught out.

  “No, no. This has been good for my state of mind. But thank you for your concern. You’re a good kid. Let’s just say tonight I’m full of irrational worries, and you’re full of rational ones.”

  I nod, stepping out of the cab. It takes the ajeossi a few minutes, but finally he drives the rest of the way down the bridge.

  I watch until he’s disappeared from sight before I approach the railing.

  I want to see the river. The last words of a dead girl.

  I can understand the feeling. I hadn’t been thinking of jumping, but now it’s all I can think about. How cold would the water be? The air brims with moisture from the river. In the middle of the bridge, it’s silent. What would stop a person from jumping?

  Family? I have none.

  Friends? A face comes to mind, and I shake my head, dispelling the image.

  What did that girl think before she jumped? She’d have looked out at the river and seen to the right, modernized, Neo Seoul — high on Tech. To the left, Old Seoul. Which did she call home? Both halves of the city cast trails of colored lights along the river’s edges — orange, purple, white. From the distance, they look like miniature waterfalls. The colors sink into the river, disappearing into the darkness.

  I curl my hands around the banister. “Ay,” I mutter to the night, “I wouldn’t have thought of jumping if you hadn’t said anything.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  I’m almost at the end of the bridge when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  Incoming Call — Alex Kim flashes green across the screen.

  I slide my thumb along the arrow, lifting the phone to my ear.

  “You forgot.” Alex’s deep voice resonates through the speaker. Not accusative, just bored. I imagine him calling me from his penthouse in Neo Seoul, a wealth of Tech and modern furniture surrounding him.

  I reach the end of the bridge, the smooth cement turning to a broken, unkempt road. I scuff my sneaker against the gravel, dislodging a rock that skitters across the ground. “I haven’t.”

  I’ve put off his request until the night before the tests, but I haven’t forgotten. Seniors in Neo Seoul are required to take tests to determine where they’ll serve their mandatory military quotas, whether as officers in the armed forces or as engineers or in safer, cushier jobs in the realm of politics. Alex Kim had approached me at the end of last year with a request for a special kind of Enhancer, something that would give him an edge in the tests, but also keep it from detection in case of a blood analysis. He figured I’m from Old Seoul; if anyone could get him the illegal drug, it would be me.

  “Can you get through the gates with the Enhancer,” Alex asks, “or do you need me to meet you before school?”

  “I can get through.”

  Alex is quiet for a moment, and I wonder if he’s hung up, but then he says, “I still want you on my team for the senior tests. Think about it. You won’t have a better offer.”

  “I’m hanging up,” I say, and hang up.

  He’s right. I won’t have a better offer. But I know any test he’s taking will be at a high level with more risks, and it’s just not worth it. Maybe if I had more ambition than getting out of Old Seoul . . .

  But I don’t.

  I pocket my phone and approach the end of the bridge. I smell the food cart before I see it. Every week, I pay the ajumma manning the cart five thousand won for watching my motorbike. It’s beat-up, but it gets me to my part-time jobs — grocery delivery and late-night Tech support.

  Tonight, only a metalworker stands beneath the tarp roof of the food cart, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a stick of steaming odeng. He bites the fish cake off the stick and reaches for another, the pile of sticks kept warm in a shallow vat of hot broth. Two pots of ramyeon boil on a makeshift stove behind the cart, their lids rattling against the metal rims of their bowls.

  “Ye-ya!” the ajumma yells from behind the cart, ducking beneath the tarp to stand in front of me. She’s half my height. I lean forward, trying to level our eyes. It’s almost like a bow, which seems to please her. “You owe me for the week,” she chides.

  I nod.

  “And even a little extra for the copper pot.”

  I frown. “What copper pot?”

  She pulls a pot out from behind her back, holding it by the handle. A huge dent mars the metal. “I stopped a thief,” she says, lifting her chin.

  Food cart pots are flimsy and cheap, used mainly for boiling and serving ramyeon, but . . .

  “That must have hurt.”

  A wicked smile plays along her lips. “He won’t be coming back.”

  I grin and straighten my back. I pull my wallet out of my pocket, my grin turning into a grimace at the low count of browns and blues. I take out what I do have and place it all onto her rough palms.

  A wave of guilt passes over her lined face, and the ajumma tries to give me back half of what I gave her. I take the bills from her hands and sweep around her, stuffing them deep in the pocket of her ratty coat. She protests, then stops when she catches my grin.

  “Jaewon-ah,” she says, patting my back. “Good kid.” She grabs some sticks of odeng out of one of the vats of boiling water, wraps them up in paper towels, and hands them to me.

  I bow and take them with both hands. I’m a fast eater, and they’re tucked away quick — warmth in my stomach. But by the time I’m done, the ajumma’s left and returned. She holds the keys to my motorbike along with a black fleece-lined jacket.

  “For my future son-in-law,” she says.

  I smile, taking the keys and turn to let her help me shrug into the jacket. It’s warm. I zip it all the way up. “But you have only one daughter, and she’s married.”

  The ajumma scowls. “Don’t remind me. You’re much prettier than the man she married.”

  I shake my head, retrieving my helmet and antipollution mask from the back of my motorbike. “Every time you mention your daughter, you make me depressed. I can’t have her as a wife. I can’t have you as a wife . . .”

  “Ay,” she says, swatting playfully at my head.

  I duck away and get onto my motorbike, revving the engine. I don the mask, clip the helmet beneath my chin, and give the ajumma a thumbs-up before sliding the bike onto the streets of Old Seoul.

  03

  Young

  There are a few motorbikes and cabs out at this late hour, none following the color-coded rules of the traffic lights. I pass buildings with boarded-up doors and shuttered windows seeping broken light onto the battered sidewalk. Neon signs missing the fluorescence in most of their lettering flicker, ghostlike, down the empty streets. I pull my mask higher over my nose to block out the smell of smoke.

  It’s a quarter to one by the time I reach the main road outside Hongdae, the area surrounding the old Hongik University. The Kings, the local gang, have built a barricade to bar
trespassers — a haphazard pileup of trucks, furniture, motorbikes, and even a tank, the barrel of its gun facing outward. There’s a wooden plank that runs over the barricade, probably placed there and forgotten by a group of rabble-rousers.

  Lining up my wheels for the jump, I rev my engine. I accelerate up the ramp and hit the air. A shattering of wind blasts my face. The bike comes down hard in the middle of a packed street, skidding to a halt before a stalled car.

  Across the barricade, it’s like entering sinsegye, a whole new world filled with people laughing, flirting, yelling.

  Mostly at me. My entrance pissed off a good number of them.

  I move my motorbike through the traffic, edging around a raucous crowd surrounding an impromptu b-boy battle near the Playground. Farther down the street, neon-lit stairs descend into colored darkness, smoke billowing out like exhaust from an engine.

  I find a space for my motorbike beside a no parking sign and drop the kickstand. The low building beside the sign is a noraebang. Its patrons’ out-of-tune, drunken singing spills out onto the street. I recognize the butchered song from the concert, one of C’est La Vie’s less depressing numbers.

  I walk through the alley next to the noraebang, grimacing at the strong smells of sewage and garbage. I keep to the shadows, stopping when I reach the end.

  Beyond the alley, there’s a street lined with brightly lit buildings. One building takes up the most space, a bar and restaurant with a line extending out the door. Loud music issues from the bar in a language I don’t recognize. Girls and boys sit at the curb, sharing cigarettes.

  A side door of the restaurant opens, and a man steps through.

  Park Taesung.

  He has a red moon stitched to the lapel of his suit, the symbol of the most influential gang in Old Seoul. Deep crow’s-feet branch out from the corners of his eyes. It’s a trick. If he’s ever smiled, it’s never been for anything pleasant.

  As if sensing my gaze, he swings his head in my direction. Quickly I step back, letting the shadows in the alley shield me in darkness.

  The last time I’d seen Park Taesung, he’d been breaking me, the steel of his shoes finding the same place beneath my ribs over and over again. Hours after the incident, I’d had to wrap my chest and wash the dirt from the open wounds on my face in the silence of my apartment.

  And the whole time, I’d had to remember the moment when Young had chosen obedience to Park Taesung over his friendship with me.

  That was two years ago.

  The familiar burn of resentment rushes through me, and I try to control it, my vision filtering in and out, tunneled on Red Moon’s boss. Whether he sees me or not, the corners of his lips lift in a cruel smile. With a short, biting laugh that travels across the street, he enters a black car parked along the curb.

  I don’t watch him leave.

  Leaning back against the wall, I breathe in the rotten sewage of the alleyway. The vapor forming in every breath I exhale is a reminder. It’s cold outside. It’s always cold.

  Memories flood my mind. The memories are not in the shape of moments, but colors. Red, for a memory of pain. Red, for a memory of betrayal.

  Blue, for a memory of lightness.

  This last — it hurts the most.

  “Lee Jaewon?”

  I open my eyes.

  Two guys stand on the street outside the alley, watching me intently. Jeon Daeho and Ro Jinwoon.

  “Ah, it is you.” The hood of Daeho’s sweatshirt is up. He has his fist against his mouth as he speaks, muffling his words. “You look different. Taller.”

  Jinwoon presses his shoulder against the opposite wall — a comfortable stance, nonthreatening. Like Daeho, Jinwoon is dressed casually, in an old leather jacket.

  “Lee Jaewon,” Jinwoon says, his voice deeper than Daeho’s. “You here to see Park Young?”

  “Yeah, is he in?”

  “Mhm,” Jinwoon says in the affirmative.

  I wait.

  Neither of them moves.

  “Lee Jaewon,” Daeho says, taking his fist away from his mouth, “Young said you were never coming back.”

  I flinch. “I’m not coming back to the gang. I’ve left for good. I just came to speak with Young. I don’t want trouble. Just tell him I’m here.”

  “He knows you’re here,” Jinwoon says. “He was told the moment you’d entered Hongdae.”

  “He’s waiting for you on the roof,” Daeho adds, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder toward the restaurant. Having apparently delivered his message, Daeho stuffs his hands into the pockets of his pants and shuffles away.

  Jinwoon remains near, kicking his shoe against a loose rock. When he doesn’t say anything, I move to pass him.

  “Jaewon-ah,” he says, just as our shoulders brush, “don’t be cruel. Young isn’t strong, not like you are.”

  My response is quiet. “Park Young’s a boss. He’s stronger than he looks. And I’ve come to ask him for a favor. I’m not going to hurt him.”

  Jinwoon meets my gaze. “You’re the only person who’s ever hurt him.”

  Reaching out, I grab Jinwoon by the collar and jam him against the wall. “Don’t you dare say that to me,” I growl. “He was the bastard who betrayed me!”

  My voice cracks on my words, and I drop Jinwoon, hands trembling. I stumble backward, wondering if I should leave, take my motorbike, and never look back. I could be gone from here. Screw Alex and his Enhancer. I’ll get the money for my academy tuition some other way — take up more after-school jobs. Or just quit school entirely.

  I press my palms against my temples until all I feel is the pressure.

  How did it become like this? I joined Red Moon when I was eight after my parents abandoned me to the streets. I was forced out at sixteen by the gang brothers I trusted the most. Old Seoul has only brought me heartbreak — I want to leave it all behind. If I can just hold onto my academy scholarship, Neo Seoul will give me a future.

  I push past Jinwoon, cross the street, and enter through the same door Park Taesung had exited.

  Inside is a red-lit hallway, the subdued noises of the restaurant issuing from double doors to the right. I walk past the lowTech elevators on the left, heading through a door at the back with a blue exit sign glowing above it.

  There are five flights of stairs to the roof, and I take them fast, hand sliding against the banister as I round each corner. The door at the top is already open, the cold wind pushing against me as I step through.

  Young stands at the edge of the rooftop.

  He’s grown since middle school — the first thing I notice. If he were to stand beside me, he’d be as tall as me. Not like when we were young. Then, he’d been half a head shorter. I’d always teased him about it, saying that the girls he liked in school always liked me better because I was taller.

  “Young-ah, don’t you know that in our society height equals attractiveness?”

  “You saying I’m not attractive? Look at this face. I’m beautiful like a flower.”

  “Saekki. Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m always kidding you. I’ll be kidding you till the day I die, and a day after, too.”

  “Lee Jaewon.” Young’s voice pulls me out of my memories. “It’s been awhile.”

  He wears a thick black sweater, a gold crown pinned crooked at the collar. He removes the cap he’s wearing and places it on the ledge behind him. Without its shadow covering his eyes, he looks younger, his black hair sticking out in all directions.

  He looks familiar.

  I turn from him, studying the graffiti on the roof walls. An artist has drawn a garden along the whole interior, giving brightness to the otherwise dull gray cement. Alongside the flowers are messages from Young’s gang brothers: Hyeong, I love you! Hyeongnim, you’re the best! Hyeong, I believe in you. Take care of me until the very end!

>   I linger on this last message.

  I remind myself why this pain is bearable.

  I may be alone in this world, but Young isn’t. He has Daeho and Jinwoon. He’s the seventh of the Seven Kings, a new position, only six months old, but gaining recognition among the smaller gangs outside Red Moon. People surround him. It’d be better to think they’re forced to love him — he’s their boss — but I know it’s not like that, not for him. It’d be natural for them to want to follow a guy like Young. He’s hot-headed and brave, smart and . . .

  Loyal.

  “What did you need?” Young asks, his voice tired. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it for you.”

  I turn from the wall. “I need an Enhancer. One that won't be identified on a blood analysis.”

  He squints, his hand whitening as he grips the pavement of the ledge. “Why?”

  “Alex wants it for our senior placement test tomorrow.”

  He nods slowly. “Alex wants it . . .”

  “Alex Kim. The Director’s son.”

  “I know who he is.” Young rubs his jaw. He watches me carefully, his frustration evident in the way his eyes narrow. “I just . . .” He takes his hand away from the pavement and runs it messily through his hair. “It’s not for you, is it?”

  “I said it was for Alex.”

  I wouldn’t use an Enhancer. The effects are unpredictable, temporary, and the side effects are painful — headaches, vomit­ing, hallucinations. Even if it makes you stronger, smarter in the moment, it makes you weak for days afterward, your body rejecting the enhancements.

  Young takes his phone out of his pocket, speaking low.

  Several minutes of silence pass before a voice calls from the doorway. “Hyeongnim?” It’s a kid, a silver crown pinned to his shirt. He holds the Enhancer — a plastic tube shaped like an L.

  “Thanks, Dongwoo-yah,” Young says, waving the kid over and taking the Enhancer from him.

  Once Dongwoo leaves, Young holds the Enhancer out to me. “If you get caught with this, you’ll get expelled, maybe even imprisoned.”

  I take the drug from him and put it in my pocket. “I won’t get caught.”