by Axie Oh
“You’ve done well in your school. Don’t mess it up now.”
I raise an eyebrow. I’ve done awful at school. Years of accumulated street knowledge don’t add up to years of academic excellence. Only my high simTech ranking keeps me enrolled. But to Young, I guess staying in school would be considered doing well.
“I won’t.”
“Do you trust Alex?”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
Young scowls, crossing his arms. “That’s not healthy.”
“Are we done?” I turn my back to him and head toward the stairway.
“Your father’s ten-year memorial is in three weeks.”
I stop, my heart pounding. Park Young, we’d been doing so well. Talking about safe things.
“Your father was like a father to me. He was a good man. He deserves a proper ceremony. At least once. From you.”
My voice comes out quiet, distant. “Do you go to the site of his death every year?”
“I do.”
“Do you perform the rites of a son to a father who isn’t your own?”
Young doesn’t respond.
An image comes to my mind of Young standing on the ashen grounds of the old medTech buildings in Incheon, bowing to the ground in memory of my father — like a dutiful son.
“You can have him,” I whisper. “You can have my father. You can have your father. You can have it all. There’s nothing in the world you can’t have. Just know that I don’t care. About him or about you.”
“Geojinmal,” Young breathes.
Whether I agree or not — whether I’m a liar or not — I’ll never admit it. I have to say I don’t care; otherwise, I’m the most pathetic bastard that has ever lived.
I move blindly toward the doorway, stumbling down the stairs. I cross the street outside and fumble for my keys in the alley. I drop them in a puddle and pick them up again with shaking fingers.
Everything will be okay.
I speed through the blurring streets, heading toward the south side of the Mapo district.
I trudge up the six flights of stairs to my apartment and sink onto my bed, fully dressed. It’s cold, but I don’t put on the heater, and I don’t pull the blankets around me. I do lift my hands and place my palms over my eyes.
It’s dark.
But I’ll be okay.
04
Alex
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
Lifting my arm from my eyes, I blink up at Alex Kim’s face. The sunlight behind him casts his features in shadow. He leans over me, two cups of coffee in his hands.
I groan and sit up, grimacing as the icy wind over the rooftop blows against my skin. After an early morning making deliveries for my part-time job, I’d headed over to school earlier to catch some sleep before the welcome assembly. The walls of the roof block out some of the wind, but it’s still cold enough that I can’t forget it’s cold.
“Here,” Alex says. He hands me one of the steaming paper cups of coffee, probably bought off one of the mobile vending machines on the first floor.
Alex puts his cup down on the concrete slab and takes a packet of cigarettes from inside his blue uniform jacket. He taps the packet against the center of his palm, and a cigarette slides out. He lights it. Minutes pass as he drags out the smoke. When he’s finished, he flicks the carcass to the ground, picks up his coffee cup, and gulps the rest of the liquid down.
I watch as the still-smoking cigarette rolls across the cement, looking like a used bullet shell. The fine for littering outside school property is eighty-eight thousand won; inside, it’s one hundred thousand won, four penalty points, and ten laps around the athletics field.
I point to the cigarette. “Are you going to pick that up?”
“Probably not. Have you got the Enhancer?”
I reach into my coat and pull out the Enhancer. There’s no one in the courtyard to witness our exchange — we’re an hour early — and the drug is wrapped tightly in a paper towel.
Alex takes the Enhancer in one hand and reaches into his jacket with the other. He hands over an envelope full of banknotes. “I’ll triple the amount if you join my team for the tests.”
I shake my head. “I doubt you’re going to take one of the easier simTech tests. Why should I risk my chances at getting a secure placement through an easier test? Even if you were to fail a high-level test, you’d still have a second chance at another. I wouldn’t.”
Alex nods, absently agreeing. He might be a rich, privileged bastard, but at least he knows he is.
“For glory?” he asks, then laughs when he sees my frown. “I have no idea why you’d risk it. I wouldn’t, not if I were you. I’m not going to try to convince you, either, with whatever one uses to convince another, beyond cold cash. I failed debate, much to the chagrin of my politician father.”
“You hate pretense.”
Alex shrugs. “I know I’ll pass the test. It’ll just be easier for me to pass it with you as my Runner. You might suck at academics, I’ll grant you that, but you’re damn good at simulations. What’s your record? Five hundred wins, ninety losses?”
“Ninety-five.” I lean down to pick his dead cigarette off the floor and drop it into my empty coffee cup. Getting up, I deposit everything into the nearest trash receptacle. “I don’t take your offer lightly. I’ll think about it.”
If anyone were to pass an impossible test, it’d be Alex, whether by his own skills or those purchased from others. He’s had two years to determine which of us are good enough to make the cut, who scored highest in our end-of-year exams — in piloting, firearms, infiltration tactics, engineering, and martial arts. I’ve no doubt he’s gathered a formidable team, with or without me.
“You’ll think about it,” Alex repeats, laughing softly, his voice moving away. I turn to see he’s taken my spot on the jut of concrete, his fingers already playing with another cigarette. “You think about it, Lee Jaewon. Nice and slow. Be sure to tell me before the placement tests start in about . . .” He looks at his bare wrist. “One hour, thirty minutes. Or whenever you feel like it.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”
“Eh,” he says, the cigarette between his lips muffling his words, “something in this world shouldn’t.”
“Jjajeungna,” I mutter, and Alex laughs, amused at my annoyance.
The doors from the rooftop ripple open as I approach them, their sensors catching my body warmth and weight.
The Apgujeong Academy is built like a box in four levels, outdoor courtyards on every level, each ringed with classrooms. I push the door at the nearest corner and head down the stairs.
* * *
■ ■ ■
Bora tackles me from behind in the main hall of the academy. “Ya, Lee Jaewon, have you heard?”
I turn to look at her. Bora’s usual short hair is no longer hidden beneath a long-haired wig. I ruffle the mop of her hair, and she bats me away.
“Don’t you dare,” she shouts. “I still need to look presentable for the welcome assembly. I hear there’s gonna be some kind of show afterward, like a singer or a band, maybe.”
“Did you eat breakfast already?” I place a hand on my stomach. “I’m so hungry.”
“Are you even listening to me?” Bora yells. “The assembly’s been moved to the outer courtyard to make more room for the performers. Outside. In the cold. We’re going to all be passively murdered on our first day back.”
That sounds . . . unfortunate.
Bora cocks her head to the side, snapping her fingers. “Do you still have your PE clothes in your old locker?”
Before I can answer, she runs off toward our second-year classroom at the back of the school, where we kept our personal effects in assigned lockers. I never bothered to take my PE clothes home before winter break. I grimace at the
memory of last year’s physical tests, which grew more intense as the year rounded out, obstacle courses in the rain, schoolwide showcases pitting students against one another.
With how much time we spend in simulations, the school puts us through a grueling physical-training regime to keep us in shape. After all, real fighting doesn’t take place in virtual reality, but on the battlefield. Our bodies need to be as sharp as our minds.
As the Proselytizer — that masked enemy of the NSK — often says, “Students are the future, and the future needs more weapons.”
I check my phone for the time. I have fifteen minutes before we have to be seated for the assembly.
I cut across the hall and make my way to the small snack bar situated beside the closed cafeteria doors, where second-and third-years are crowding the bar. Shelves of packaged foods are situated outside the cashier counter — stacks of packaged ramyeon and assorted snacks, refrigerated shelves of beverages, and a variety of to-go items. I grab a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water.
There’s a line forming directly outside the bar. I wait at the back of the crowd, wondering if I should pick up anything else. Is it too early in the morning for ramyeon? It takes about a minute to boil hot water in the boiler beside the snack bar.
“Jaewon-ah,” Bora says, reappearing beside me, “look what I’ve brought.”
She carries a pile of clothing in her arms — two gym shirts and a thick black sweater — items pilfered from my locker. Underneath her uniform skirt, she wears her yellow gym pants. “Put these shirts on,” she commands. “It’ll be bulkier, but at least you’ll be warm. And I’m going to wear your sweater, okay? ’Cause I’m a genius and deserve a reward.”
“You are a genius,” I acknowledge, shrugging out of my blazer and unbuttoning the top buttons of my dress shirt. I pull it over my head. Underneath, I wear a T-shirt. I’m freezing as I put on the two gym shirts over it. Lastly, I struggle into my long-sleeved button-down. Four shirts in all, plus the school blazer. I’m almost warm.
“Ai — shhh!” Bora whines, pouting. “Even with all those layers, you still look thin.”
She pats me on the stomach, then catches sight of a bobbing head ahead of us in the crowd, yelling, “Chang Minwoo, how’d you get up there?”
Minwoo turns toward the sound of her voice. Like the night before, he’s wearing sunglasses. He must see her through the dark tint, because he yells, “Sorry, Bora-yah! I love you, but no cutting!”
She moves to push through the crowd, but gets shoved back. Mumbling profanities to herself, Bora pulls a bag off one of the shelves and opens it, stuffing crackers into her mouth.
A loud clash startles the students in the crowd — short screams, and then silence. I turn to see a trio of underclassmen standing beside an overturned rack, packets of crackers scattered over the floor. Their sneakers crunch on the packets as they brush through the crowd. Kids back away as they approach. I lift my arm to block Bora when she moves to intercept the leader. “It’s not worth it.”
She ignores me, picking up a fallen packet off the floor and throwing it at the leader. It glances off the back of his head. “Ya! Who do you think you are?” she yells, approaching him. “Are you kkangpae or something? Get in line like the rest of us.”
The leader scowls, grabbing Bora’s wrist. The fact that she’s a senior, older than him, doesn’t seem to matter. She tries to break away, flinging her wrist downward, but he holds fast.
“If you don’t have the strength to stop me,” he growls, his hand twisting her wrist, “then don’t even try.”
I place all the items I’d been holding onto the nearest shelf, then walk over to Bora and the thugs. The leader of the group watches my approach with narrowed eyes. Reaching out, I extract his fingers from her wrist. He lets go — not in shock, but in anticipation.
He anticipates a fight.
I insert my body between hers and theirs, my back to the leader. “You need to be careful,” I tell her. “You’re a designer. Don’t designers need their wrists?”
Her eyes widen when she realizes what I’ve done — put myself as their target over her. She shakes her head in denial. “Damn it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s fine.” I look up to see Minwoo has moved back down the line toward us. He places a hand on Bora’s shoulder.
“Don’t do this.” She struggles against Minwoo’s hold. “There are three of them and only one of you.”
“What?” I turn away. I don’t expect Minwoo to join me — he’s not a fighter. “You’re not going to be my second?”
“You can joke at a time like this? You’ll get expelled if you fight!”
I grimace. I know. Little misdemeanors — leaving school early, not wearing my uniform correctly — result in community service, cleaning the school bathrooms for a week. A brawl on school property would not be a little misdemeanor. There’s only one way to get out of this.
Throw away your pride, Jaewon.
I turn to the leader. “Let’s go somewhere else.” The crowd grows larger the longer we stay here, forming a thick circle around us. Students have their phones out, many of them on hover mode, already set to record. Others are texting and calling their friends, telling them to hurry to the snack bar or they’ll miss the fight.
“Why?” the leader asks, his lips curling. “You afraid you’ll lose? You embarrassed?”
“That’s right,” I say. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Are you mocking me?” He pushes my shoulder. I let it give, stumbling backward away from him.
“No.” I keep my voice steady. “It’s too crowded here. A teacher will come.”
“You afraid of a teacher?”
“Yes.” When the leader’s eyes narrow in suspicion, I realize I’ve answered too quickly.
“Saekki,” he curses. “You think I’m a fool?” Again, he pushes me in the shoulder. I stumble, this time in a curve, the circle of people too closely crowded against me.
No, he isn’t the fool. I’m the fool for getting involved.
The thugs take my silence as an insult, rushing me one at a time. I block the first punch, take a kick to the stomach, and manage to avoid a second punch by veering to the side. If we were out in the open, on the rooftop or on the sports field at the back of the school, I could easily escape, but the wall of students keeps me in this fight — to either take the beating or fight back.
One of the lackeys throws a fist at my face, and I duck and jab him with an elbow. He topples to the floor. The other thug kicks me in the side, and that’s when the leader gets me in the face, right below the eye. He’s wearing a ring, and it tears a cut across my cheek. Blood flows — hot compared to the cold halls of the school. The leader pulls his fist back again, and this time it hits me on the mouth, knocking my head sharply to the side. I fall into one of the food stacks, sending packages of chips and crackers tumbling to the floor. My hand lands on the handle of a broom, and I recognize the hard plastic for what it is — a weapon, a bludgeon. I curl my fingers around the smooth plastic for a moment, feel the strength beneath my grip, before letting it drop to the ground. I turn to face the leader.
His gaze darts from me to the broom. “Why won’t you fight me? You’re not afraid of me, so why won’t you fight me?”
His fist connects with the side of my head, his ring slicing my ear. My vision blurs, and I grab the counter to keep from falling to the floor.
When the buzzing in my head clears, I realize it’s silent again in the snack room. For whatever reason, the crowd’s gone quiet. I right my body and turn around, sighing when I see who’s broken up the fight.
Alex holds the thug’s wrist. “We’ve got our placement tests today,” he says, quietly addressing me.
“I know.” I gingerly take off my blazer and dress shirt, throwing them to the ground. Then I pull the first of the T-shirts over my head
and use the cloth to clean the blood dripping down my cheek and clotting at my lips. Gritting my teeth against a sharp stab of pain in my jaw, I lift my fingers to feel along the bruised skin.
“Didn’t I tell you I want you on my team? I can’t use you if you’re expelled.”
I shrug.
Alex releases the leader. “Kim Jobi?”
The thug scowls, rubbing his wrist. “How do you know my name?”
“You know mine, don’t you?”
Kim Jobi doesn’t answer. Of course he knows Alex’s name. On the Internet search rankings of Neo Seoul, Alex consistently ranks number one. Netizens search the words “Alex Kim” more than the “Great War” — what his height is, what middle school he attended overseas, who he’s currently dating. For someone who does absolutely nothing for the state, he’s the most famous person in it.
“Apologize to him,” Alex says, tilting his head in my direction. “He wasn’t in the wrong, but more than that, he’s your senior. You never raise a hand to a senior. Didn’t your father teach you that?”
It’s a taunt, intended to bait Jobi.
Jobi doesn’t take it. He swallows his pride, choosing silence over a fight with Alex.
“If not, your father has failed you,” Alex says, dismissing Jobi with a casual turn of his head.
“What about him?” Jobi spits. He points at me. “Shouldn’t his father have taught him to have some self-respect?”
They both look at me, watching for my reaction. Do they expect me to answer? Maybe I took the beating because I’d rather not get expelled. I only have one year of school left. Maybe I took the beating because I didn’t have an incentive to fight. Or maybe I took the beating because I deserve it.
Maybe my father never taught me to have self-respect.
“When I die, I’ll be sure to ask him.” I grab my shirt and blazer off the floor, and get the hell out of there.
05
Assassination
