Seoh-go, yil-ga. Seoh-go, 1st street. Where the suited criminals – the Jopok – wanted their ransom delivered. And if that was their HQ, then I sure as hell would find the daughter of the old man there, break her out, rescue her from them all. And I would use the powers of my mirror to kill any Jopok that dared to stand in my path.

The cobbled footpath under my bare feet merges into cleanly paved asphalt as I emerge from the slums. It's a slow transition, but bit by bit, block by block, concrete gives way to brick, and brick gives way to taller, more palatable buildings. Thinly lit neon lights up the front of storefronts, casting hazy oranges onto glittering raindrops that fall around them.

It's a rainy, dreary afternoon; I've been trudging for over an hour. The acute pain across my body has subsidied to a dull ache, with only bruises in places of my stab wounds. Perhaps this was a power of the mirror as well. But I feel dizzy and faint, having lost a considerable quantity of blood – I feel nauseous and unwell. And yet I hold onto my waking consciousness by a thin, singular, but absolutely uncuttable thread of determination: to rescue the old man's daughter.

Seoh-go, 1st street, the old man's dying words reverberate in my mind. I clutch the identification card tight in my right fist; the identification card of the old man who I failed to save, and perhaps who died because I decided to poke my nose into places where I shouln't be. "Kim Ho-su", the name read. Hosu's daughter.

"Excuse me," I ask a businessman under his umbrella. He holds it out to me, seeing I'm a lost girl, absolutely soaked with rain, but I politely decline. "How can I get to Seoh-go, 1st street?"

"Seoh-go?" The businessman asks back, a little perplexed as to my look. "Seoh-go... seoh-go.... crap," He sighs. "It's my first time around here too. Just had a business meeting, but if you'd like, I have a map in my car. I'm heading to the parking lot, actually. Want to come along?"

I nod.

The man keeps handing me his umbrella, but I profusely decline. We walk together, the businessman a little perplexed.

"Say, shouldn't you be at school this time of hour?"

"It's Sunday," I reply.

"Huh?" ponders the man, quizzically, adjusting his spectacles. "Pretty sure it's Monday, because, well, I mean, look," he says, pointing to his suit amidst his stride. "Working day, you know? Did you ditch school? Home?"

I say nothing. The man appears a little uncomfortable walking with me. I mean, my image certainly must've inspired a bit of horror. Here's a schoolgirl with all her clothes and hair completely soaked, my eyes only half-visible under my soaked bangs, blue and purple bruises all over my legs, shuffling along barefoot and in the rain like some sort of leper, not to mention that my entire left forearm was covered in this silver, mirror, thing. I'm actually surprised a little that he doesn't ask me about my arm – not that he could do anything about it, anyhow.

He opens the door to his car. "I know stranger-danger and all that, but I'm not a kidnapper," he sheepishly says, getting in first, glancing towards me. "Want me to take you there?"

"...Could I?" I ask, knowing that if he did try whisking me off somewhere, he wouldn't stand a chance. It was in his interest not to pull anything dirty, but from his look – a relatively youthful man in his 30s with spectacles – I could not read any malice from him, only a sense of gullibility.

"You're welcome to," he replies.

"...Sorry for the mess," I apologize, my uniform letting loose a torrent of streams on his leather seat.

"No worries, I had to get them washed sometime," he comments, opening up his glove box to pull out a map of Seoul, and below that, an orange rag. "Here, wipe the seat with this."

"Seoh-go, seoh-go, ah," he mumbles, tracing his fingers upon a road on the map.

"Seoh-go 5th, 4th.... 1st. Oh, nice. It's only a kilometer away. You going to be okay with the ride?" The businessman asks again, as if to double make sure that I won't accuse him of anything or turn his kindness into his disfavor.

I just nod.

I look out the car window as we pull out of the carpark and into the wider streets. Soft raindrops make glancing blows upon glass.

I uncrinkle the soaked slip of paper from my pocket, its ink smudged and rapidly fading. 1 million Won, presumably the ransom amount. Such money didn't come easily. Judging from the storefront that old man Hosu had, he would have had to work half a year to afford his daughter's ransom. From the beginning, it was probably beyond his ability to get her back; presumably, the Jopok didn't have any plans of returning to her while they used her for...

I try to banish those thoughts. I had failed the old man, but I wasn't going to fail his daughter. I was going to save her no matter what. I was going to save her before they hacked off more of her fingers, or sold her off somewhere as part of a trafficking ring. She is probably terrified, bewildered, betrayed. Afraid that no one is coming to rescue her – not even her own father. Her circumstance is not her fault, and not her father's. It's on these good-for-nothing criminals that run the streets and terrorize the populace.

When I was alone and in trouble, no person reached out to hold my hand or lift me up. But now, I could be that person for someone else, and that restored in me warmth again.

I didn't have a concrete plan for the rescue; in fact, my destination was just a street, with no particular building to look for. But I would improvise as the situation unfolded, and I was confident that would be enough. After all, I'd figured out the secret to making my mirror work 100% of the time: that I had to not only will my action to manifest in reality, but also had to offer my own blood as sacrifice. Given the powers it afforded me, it was such a trivial deal that I couldn't care less. My general rule of thumb was: if any Jopok tried to stop me, I would kill them all.

I'm lost in the midst of my thoughts when with a screech and a bang, the car comes to an abrupt halt. The businessman swears and asks if I'm okay.

Four suited men without umbrellas approach the car. The businessman rolls down the window presumably to throw some expletives, but before he can speak, what seems to be their leader shoves a knife just short of his chin.

"Seonsaengnim, wue-yeohgiwatsuh?" (Mr. Goody Two Shoes, why did you come here?")

The businessman glances back at me, looking betrayed – I spy from his eyes his thought that I baited him here to be robbed.

"Uh-rah? Agassidoh itneh," ("Huh? A lady is in here too,") one of the Jopok says, tapping my door. He opens it, letting the torrent of rain invade the interior. He leans in with his burly, tattooed face. Ugliness.

The businessman's eyes dart back. He knows I'm not the culprit.

"Geon-dil-myeon nideul da kongbap-meokneunda, yi-ssaekideul –" ("You'll all be rotting in prison if you touch her, you sons of – ")

The Jopok by the front window drives the knife closer into his lapel. "Uh-huh, jal nolja," ("C'mon, play nice.")

"Shibal – " ("Fuck – "), swears the businessman, cornered back, his seatbelt stretching tight. "Mohl – mohl wonhae?" ("What – what do you want then?")

"Donigetchi, jjasha," ("Money obviously, moron,") replies the head Jopok, whisking away the businessman's glasses and crushing it with his shoes.

"Ah, jam-gganman," ("Ah, wait –") the head Jopok continues, "Juh agassi." ("Her. I want her.") he says, gesturing at me. "Donbodah agassi. Ni-ddal yi-nja?" ("Her, instead of the money. She your daughter?")

I sense an opportunity.

"Ddal-yida," ("Yeah, I'm his daughter"), I blurt out. "Ne-chingoo weehae don-neryeogowatsuh. Jigeum gaji?" ("I came to pay for my friend who's locked up. Why don't I come along with you?") I state as plainly and as coldly as possible, veiling the fury that was rising within me by the minute.

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"Guh-bwah, yi-ssaekkiya," ("See? What did I tell you, you bastard,") hollers the head Jopok, slapping the face of his compatriot. "Nu-gah yiri duruhwah, shibal, natjjam banghaehago," ("Who the hell in their right mind would come across this street, huh? Just had to fuckin' wake me up.")

The head Jopok motions at me with incongruous decorum. "Sonnim-eun yiri o-saeyo," ("Dear customer, this way please,") he enunciates in honorifics, his face contorting in a hideous, fake smile.

You call those who came to pay their loved ones' ransom... 'customers'?

It would be all too easy for me to silence them all here, but that's not my goal. My goal is to get to where old man Hosu's daughter is. Dispatching the Jopok would only be a side-effect if they attempted to stop me.

"Nuhn-gah, yimma," ("Freakin' leave already,") says one of the Jopok at the back, shoving the kindhearted businessman's forehead. He is petrified, frozen in shock, mouth agape – he can only watch me disappear behind the doors to a dingy warehouse.

'Yi-reum moh?" ("What's her name?")

I drop the identification card of the old man on their rusted reception table.

"Kim Ho-su? Yah," says the head Jopok, cocking his head, motioning his subordinate towards him. "Yi yeonggam al-ah?" ("You know this geezer?")

"Ah, yeh, oneul achim..." ("Ah, yes, a couple of our guys must've paid a visit this morning...")

The head Jopok listens intently, and throws me a question. "Yi yeonggam weh an-watsuh?" ("Why'd this geezer not come himself?")

"Juk-uh-suh." ("Because he's dead.")

"Juk-uh-suh?" ("He freakin' died?") The Jopok palms his face. "Al-at-suh. Don-eun?" ("Whatever. So where's the cash?")

"Jultaenikka shibiguljimah. Muhnjuh boyeojo." ("I have it here, don't freaking ask. My friend first, then the money,") I reply curtly, glowering at them in disdain.

The four Jopok men look at each other, then break into a guffaw.

"Ggandungyi tweeuhnaon agassi cheoum-bonda," ("My first time seeing a girl this feisty," one of them jokes to the other. "Al-at-suh, ttarawah." ("Fine, follow me. I'll show her to you.")

The two Jopok men at the back nudge me forward with metal bats. We open a corrugated door down a plain blue hallway to greet an awaiting elevator made of grated metal, painted yellow, nestled in a narrow, rusty shaft with only red lamps as illumination.

I step into the elevator, and so do the four Jopok men; the elevator shudders and shakes as it makes its descent towards the bowels of the earth. It passes various floors of what appears to be storages, vaults, rubbish dumps in its descent, but comes down into an enormous underground warehouse-hall with pallets and forklifts and grated metal walkways, perhaps thirty, no, forty meters tall. The clangs and clinks of drinking-glasses pierce my ears as the elevator descends, revealing a visage of maybe a hundred Jopok men seated around four long, rectangular tables enjoying their reverie of spoils. The smoke and scent of grilled meat wafts up from below, drenching the dim lights in a hazy orange.

I grit my teeth.

So this is how you enjoy money that doesn't belong to you. Blood-money stolen and robbed from innocent, hardworking people trying to make a living.

I am filled with a disgust so strong that I feel my head swimming, and my eye instinctively moves to my left forearm to see the reflections of the Jopok in the mirror.

But not now.

I suppress my bubbling anger with erratic breaths.

The hall is rather dimly lit; the only illumination comes from the fluorescent orange bulbs on each table, giving off a blooming light. Everywhere else is shrouded in shadow.

It takes a full half a minute to descend to the bottom of the hall. The Jopok men push me out – nearly kick me out. I stumble to my feet and warily eye the reverie; only a few men notice amongst their cheers and jeers.

"Uh, watnae," ("Hey you guys, welcome back,") says a drunken Jopok man, rising from his table near to race towards us. "Hic – yen moyah?" ("Hic – who's this?")

The head Jopok from the aboveground explains briefly.

The drunken Jopok man complains. "Ahsi, weh-jigum," ("Goddamn, why now?") He grabs a hold of my shoulders and shakes me back and forth in his stupor, giving off a stench of soju, sweat, and burnt meat. I grimace and slap his hands away.

"Uh-rah?" ("Oh?")

"Ppalyibuluh, shibal. Nuhman meogkoshipunjul ah-nja," ("Hurry up and break the news, bastard. You think you're the only one who wants to enjoy?") mutters the head Jopok, shoving the drunken man. He can barely stand, but wobbles to his feet and shuffles past the plain wooden tables towards the fanciest and flashiest table near the heart of the hall. I spy from afar the drunken man talking to another Jopok, then that Jopok talks to another one better dressed than him, and finally, that better dressed Jopok slips the news to a man in a striped suit of navy and red, presumably their leader. His face is absolutely the type to become the leader of a Jopok – angled, contorted, ugly, riddled with scars, tinted red from the drunkenness of their spoils.

I want to end him there and there, but he claps his hands together three times.

The entire hall falls silent. All the hundred Jopok men look towards their leader, their heads bowed.

"Yeogi-agassi, don-neryeo watdeh!" ("This lady over here's waltzed in to pay her ransom!") The leader speaks with airs, chuckling. "Now, Baksu!" ("Now, let's give her a round of applause!")

The hall breaks into a sea of furious claps mixed with jeers.

"Yiri wahbah," ("Come closer,") says the leader, taking a long swig from a whiskey flask. I calmy stride towards the gap between the tables in the center, coming to a stop about a stone's throw away. The four Jopok from aboveground stand around me.

"Geurehsuh, yireum-un?" ("So, what's the name of the girl again? The one we took hostage?") The leader asks, leaning in to his right-hand man.

"Kim Se-rah rago hadundayeoh," ("Kim Serah, sir, apparently...")

"Uh? Kim Se-rah? Ah, cham... guguh gajuhwa." ("Huh? Kim Serah? Fuck... bring that thing.")

"Geuh....nun yiyoh?" ("Uh.... you mean the eyes?")

"Dareunguhn da-palatjanah, yimma," ("What else, retard? We sold everything else.") their leader chides, taking a swig from his flask, coughing.

Something doesn't sound right, I think to myself. My guts begin to twist in a knot.

What were they talking about? Eyes?

The right-hand man rummages through a far-off shelf with a refrigerator and takes out a frosty cylinder. Condensation quickly resolves upon glass in the humid air. He hands it to the leader of the Jopok, who twirls it in his hand.

"Agassi, yi-reum mohaeyo?" ("Young lady, what's your name?")

I pause, but give my name anyway.

"Kang Re-za dah." ("Kang Reza.")

"Kim Se-rah chingu?" ("Serah's friend?")

I nod.

"Ai-go, hic - miahnhaesuh utukha-nja," ("Damn, hic – how can I say my sorries,") he says, heaving up from his armchair, lumbering to the front of his table like a rancid hog. He takes a pose like a bowler in front of a bowling alley, flabs of fat rippling across his ballooned suit.

He rolls the cylinder some 15 meters towards me. It rolls with a clitter and clang and hits my toes, coming to a stop.

A pair of eyeballs with nerves attached stare at me from within the cylinder.

A pair of eyeballs with irises small, cowering in fright.

A pair of eyeballs.

A pair of –

My own eyes widen. The eyes they were talking about, those were Hosu's little daughter's –

My heart catches in my throat. Nausea threatens to spill into my mouth. It does spill. I cup my mouth to halt a coming wretch.

"Ai-go, bulsanghaera," ("Damn, I really am sorry,") announces their leader, clicking his tongue. It is obvious that not even a shred of remorse actually exists.

The Jopok men's faces twist into chuckles and laughter. They point their fingers at me, slap each other's backs at my reaction. Their ugly, misshapen faces morph into one in my blurred vision.

Their leader continues. "Appa donmot-nehsuh, yirukhae-duetdeh. Cheondang-ehsuh appa bogoshipuhdo motchatgetneh!" ("She's got no eyes, so I guess she wouldn't be able to 'see' her father in heaven even if she wants to!") He begins to laugh along with his men.

Something explodes in my head. I feel my veins burst, spill, drench my vision and sight from the center to the periphery with absolute, crimson, red. An indescribable rage unbottles itself from the roots of my consciousness. It rises, chars, enveloping my body in a crimson flame which only I can feel.

"Jah, don." ("Now, gimme the money,") the leader blurts, extending his hand.

I say nothing. A few seconds pass.

"Agassi, yigeoh halyinhaesuh juneunguhyah. Woorigah palmyeon duhbaht-wa." ("Hey young lady, we are giving you a discount here. If we're to sell it, we can get a much higher price from someone else.")

I bite my right hand with my teeth, scrunch it, feeling the flesh, tearing it off. I feel the blood spurt from my knuckles and palm and dribble to the floor. The Jopok men murmur a little, disturbed.

Oh, they would be disturbed more, alright.

I have only one reply to their boss.

"Nuh... jasik itsuh?" ("...You've got children?")

Their boss gives a snarky response. "Upneundae, weh? Moreulgabwah?" ("No, why? You afraid I won't have feelings too?")

I feel a grin appear on my face, stretching ear-to-ear. I chuckle to him, to the entire hall, half-crazed, maniacal, my vision an absolute image of nothing but red.

"Geurum... nooguhdo...uhl-uhjuji, anketji?" ("Then... no one... will shed a tear for you... correct?")