This isn’t the first time it’s happened to you.

You feel fear, but only for a moment—that brief instant when your eyes register that you’ve just been mugged, that single second before your head hits the floor, damp with dirt and rain.

The impact is violent, disorienting.

You stay dazed for only a handful of seconds, but it feels like entire minutes, even hours. When you snap your eyes open, your face feels cold, wet, aching at your forehead, your eye, your mouth. Your palms burn, your knees have definitely seen better days.

With all the strength left in your body, you press your hands against the ground and push yourself up. The subway station is deserted—there’s no one around to help you. You manage to get to your feet, and that’s when you realize your side and back are in pain. The fall could have done much more damage than it did, you realize.

Then, suddenly, panic.

Your bag had the check, your phone, your house keys. Your hands tremble as you stare at the stairs unfolding before you, steep and endless. For a moment, you think it would have been easier to just die.

What are you going to do now? Will you have to spend the night on the streets? And how will you call your landlord to change the lock without a phone?

Your eyes well up with tears. If there has ever been an unlucky person on this earth, it’s you—that much is clear.

Hope is slipping away entirely. A panic attack tightens in your chest as you lean against the wall beside you. With the sleeve of your coat, you try to wipe the dirt from your cheek when suddenly, like a flash, an image crosses your mind.

When you left home and locked the door, you put the keys in your pocket.

Your heart pounds as you shove your hand inside your jacket pocket.

“Thank you, God,” you murmur in relief.

The check was in your name, which means no one else can cash it. You haven’t lost or gained anything. You just need to ask Jungkook to write you another one and cancel the old one. As for your phone—well, with 30 million won, you could buy ten brand-new ones.

The thought comforts you.

Despite the pain, you start climbing the stairs, one step at a time. Outside, the rain is pouring, but your umbrella was in your stolen bag, so you have no choice but to walk through the freezing downpour. You make your way home, your heart heavy in your chest.

A deep exhaustion settles over you—one you’ve never felt before.

It definitely hasn’t been an easy day.

I slide the key into the lock, grateful that I’ll have a roof over my head tonight.

The moment I step inside, I lean my back against the door. I allow myself a long, deep breath. As I exhale, it feels like I’m emptying myself out too.

But standing here like this won’t change anything.

I strip off my clothes, letting them fall behind me as I walk toward the bathroom. Before even wiping the filth of the subway floor from my face, I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste. I brush so hard my gums start to bleed, but I don’t care. I just want to erase the taste of Jungkook.

"Do you think that pathetic blowjob was worth 30 million won?"

I wonder what kind of person could even say something like that. That man has no shame, no respect.

I spit a foamy, pinkish mess into the sink and rinse my mouth. Only then do I finish undressing and step into the shower.

When I’m done, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I must have scraped my face against the floor because there are abrasions near my lip and cheek. A long bruise is beginning to form between my cheekbone and my eye. My forehead is a little swollen where it hit the ground, and there’s a small cut that’s already started to scab over.

I look monstrous.

I pull on my pajamas and head to the fridge. Opening the freezer, I grab a pack of frozen spinach and press it against my face as I lie down on the futon. Every spot where my skin hit the floor throbs painfully, radiating heat.

I don’t even have the strength to cry.

Sleep takes me quickly—deep, dreamless, merciful.

***

As you eat breakfast, it hits you—your documents were in your bag. The only way to get them back is to file a police report. You need them; they’re essential for accessing hospital treatment. Even if you manage to get the money you need, without a health insurance card and an ID proving you’re the patient with that condition, they won’t administer the medication you depend on.

You finish your instant noodles and quickly get dressed. Some things need to be handled fast, before bad luck catches up—and you know better than anyone how fast yours runs.

You pull on a gray sweater and a pair of black sweatpants. Standing in front of the mirror to fix your hair, you take in how awful your face looks today.

Overnight, the bruises have darkened, especially the one near your cheekbone. You touch it lightly with your fingers and sigh at the pain. There's a small split on your lower lip, but at least the swelling on your forehead has gone down. If only you had that check with you, you could cash it… then maybe buy some foundation or something to cover up your battered face.

No point dwelling on something you can’t fix.

You put on your shoes and jacket, grab a hospital bill and shove it into your pocket, then step outside.

The police station is just a couple of blocks away from where you live—about a thirty-minute walk.

Luckily, today, the sun shines bright and warm over Seoul, making it a pleasant stroll.

When you arrive, you find the station crowded. Several people are lined up, waiting to speak with the officers—you start to suspect this neighborhood isn’t as peaceful as your landlady claimed. You wonder if she overcharged you on rent.

You take a seat on a plastic chair and wait. You expected to be there for a long time, but surprisingly, after just twenty minutes, it’s already your turn.

Standing up, you head toward the small room that just became available.

You’re caught off guard when you see the person sitting at the desk—it’s a guy about your age, and he’s… strikingly handsome. Tall, broad shoulders, straight jet-black hair, cropped short at the nape but slightly longer at the front. His eyes are narrow and feline, dark and serious. He doesn’t look entirely Korean—probably mixed. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but you can’t quite place where you’ve seen him before.

Regardless, you take a seat across from his desk.

He finishes typing something before finally looking at you. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, but then his expression smooths over.

“Are you here to report an assault?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“No. It’s a theft,” you reply.

He raises an eyebrow. “Miss, have you been to the hospital for your injuries? Did you get hurt during the robbery, or was this a domestic incident?”

“I was robbed on a staircase,” you explain. “The thief yanked my bag, and I lost my balance, falling down the steps.”

“You should go to the hospital and get an emergency room report if you want to file for bodily harm.”

You shake your head again. “I’m not here for that. I just need to report the loss of my documents—they were in my bag.”

The officer looks surprised, but not in a good way. “You don’t want to report your injuries? Are you sure?”

They wouldn’t catch the thief anyway, you think to yourself. You didn’t even get a good look at him, don’t remember his face. There’s no way to track him down, and even if they did, it’s doubtful he’d end up in jail just for snatching a purse and knocking someone down the stairs.

“I need my documents urgently,” you insist.

The officer shakes his head, as if you’re completely out of your mind. “I need a way to verify your identity,” he says. “A family member, a friend…?”

"I have no one," you say. You have no intention of worrying your grandparents by telling them what happened. Instead, you pull out the hospital bill you brought with you.

"This paper has my full name, date of birth, and identification code," you explain. "The hospital issued it a few days ago."

The officer takes the paper in his hands, scanning it quickly before looking straight into your eyes.

"That's a pretty big amount to pay," he remarks.

You blush. Then you remember—no one but you knows what you're planning to do to pay it off.

"Please, let's proceed with the report for my lost documents."

"Alright," he says, turning to his computer. The room falls silent as he types into the database. His gaze lingers on your face, likely comparing it to the photos in their records. After a moment, he types something else and prints out a document.

"You can pick up your new documents in a week. For now, you can use this temporary certificate. It works for anything that requires official identification—including the hospital," he adds, guessing that’s why you're in such a hurry.

You take the paper, fold it, and slip it into your pocket. Then you stand and give a small bow.

"Thank you very much, officer."

He leans back in his chair, studying you intently. The way his eyes linger on you makes your cheeks heat up. You're not used to being noticed by a man—not that you're sure if his attention is a good thing.

"You shouldn't be out alone at night, miss. This neighborhood is dangerous."

There it is. Proof that you got scammed.

"I'll be careful," you promise.

Your eyes fall on the golden nameplate pinned to his chest. The name "Lee Ray" is written in Hangul characters.

"You may go," he says, dismissing you.

Without further hesitation, you leave the police station.

Lee Ray… For some reason, you feel like you've met him before. You can't recall where or in what circumstances. Maybe it’s just an impression, a false memory creeping into your mind because this officer was kind to you—perhaps exactly what you needed at this moment. You shake the thought away.

You head straight home. Tonight, you have to meet Jungkook again, and your face is a mess—maybe if you keep something cold pressed against it all day, by evening, it’ll look a little less terrible. You touch your lips, brushing a fingertip over the scab on your wound. You really hope he won’t ask you to do it again... You try to open your mouth slightly, and the wound stings, as if it’s about to split open.

You’re genuinely afraid Jungkook might decide to get rid of you if you show up like this. Still, you have no way of calling him to say you're sick, and, more importantly, you think skipping out on him would be even worse than showing up bruised.

There’s not much you can do at this point. Things happened the way they did. You can’t rewind time to last night or stop someone from stealing your bag.

You sigh.

As you step into the alley near your home, you realize how awful the trash is starting to smell. Among the bags full of rotting food, there’s a dead rat lying on its back, flies buzzing around it.

You go inside and wonder if it’s some kind of omen.

The thought makes you laugh—because, honestly, you might end up just like that sooner than you think.

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