Welcome to Daesun

대선에 온 걸 환영해

Daesun Station, 1990s.

The train screeched to a halt like it was throwing a tantrum.

A final grunt of effort, a puff of steam — and then, silence.

Y/N stepped down onto the platform, leather boots clicking on damp concrete, coat too clean for this town, eyes too curious to hide. She looked like she belonged in a university corridor — not this rain-slicked, rust-tinted neighborhood where the walls had ears and the alleys had moods.

A crow squawked somewhere above. The air smelled like old coal, pickled cabbage, and rain-soaked cigarettes.

A whistle blew behind her as the conductor leaned out the window and called,

“Next train’s at 6:40! Tomorrow! Maybe!”

The doors slammed shut. The train trundled off like it regretted ever stopping.

Y/N stood alone on the cracked platform, boots planted, duffel sliding down her arm. The sky above Daesun was low and grey, and the distant buzz of a neon sign blinked like a dying firefly.

She sighed.

“…Great start.”

__

Inside the tiny station office — a cramped box of dust, tea-stained cups, and faded BTS calendars (not that BTS, just “Busan Train Schedules”) — she leaned over the counter, trying not to look completely lost.

A man with a comb-over and gold watch sat sipping barley tea. A tiny television buzzed in the background, playing a re-run of* “*Jeon Won Diary.”

Y/N stepped up to the counter, notebook in hand.

“Excuse me—”

The man looked up slowly, like it pained him to move.

“You’re not from here.”

She blinked.

He gestured at her coat, her clean shoes, the way she was standing like she expected the world to make sense.

“You look like Seoul. Daesun doesn’t like Seoul.”

She forced a smile. “I’m just here for research.”

He grunted. Then leaned sideways and shouted out the window—

“MAP GUY! GOT A LOST ONE!”

.

Five minutes later, a man shuffled in with a rolled-up sheet of paper under his arm and a mysterious limp that no one asked about. He wore a fisherman’s hat, mismatched socks, and a suspiciously clean jacket. He smelled like ginseng and menthol.

He slammed the paper on the table.

“Official Map of Daesun City, updated in 1989!”

He paused. Then added, “More or less.”

Y/N blinked at it.

It was hand-drawn. In pen. With uneven arrows and small scribbled notes like “beware of dog (probably dead now)”and “don’t trust the tofu lady past dusk.”

“…Is this a joke?”

Map Guy beamed. “That’ll be 200 won.”

She paid.

Regretted it instantly.

.

.

Twenty minutes later…

She stood in the middle of a narrow street where three alleys forked into seven, all with the same name: “Beomcheong 2-gil.” A bicycle brushed past her. A dog barked. Somewhere, a child screamed “mom he’s stealing the fish again!”

She unfolded the map again.

Still no help.

“How is everything labeled ‘left of the fish shop’? There are five fish shops!”

She turned in a slow circle, muttering.

She sighed, dragging her duffel behind her.

“This thesis better win a damn award.”

.

.

.

The map was useless.

And now it was flapping like a wounded bird in the wind as Y/N fought to keep it open.

“Left from the train station, turn at the second fish market, go until you see a laundry line with red socks…?” she muttered, squinting.

Which socks? Everyone had socks.

Everyone had fish.

Everyone had alleys.

And every alley looked like it hadn’t seen sunlight since 1974.

She turned around again, almost walking into a bamboo broom propped against a wall.

A voice hit her from somewhere below.

“You’re gonna die if you keep walking in circles like that.”

Y/N blinked. Looked down.

A kid stood there, maybe nine or ten.

Ragged cap. Mismatched slippers. Popsicle stick in his mouth like he was some mafia boss in training.

She blinked again. “Excuse me?”

He looked her up and down like she was a walking embarrassment.

“You from Seoul?” he asked, like it was a slur.

“…Yes?”

“Figures. You look like someone who ironed their socks.”

“I did not iron my—why are you even—?”

“And you talk weird. Like a teacher. Or a tax office.”

She exhaled sharply. “Okay, listen—”

“Also you’re holding the map upside down.”

“…What?”

He rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. Then snatched the paper from her hand and flipped it around with a dramatic sigh.

“There. North is that way. You’re walking straight into the market dumpsters, not the residential side.”

She blinked again, heat creeping up her neck.

“…I see.”

The kid clicked his tongue and started walking away.

“Wait! Can you show me the way to this address?”

She held out a slip of paper. He glanced at it, then made a face.

“That’s past the billiards bar. Near the boss’s place.”

“Boss?”

He paused. Then smiled — wide and wicked.

“You’ll see.”

And then—

“Jin-ho! Don’t be rude to strangers!”

A shout cracked the air. A second later, an old woman appeared from between hanging laundry and fish crates like some mythical boss of the block.

Tiny. Wrinkled. Curlers still in her hair.

But the way everyone else moved out of her way made it very clear:

She ran this street.

The kid — apparently Jin-ho — immediately dropped the attitude. “I was just helping her, halmeoni.”

The halmeoni didn’t buy it.

She walked up to Y/N, squinting through her thick glasses.

“You lost? You look lost. You smell lost.”

Y/N smiled nervously. “A little. I’m looking for this address.”

She handed her the slip. The halmeoni glanced at it once.

“Ah. Near the billiards bar. Yoongi’s side of the neighborhood.”

“…Yoongi?”

“Tch. That rascal. Always smoking and scaring people. Don’t worry, he’s only dangerous on Thursdays.”

“…It’s Thursday.”

“Oh. Then walk fast.”

She turned on her heel and shouted, “Come! I’ll show you the shortcut.”

Y/N hurried after her, map crumpled in hand, while Jin-ho trailed behind chewing a second popsicle like he was watching a comedy show.

“You gonna write a book or something?” the kid asked, eyeing her from behind a lollipop stick like he already didn’t like her.

“A thesis,” she corrected, dragging her duffel up another step.

“A what?” He made a face. “Is that like a diary but for smart people?”

“It’s a… research paper,” she tried. “For university. I’m studying how local systems—like, informal power structures—affect—”

Jin-ho blinked. “So… a book.”

She gave up. “Yeah. Sure. A book.”

He snorted. “Thought so.”

The halmeoni looked back. “You from Seoul?”

“Yes.”

She clucked. “Tch. Don’t worry, child. You’ll toughen up. Everyone does in Daesun. Or they leave.”

They turned down a winding alley where wires tangled like vines above their heads.

Y/N’s duffel bumped against her hip.

She glanced around, the air thick with city grit, soy sauce, and storm clouds.

Welcome to Daesun, she thought grimly.

Where even the grandmas are terrifying.

___

“Here,” halmeoni said, pointing at a half-rusted board nailed to a crooked wall.

A fresh coat of red spray paint read:

‘Daesun Community Outreach / Local Affairs Center’

(spray-painted right over the faded letters: “Pool Hall – No Kids Allowed”)

Y/N blinked. “…This is a community center?”

Jin-ho shrugged. “Used to be a pool hall. Still is, if you bribe the ajusshi with ramyeon.”

Inside, the air smelled of old soju, sandalwood, and something distinctly illegal.

Three men sat at a cracked vinyl table playing Go-Stop.

One of them looked up at her. “You the student?”

“I—yes?”

He pointed at a folding chair. “Sit.”

She did. A notepad was slapped down in front of her. Jin-ho leaned on the desk like a detective’s assistant.

“Name. Reason for visit. And what you’re really doing here.”

“I… I’m just here for research,” she said slowly, “for my thesis.”

“Thesis about what?” one man asked, side-eyeing her over his reading glasses.

She opened her mouth, tried to sound confident. Failed.

“…Informal power systems in regional city spaces.”

Silence.

“…Gang sociology in slum zones.”

Still silence.

“…Basically how gangs and local economies… kind of… coexist?”

A longer silence.

Then—

“She’s a cop.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“She’s worse. She’s a writer.”

“I’m not—! It’s academic!”

Jin-ho snorted. “You gonna write about Yoongi-hyung?”

“I don’t even know who that is.”

The men exchanged glances.

“You will,” one muttered.

She sighed. “Look, I’m not here to make trouble. I just want to observe—quietly. Interview locals. Maybe understand how a place like this works.”

A moment passed.

Halmeoni poured her a cup of barley tea.

“…You’re not gonna last a week,” she said kindly.

___

Outside, she unfurled her map again.

Halmeoni took it and drew on it with a lipstick from her sleeve. “Here’s your room. Old Housing Alley. Daldongne.”

She circled a cluster of rooftops.

“Up here’s the Street Market. Don’t get overcharged for hotteok. You’ll cry.”

Another mark.

“This? The Rust Zone.”

She jabbed at the bottom edge. “Factories. Don’t go alone. Unless you wanna disappear.”

“And here—” Jin-ho jumped in, pointing to a red X near a meat skewer icon, “—this is Gogi Club. Don’t go there either. Yoongi-hyung’s place. He hates nosy types.”

“I’m not nosy.”

“You’re here with a notebook and no local dialect. That’s the nosiest thing possible.”

“Go home to Seoul,” one of the uncles grumbled.

Y/N inhaled deeply. “I’m staying.”

They all looked at her.

“…This Thesis thing must be worth a lot,” halmeoni muttered.

Y/N gave a dry smile. “God, I hope so.”

[End of Chapter]

The Goldfish Finds a Bowl (Barely)

금붕어는 겨우 어항을 찾았다

Y/N stood outside the rusted gate, duffel bag limp in her hand, staring up at the narrow building stacked like a pile of excuses — three crooked stories high, with exposed pipes that looked more decorative than functional.

A paper sign taped near the buzzer read:

“No fighting after 10PM unless it’s justified. No ghosts allowed (unless you pay rent).”

She squinted.

“…Okay.”

A buzzer rang somewhere far too late. Then the gate creaked open with a groan like it hadn’t been touched since the Japanese occupation.

Inside, the stairwell smelled like dried squid, mildew, and something vaguely medicinal.

She coughed.

Third floor. Room 3B. Halmeoni had scribbled it in lipstick on her now-crumpled map.

Each step groaned like a personal complaint. When she reached the landing, she paused to catch her breath — and nearly screamed when a door slammed open in front of her.

A woman stood there.

Tiny. Curled hair. Wearing house slippers and a cardigan that looked like it had survived multiple wars.

In one hand: a ladle.

In the other: a rolled-up newspaper.

She blinked at Y/N. “Seoul girl?”

“…Yes?”

The woman sniffed. “You smell like hand sanitizer and regret. I like it.”

Y/N offered a weak smile. “You must be the landlady?”

“I must be a lot of things,” she replied cryptically. “But sure. Call me Mrs. Kang. Or just Ajumma Kang if you’re not trying to impress me.”

She squinted harder. “You’re taller than I expected.”

“…Sorry?”

“Don’t apologize. Just means you’ll bang your head on the water heater. Builds character.”

Y/N blinked. “The what?”

“Come on. I’ll show you your cage.”

___

Room 3B

The room looked… haunted. Not by ghosts. But by choices.

The walls were yellowed like old newspaper. The ceiling fan wobbled like it owed someone money. A calendar from 1987hung behind the door with a single cat sticker placed over what must have been someone’s death anniversary.

There was a small cot. A metal desk. A kettle that growled when she plugged it in. And a cupboard that leaned like it had secrets.

“Oh,” Y/N breathed.

Mrs. Kang beamed proudly. “Cosy, right?”

“It’s… something.”

“Hot water’s only on between 5 and 7. Morning or evening. Never both. Pipes get shy.”

“…Got it.”

“And the light flickers if you use the kettle and the fan at the same time. That’s just Daesun saying hi.”

Y/N set her duffel down and looked around. “This room smells like…”

“History,” Mrs. Kang said immediately. Then added, “Also the last girl dried fish in the window. Didn’t air out well.”

Y/N tried to open the window. It squealed open an inch and stuck.

“You’ll get used to it,” Mrs. Kang said kindly. “Or you’ll move out. Either way, I still get rent.”

She patted Y/N’s shoulder and handed her a worn-out extra blanket.

“Oh — and don’t worry about the mice. They’re part of the lease.”

“…What?”

“Only two of them. Probably.”

She turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.

“And if you hear someone crying in the walls, ignore it. That’s just Room 3A.”

Y/N stared. “Room 3A is empty.”

“Exactly.”

Then she disappeared, humming an old trot song.

___

Y/N sank down onto the cot, groaning as the springs whined beneath her.

This was her life now. This room. This smell. This probably-haunted building.

She pulled out her notebook. Stared at the blank page.

Field Notes: Daesun, Day One.

She wrote:

- Train screamed at me.

- Map is a lie.

- Local child is a menace.

- Grandmas have gangs.

- Room smells like haunted squid.

- Landlady might be ex-KGB.

She sighed and added:

- Staying anyway.

From somewhere outside, someone yelled, “Who stole the kimchi fridge?!”

She didn’t even blink.

___

The ceiling leaked.

Not dramatically. Just enough to say, “Hey. You thought you’d sleep? How cute.”

Y/N lay in her stiff, unfamiliar bed, staring at a patch of water-stained plaster the shape of a horse. Or a squid. Or maybe a squid riding a horse. The mattress creaked every time she breathed, the sheets smelled faintly of soy sauce, and something in the wall was clicking like it had a nervous tic.

She had given up around 8:43 p.m. last night. Dropped her duffel, kicked off her boots, and passed out fully clothed. Too tired to unpack. Too defeated to even eat.

Now, it was morning.

Bright, overly ambitious morning. The kind that slapped you in the face with a sunbeam and dared you to have hope.

She sat up groggily.

She didn’t want to get up.

But she did.

Somewhere between the distant yelling of street vendors and the sound of mopeds screeching past her window, Y/N forced herself out of bed. No grand motivation. Just the quiet guilt of having done nothing yesterday.

She washed her face, stuffed her notebook into her tote, and bought a skewer and a cold barley tea from a corner cart that smelled like grease and memories.

Today, she was going to get answers.

___

The market alley was awake. Loud. Messy. Glorious. Banners flapping in the wind. Sellers yelling prices that changed depending on how confused you looked.

Y/N stood beside a pile of radishes, holding her notebook like a shield. “Excuse me, I’m doing a research project on—”

“You a cop?”

She blinked. “No.”

“You sure? You look like a cop. Got that clean face and government shoes.”

“I—I’m not. I’m a student.”

“Mmm.” The vendor squinted. “That’s what they always say before they write some exposé and get everyone shut down.”

“I’m not writing an exposé, I promise—”

“What school?”

“Eunha Women’s University, Seoul campus—”

“Ah-ha! Seoul! I knew it!”

He turned to the woman beside him. “Didn’t I say she was from Seoul? Look at that handwriting. That’s Seoul handwriting.”

Y/N stared down at her notes.

“What does that even mean?!”

___

Five Interviews Later:

Someone asked if she was married.

Then asked again. Then tried to set her up with their cousin’s son who was “just getting out of prison, but only for petty theft.”

Jin-ho had shown up by then, uninvited, holding a stick of sugar cane like a sword.

“She’s writing a book,” he explained loudly to every vendor, “about gangs and money and why she talks funny.”

“It’s not a book,” she muttered, “it’s a thesis.”

“Same thing. Just less interesting.”

She glared. “Go home.”

“I am home. You’re in my street.”

About Yoongi:

The moment she said the name, everyone reacted like she’d mentioned a ghost.

“Oh, that boy,” said one ajumma, dramatically fanning herself. “He once cut off a man’s hand. Right there, by the squid tank.”

“What? Why?”

“He sneezed wrong.”

“…You’re joking.”

“Am I?”

A minute later, someone else leaned over her shoulder and whispered, “Don’t believe her. Yoongi’s a softie. Feeds stray cats behind the skewer stand. Talks to them like they’re his kids.”

Two stalls later:

“He used to be a church boy. Sang in the choir. Real angelic.”

Next breath—

“He was a hitman for a while.”

“What?!”

“Or maybe he just looks like one.”

At one point, someone asked if she was writing the book on Yoongi to get revenge. Revenge for what? They didn’t say.

One man even claimed Yoongi had died five years ago and was haunting the alley as a protective spirit.

And then sold her roasted chestnuts.

Y/N pressed her fingers to her temple. “Okay, so… who actually knows him?”

Silence.

Jin-ho crunched his sugar cane, eyes full of mirth.

“You thought this would be easy?”

“I thought it would be logical.”

“This is Daesun,” he said, walking backwards in front of her, arms wide. “Logic left this place in the 80s. Probably moved to Busan.”

She closed her notebook slowly.

Then opened it again.

Then closed it harder.

“…I hate this place.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Jin-ho chirped. “Or you’ll leave. Everyone does one or the other.”

___

By evening, she was somewhere between tears and total shutdown.

The streetlights flickered on, buzzing faintly like they, too, were too tired to keep going. Her tote bag hung limp at her side, the notebook inside full of scribbles and bullshit.

Every story was a contradiction. Every answer raised more questions. And here she was — tired, foreign, alone — with absolutely nothing solid to show for it.

She bit her lip to stop it from trembling.

“I made a mistake coming here,” she whispered to herself. “I should’ve picked a normal thesis. Rural farming. Textbook piracy. Literally anything but this.”

A slow voice cut through her spiral.

“You cryin’?”

She looked up to find Jin-ho standing nearby, holding two paper trays of food.

She swiped at her eyes. “No.”

“Good. Because I didn’t buy you sad-girl tteokbokki. I bought legendary tteokbokki.”

He dropped down beside her on the curb, near the edge of the train tracks. The occasional low rumble of passing freight cars filled the silence between them. He handed her one of the trays.

The first bite nearly burned her tongue off.

“Holy—this is spicy.”

Jin-ho grinned. “Told you. You eat enough, sadness can’t survive.”

She laughed through the heat, wiping her nose. “That your philosophy?”

“Pretty much.”

They sat like that for a while — biting into skewers of grilled squid, blowing on hot rice cakes, watching the city flicker beyond the tracks. The world felt a little slower here. A little less cruel.

And then, without being asked, Jin-ho spoke.

“My brother ran away. Two years ago.”

She paused mid-bite. “…You have a brother?”

“Had.” He didn’t say it sadly. Just fact. “Mom’s still waiting. But I know he’s not coming back.”

Y/N didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t need to.

Jin-ho looked at her, the corners of his mouth finally losing their usual smirk.

“Yoongi-hyung looked out for me after that. Gave me deliveries. Made sure I ate. Even beat up a guy who tried to mug me once.”

Y/N blinked. “Yoongi?”

He nodded. “He’s not what people say. He just… doesn’t want to be known.”

There it was.

The first honest thing anyone had said all day.

She stared out across the tracks, the streetlights catching the edge of her face.

“…Thank you,” she said softly.

Jin-ho shrugged. “You’re weird, you know. But not the bad kind.”

Then, casually, he added, “Also, you’re paying. I, uh… sort of just ordered and walked away.”

Y/N blinked. “You what?”

He gave a sheepish grin. “Halmeoni’s probably yelling at the wind right now.”

She let out a breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh — real, warm, grateful.

For the first time that day, the weight on her chest eased.

“Fine,” she said, standing. “But only because you made me laugh.”

Jin-ho grinned wider. “See? Told you. Legendary tteokbokki.”

___

Later that night, she opened her notebook again. The pages were still messy, full of crossed-out lines and dead-end theories.

She flipped to the first page and looked at it carefully.

Words scratched out violently.

Arrows that led nowhere.

Circles around lies.

Until finally, only one word remained.

Not even a full sentence. Just a name.

Yoongi.

Everything else had been erased.

She stared at it, then shut the notebook quietly.

She’d leave her sadness in the bin.

Tomorrow, she would start again — not with theories, but with truth.

Whatever that turned out to be.

[End of Chapter]