Chapter One

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]

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