No one's girl: The price of a daughter

Chapter 2 - Fire Exit

The fluorescent lights inside the convenience store buzzed overhead, sterile and humming like they could hear my thoughts. I stood by the instant noodles, dripping rainwater onto the linoleum floor, pretending to browse. Pretending to belong.

My heart hadn't stopped racing since I'd landed in the mud. Since the voice downstairs said:

"He paid a fortune to have her."

He.

Who?

The question rang louder than any answer could. Who had wanted me so badly he paid for me? Who thought I was something to own?

My father... he must've arranged it. But who was waiting on the other end?

I clenched my fists. If I thought too long about it, I'd collapse. So I didn't. I moved.

I waited until the cashier turned her back, then slipped toward the restroom in the corner. I locked the door behind me, pushed my hair out of my face, and looked in the mirror.

The girl staring back wasn't me. Her lips were pale, cut in one corner. Her eyes were wide and glassy. Her clothes stick to her skin like it didn't want to let her go.

I stripped out of it anyway.

My backpack had one spare outfit—sweatpants and an old hoodie I wore to cram schools. I changed quickly, stuffed the soaked uniform into the trash, and tugged the hoodie low over my head. My school name was still stitched on the sleeve. I tore at the thread with my teeth until the letters came loose.

I couldn't risk being recognized. Not even by a stitch of fabric.

Back in the store, I grabbed a can of warm coffee and walked to the counter like I wasn't trembling.

The cashier didn't ask questions. She scanned the can and gave a half-bored nod. I left a few coins on the tray and walked back into the night, the drizzle misting my face like cold breath.

I didn't have time to find a hotel. I couldn't risk credit cards. He monitored everything. He always did.

Whoever he was.

My only chance was the old phone—a beat-up flip model I kept in the bottom of my art box, hidden under layers of sketches and graphite. It had no SIM card. Just Wi-Fi. I used it once when I wanted to send a drawing to my brother and didn't want Appa to trace it.

I pulled it out behind the store, sheltering under a metal overhang. My fingers were stiff with cold, and it took three tries to remember the password.

I connected to the store's public Wi-Fi.

No notifications. No new messages. No battery. 12%. Just enough.

I opened the old chat. His name glowed on the screen like a ghost:

송호 오빠 (Song-Ho)

Last seen 2 months ago

I typed:

-Appa sold me.

I ran.

I need you.

I pressed send.

Nothing.

I waited.

Nothing.

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned.

Please, please, please...

Then, three dots appeared.

Typing.

I held my breath so hard I felt lightheaded

Typing.

-...What?

-What do you mean, sold you?

-Are you safe?

I could hardly breathe.

-Two men came. Japanese. Said someone paid for me.

They were inside the house.

I ran. I'm in Seoul. I don't know what to do.

-Where are you?

I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling over the keys.

-Near a GS25. Not far from Incheon.

-Listen to me.

Don't go back. Don't call anyone.

You still have your passport?

-Yes.

-Find the earliest flight to Moscow. Use cash only. Don't use cards.

If anyone asks, you're a tourist.

-But I have no plan. No place to stay. What if—

-Just come.

I'll be there.

I swear.

The tears came hard and fast, this time unprovoked. I curled against the cold brick wall, hugging the phone to my chest like it could hold me together. My brother hadn't spoken to me in years—but now he replied faster than my own heartbeat.

He believed me. He wanted me safe.

He still cared.

I stood up.

No motel. No stopping.

I headed toward the airport.

Incheon, 2 Hours Later

The line for tickets moved slowly. My hood stayed low. My body ached with every movement. My socks were wet. My eyes burned from tears and exhaustion. But I didn't stop.

When I reached the counter, I pushed the last of my emergency cash across the desk.

"Moscow. One ticket. One way."

The woman raised a brow, but said nothing. She tapped at her keyboard, printed the ticket.

The weight of it in my hand felt unreal. Like a weapon. Or a promise.

At the Gate

I sat at the edge of the terminal, watching the blinking lights of planes land and lift again. I hadn't eaten. My backpack dug into my spine, but I held it close. My fingers clutched the sketchbook inside like it was part of me.

The departure board blinked. The time ticked closer.

Somewhere in Moscow, my brother was waiting.

As they began boarding, I stood and whispered under my breath, one last quiet cry to the only one still watching: