Chapter Text
The streets of Hanyang had no mercy for beggars.
By the time Jinu was ten, he had already memorized the posture of survival: knees pressed into cold stone, back bent so low his forehead scraped against the ground. His bones ached with the position, but it was safer this way. A bowed head invited pity. An upright one invited anger.
He learned to keep his palms open, wide, trembling with hunger. Fingers curled too tightly made him look greedy. Outstretched and shaking, they made him look pitiful. Pitiful earned coins. Sometimes.
The stones beneath him were never kind. They were chipped and jagged from years of cart wheels cutting grooves into them, from horses stamping their hooves until the ground broke. Each day, Jinu’s skin tore again in the same places, the wounds unable to heal before new ones opened. Thin trails of blood trickled from his brow, slipping into his lashes until his world blurred red. He dared not lift a hand to wipe them away. He dared not move.
He did not lift his head either, not even when the copper tang of iron filled his mouth. He had seen what happened to beggars who looked too high, too proud. A glance at the wrong person’s eyes was enough to invite a beating, or worse, being dragged away by guards who enjoyed their work too much. Jinu had learned to press his face into the dirt and keep it there, as though the ground itself might hide him.
Sometimes—on days when fortune had not completely turned against him—he would hear it: the sharp, miraculous clink of copper landing in his palm. A sound as heavy as salvation, the promise of rice, of broth, of one more day, his mother and sister would not starve. Those moments were rare, but when they came, his tiny chest swelled with a flicker of relief.
More often, the sound that met him was spit.
Hot, wet, landing on the stone beside his cheek.
Once, a guard stopped before him, his shadow falling like a blade over Jinu’s small frame. The leather of his boots creaked as he shifted, looming. Jinu held his breath, every muscle taut with hope and fear. He prayed—not to gods, for the gods had never answered—but to chance itself. Maybe today, the guard would toss him a coin.
The man spat, the glob splattering against the dirt where Jinu’s face nearly touched it.
“Move, rat.”
The boot came down hard, slamming into Jinu’s ribs. Not hard enough to kill—never that, death was too merciful—but hard enough to bruise deep, hard enough to make breath rattle in his chest. Hard enough to remind the boy of his place.
The world tilted with the force of the kick, pain blooming sharp and hot in his side. His small palms pressed harder into the ground, fingers clawing the dirt, but he did not rise. He dared not.
Jinu swallowed his cry, forcing it down his throat until it was acid in his chest. His body screamed to curl, to protect the hurt, but he stayed bent.
Because rising only meant another blow.
Remaining bowed, no matter how much it hurt, meant there was still a chance.
A chance for coins. An opportunity for food. A chance for his family to live one more day.
Nobles were crueler still.
One afternoon, the market street fell quiet around him, as if the air itself held its breath. Hooves clicked sharply against the stone. The crowd parted, heads bowed in shallow reverence, and Jinu knew even before he lifted his eyes that someone important was passing.
A nobleman in fine silk robes slowed his horse where Jinu knelt in the dust. The animal snorted, tossing its head, its hooves dangerously close to Jinu’s bent hands. The boy dared to lift his gaze — just barely — and in that split second, hope bloomed in his chest like a fragile flame. Nobles had wealth enough to waste. Surely a coin from him would mean food. For a whole night, his mother and sister could sleep without coughing themselves raw.
His lips parted, ready to thank before the coin even touched his palm.
The noble’s smile curved sharply, cutting. Mockery glittered in his eyes as he rolled a coin between his fingers — bright, heavy, salvation itself. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed it.
Not into Jinu’s waiting hands.
But into a dark patch of horse piss pooled in the street.
“Fetch, dog,” the noble murmured, his voice soft but slicing. Behind him, his companions laughed, their fine sleeves fluttering like wings, their teeth bright with cruelty.
Jinu’s breath caught. His chest tightened with shame, with rage, with something that screamed inside him to refuse . To keep his forehead pressed to the stone, to let the coin rot in filth rather than sink lower than he already had.
But pride did not feed his family.
Before his heart could protest, his body began to move. On all fours, he scrambled forward, palms slapping through the puddle, the stench of waste rising sharply into his nose. His rags clung wet to his knees. The water was cold, slimy, soaking into him until it felt like it had entered his bones. His fingernails scraped against stone, desperate, frantic, until they finally closed around the coin.
He clutched it to his chest with both hands, shaking, his breath ragged. It was warm from the sun, slick with filth, but heavy. Heavy enough to mean his sister would eat.
Above him, the noble laughed. It was not the laughter of mirth, but of triumph — the kind that delighted in another’s crawl.
“Look at him,” the man drawled, turning his horse with a casual tug of the reins. “Even dogs have more dignity.”
The words struck harder than the guard’s boot ever had. They sank into Jinu’s ribs, into his marrow, hollowing him out from the inside. He wanted to scream that he was not a dog, not filth, not nothing. He wanted to hurl the coin back into the man’s face, even if it killed him.
But he did not.
Because his sister’s face burned in his mind — hollow cheeks, cracked lips, the way she whispered “Oppa, I’m hungry ” in the dark.
So Jinu bowed lower, forehead pressed into the wet stone, until humiliation was all he could taste. His silence was the only shield he had left. And it was silence that let him crawl away with the coin still clutched to his chest.
When he staggered down the alley, his ribs aching, the stench clinging to his skin, he whispered to himself through chattering teeth:
“Crawling is not living. But crawling means she lives.”
And the boy crawled because crawling meant surviving.
On rare good days, he managed enough for a fist-sized rice cake.
It was never more than one, and never more than a palmful of sticky white. But when the coin was warm in his hand and the vendor grudgingly tossed him a flattened cake, Jinu clutched it like a treasure. He hid it inside his rags, pressing it tight against his chest as though his heartbeat might protect it.
The walk home became torture then — every step a gauntlet. His eyes darted constantly, searching for older boys, for the quick shadows of urchins lurking in alleys. They were always waiting, always hungry. A rice cake was more precious than gold in their world, and a moment of carelessness could see it stolen from his hands.
His heart hammered so hard it drowned out the city noise. When feet approached too close, he shrank into doorways, holding the cake tighter. The smell clung to him, sweet and yeasty, tormenting him. His stomach clenched with spasms, saliva flooding his mouth until he nearly gagged.
He never took a bite. Not even when he thought he might faint.
That single cake was for his mother. For his sister. For the only two faces that mattered.
But there were more bad days than good.
Days when no coin landed in his palm, no vendor looked twice, no mercy was thrown his way. On those days, his open hands stayed empty until dusk, trembling with cold, trembling with weakness.
On those days, his search ended in the alleys.
The dogs were always there first, their ribs jutting out sharp under mangy fur, their eyes wild with the same madness that churned in his belly. They snarled at him, lips pulled back from yellowed teeth, guarding their prize — a bone slick with grease, the last shred of meat clinging to it.
Jinu didn’t hesitate. Hunger made him savage.
He lunged, bare hands against snapping jaws, clawing at the bone. The dogs bit and tore, teeth sinking into his wrist, ripping flesh until hot blood ran down his arm. His scream stuck in his throat, more fury than pain, and he bit back. He bit at fur, at skin, at anything he could reach. He clawed until his fingernails tore.
When at last he wrenched the bone free, staggering back with it clutched in both hands, he felt no triumph — only trembling relief. He stumbled through the alley, blood dripping from his arm, the greasy bone pressed tight against his chest.
An old woman passed, balancing firewood across her back. Her eyes flicked toward him — the small boy, filthy, bloodied, clutching a gnawed bone like a king might hold a sword. She stopped, made the sign of warding with her fingers, and muttered low:
“Pitiful creature. Like a ghost already.”
Jinu’s throat burned. His cracked lips parted, words pressing against them. I’m not a ghost. I’m alive. I’m fighting.
But no sound came. His tongue was dry, his throat parched, every part of him too empty to carry a voice.
So he said nothing.
He only staggered on, clutching his prize tighter, faster, until the alley spat him back into the roar of the market — alive, for one more day.
He grew sharper as he grew older, not because the world gave him wisdom, but because it gave him no other choice. Hunger had once made him weep, curling against his mother’s frail body in the dark, whispering that it hurt too much. But tears were wasted. They did not fill his belly. They did not keep his sister from coughing herself hoarse at night. Hunger had to be carried like a second heart, beating alongside his own.
And so he learned.
The market became his teacher, and he memorized every lesson with his body. He studied the way people moved, the twitch of a mouth, the tired sag of a shoulder. Mercy, he discovered, was less about kindness and more about being in the right place at the right time.
One day, he forced his cracked lips into a grin and called out to the butcher’s wife, his voice pitched with a brightness that felt foreign in his mouth.
“Bu-in,” he said, bowing as low as his thin back allowed. “Your hair shines brighter than silk today.”
Her eyes narrowed, her lip curling as though the very sound of his voice dirtied the air. “Filthy boy,” she muttered, shaking her head. But vanity was a hunger of its own, and with a flick of her wrist, she tossed him a bone, the end still wet with scraps of meat.
Jinu dropped to his knees before she even turned away, pressing his forehead into the dirt until the stone scraped his skin. His whisper trembled as it left him.
“Thank you, Bu-in.”
The words tasted like ashes. He was not truly grateful. But gratitude costs nothing, and it bought him survival.
He learned to slip behind guards when their eyes strayed. To wait for the moment they grew careless with boredom, when the sun pressed too heavily on their armor and sweat dripped down their necks. Then, light as smoke, he would move.
A shriveled apple. A handful of bean sprouts left too long in the sun. A scrap of dried fish if fortune dared to favor him. He never took much. Only enough to quiet his belly for one more night.
But sometimes he was caught.
Once, a merchant’s shout cut through the crowd: “Thief!” A rough hand clamped onto his collar, jerking him back so hard the seams of his rags tore. Jinu’s feet scrambled against the stone, his breath choking in his throat.
The man’s face loomed above him, red with fury. “Think you can steal from me, gutter rat?”
The blow came fast, the merchant’s fist cracking against his cheek. Stars burst behind his eyes, and his knees buckled. He bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood but said nothing.
“Answer me!” the man barked, striking him again.
Jinu kept his silence. He had learned that apologies only sharpened their rage, that pleading made them strike again and again just to hear him beg. Tears gave them amusement, like watching a dog whimper. Silence, though—silence made them impatient.
“Not even worth the breath,” the merchant spat, finally shoving him into the dirt. “Next time, I’ll have the guards cut off your hands.”
Jinu lay still until the man’s footsteps faded. His face burned, blood seeping into his mouth, but his hand clutched the shriveled apple he had snatched before being caught. It was crushed, bruised, half-rotten—but it was his. He pushed himself up, staggering, and forced the sting in his eyes back down his throat.
The bruises never left long enough to fade before new ones bloomed. His body became a ledger of lessons carved in pain: the crescent bite of a dog on his arm, the welt of a guard’s staff across his back, the thin line of pottery shards when he’d fumbled stolen food.
At first, each wound made him cry. Now, they have only hardened him. He carried them like proof that he still lived.
Once, limping away from a beating with a crust of bread still in his fist, he caught his reflection in a puddle. The water rippled, distorting his face, but the boy staring back at him no longer looked like a child. His eyes were sharp, shadowed at the corners, his mouth pressed in a line that knew more silence than laughter. Whatever softness had been there was scraped away, left behind in the dirt with every coin he’d crawled after.
Pride was not for him. Pride was for sons of merchants who wore shoes that had never seen holes, for scholars whose hands never bled, for children who ate until they were full.
Jinu had only endurance. He had only the stubborn will to bow when he wanted to scream, to smile when his stomach twisted, to crawl when his body longed to stand.
Each year in poverty sharpened him sharper, until he was a blade ground against stone: thin, hardened, dangerous only in how long he could survive. He was not soft anymore. He was not hopeful. But he endured.
And every evening, no matter how bloody, no matter how hollow his belly remained, Jinu carried something back to the shack on the outskirts of the city. A coin. A crust. A bone stripped nearly bare. Sometimes, it's only a handful of shriveled bean sprouts or the peel of an apple thrown into the gutter. To others, they were scraps unfit for dogs. To Jinu, they were treasures—offerings brought home like victories.
The shack leaned as though tired of standing, its thatched roof sagging beneath snow or rain, its walls patched with rags stuffed into the gaps where the wind clawed through. Smoke from neighbors’ fires drifted in faintly, mocking them with scents of meals they could never afford. Inside, the air smelled of mildew, damp earth, and sickness. Yet this broken place was his kingdom, for it was where the two faces that tethered him to life waited.
His mother lay in the dim corner, her frame sunken into thin bedding, her skin pale as parchment. Her lips cracked with dryness, her eyes hollow and ringed in shadows. The cough never left her now, wet and rattling, shaking her chest until it seemed her bones might snap. Each time, she lifted a rag to her mouth, pressing hard to hide the sound. The cloth came away speckled with red, and she folded it quickly as if to hide evidence of her failing body. She tried to smile at him when he entered, but her smile only deepened the lines of sorrow etched into her face.
Jinu never said a word. He saw. He always saw.
But his sister was different.
Frail and bird-boned, her wrists no thicker than twigs, her hair dull and tangled from hunger—yet she laughed. Somehow, she still laughed. She would spin barefoot across the uneven floorboards, holding up the scraps of cloth Jinu scavenged for her as if they were silks. She draped them over her shoulders, made-believe ribbons and gowns.
“Look, oppa!” she said one evening, her small voice bright against the gloom. She twirled clumsily, almost falling as her thin legs stumbled. “I’m wearing a princess’s hanbok!”
Her giggles filled the shack like temple bells, clear and startling in their purity, cutting through the stench of mildew and smoke. For a moment, the ruin of their lives disappeared. For a moment, they were not beggars’ children. She was a princess. And he—he was someone who could give her that dream, if only for a heartbeat.
Jinu stood in the doorway, his body aching, his clothes stiff with dried blood and filth from the market, but his chest ached with something dangerously close to warmth. For her, he would crawl. For her, he would bleed, be beaten, spat upon, mocked, reduced to something less than a dog. If she could laugh and smile, then his suffering would have meaning.
And when she saw him, she forgot the game of princesses and rushed into his arms, her thin body clinging tight around his neck. “Oppa!” she cried, her breathless excitement evident. “Did you bring food?”
He pressed whatever prize he had wrestled from the streets into her hands as though it were gold—a bruised pear, a crust of bread, sometimes nothing more than a bone scraped clean but still carrying the smell of meat. He made it seem precious, his hands cupping hers carefully, reverently, as though he was placing jewels there.
“Yes,” he whispered, his voice breaking with tenderness and shame. “Always.”
He could not let her see the truth. She could not know that some days he came home with nothing. On some days, the coin he clutched was not enough to buy even the smallest grain of rice. That some days his vow was written not in triumph, but in blood, in humiliation, in emptiness. That some days, when the market stones pressed too hard against his knees, when the guards’ boots left him gasping, he wanted to collapse where he lay and never rise again.
But he always rose.
He always crawled.
Because love demanded it.
And for them—his mother fading, his sister still laughing—he would let the world break him a thousand times more.