​I see the girl in blue every day, but today, she wasn’t holding the pink popsicle or the warm hot dog. Today, she had toffees.

​They were wrapped in bright, crinkling foil—red and gold and green. She had a whole handful of them, unwrapping them with tiny, quick movements, popping them into her mouth one after the other. It was a careless, endless supply of sweetness.

​Toffees.

​The word feels like a memory tucked away deep in my chest. When my mother was alive, before the cough took her away, a toffee was the only thing she could ever manage to give me. It was never a meal. It was just a small, precious moment of not-pain. A toffee means a minute of warmth and the taste of something beautiful.

​Now, a single toffee from the shop near the bridge costs as much as half a loaf of bread. Mina-noona and I can’t afford beauty. We need the bread.

​But watching the girl today, with her mountain of colors, the small, desperate desire in my stomach was louder than the large, empty ache of hunger. I forgot all about the money, the cars, and the black glasses. I forgot I was supposed to be blind.

​I stood up, holding my breath.

​I walked toward her. I stumbled a little because the glasses were still on, but I kept going. I didn't want the money in her mother’s handbag. I didn't want the clean clothes. I only wanted the one small, precious, crinkling thing.

​I got close. Close enough to smell the sugar and the clean air around her.

​"Miss," I whispered, the word thin and shaky. "Just one. Please. Just one of the..."

​Before I could finish the word 'toffees,' a shadow fell over me. It was the girl’s mother.

​She didn't look down at me; she looked through me, her face hard and annoyed, like I was a broken piece of furniture blocking her path.

​She didn't speak. She just reacted. Her shiny leather shoe swung out and hit me sharply in the stomach. It wasn't a strong, angry kick like my Father’s, but it was enough to make me gasp and double over. The coldness of the act hurt more than the pain in my gut.

​I fell back onto the pavement, clutching my stomach. The black glasses flew off and landed in the dirt.

The girl stopped licking her toffee. Her big eyes turned from the treat to me, then to her mother.

​"Eomma, what was that boy saying?" she asked, her voice high and clear, like a little bell.

​Her mother pulled her quickly by the shoulder, steering her away from me, towards the cleaner side of the bridge.

​"Nothing, my dear. Nothing important," the mother said, her voice loud and crisp. She glanced back at me, a flash of pure disdain in her eyes, before turning back to her daughter. "These are just some poor, lazy lads who know nothing but to eat off of the hard-earned money of others. They don't want to work, they just freeload."

​I heard every word. They were big words, heavy and unfamiliar.

​"The Government spends so much of our tax money on them, giving them free food and subsidies," she continued, dragging her daughter along. "God knows why they still beg. It's truly a disgrace to the city's image."

​I lay there, curled up, still breathing raggedly from the kick. The pain was dulling, but the new, big words had opened a confusing hole in my head.

​Free food? When? Where? Mina-noona and I share half a packet of ramen noodles if we are lucky. We sleep on stone. Who is giving us free food? I think about the dogs that sometimes get scraps from the street vendors, and I wonder if she meant us to be dogs.

​Subsidies. What does that mean? It sounds like a large, complicated curse.

My mind caught on to another word: Tax.

​I remembered the loaf of bread I bought this morning. It was wrapped in plastic. Mina-noona had made me check the price. It said: “300 won, inclusive of all taxes.”

​I only had 300 won.

​Mina-noona had whispered to me that tax was robbery. The Government takes it. If the tax is 100 won, then the bread should be 200 won.

​I did the simple math in my head, the only math that matters: 300 won minus 100 won equals 200 won.

​If the Government didn't rob me—if the tax wasn't there—I would have 100 more won left over.

​And 100 more won is exactly enough for half a piece of bread from the cheap bakery.

​The mother was talking about 'free food,' but my simple logic was clear: The Government steals my half-a-loaf of bread every day. They don’t give us food; they just take the few pennies we have to spend.

​I put a hand on my stomach, which was rumbling now, louder than the distant traffic. I felt the familiar, empty pain.

​I sighed. A long, sad sound that felt like it carried all the heat of the burning garbage.

​I am a terrible robber. I can’t even get a single toffee. The Government is so much better at it.

​Guess I'll have to live with only one loaf of bread today. And a stomach full of complicated, confusing hunger.

—

The morning after the toffee incident, when my stomach was still sore from the rich mother’s shoe, the garbage mound was buzzing with a strange, excited energy.

​“Don’t go to the bridge today, Kook-ah,” Minho warned me, his eyes wide. He wasn’t mocking me this time; he looked genuinely scared.

​“Why not? I got a lot of fifty-won coins there yesterday,” I said, adjusting the black glasses on my nose. I still preferred the money I got for pretending to be broken over the pennies I got for being honest.

​“A rich man’s car crashed there. A big, fast one. And the police are all over the place.”

​I had seen the car this morning. Its body was blackened, ugly, and crushed, like a beetle that had been stepped on. They were dragging it away on a flat truck.

​“The Police?” I asked. I knew that word, but only vaguely.

​Jae, the one who thinks his slum house is a castle, rolled his eyes. “You’re so dumb, Kook-ah. The police are the ones who put people in jail! They carry the big sticks. They are part of the Government, you idiot. They are supposed to protect the people. But mostly, they just protect the rich people.”

​Protect.

​My simple brain fixed on that word. If the Government protects the people, and the police are the Government, then surely they would protect me, too. What did I have to worry about? I hadn't done anything wrong, except for trying to beg for a toffee.

​"If they protect us," I reasoned simply, "then they will keep me safe while I sit there. I will go."

​Minho just shook his head and threw a rotten fruit at me. “Go on, then, you stupid beggar. Just don’t come crying when they arrest you for existing near a rich person’s accident.”

​I ignored him and walked away, clutching my rusty tin cup. My ambition for bread was always louder than their warnings.

​When I arrived at the bridge, the crash site was still marked by a stain on the asphalt and a strange, sweet, burnt smell. I sat down at my usual spot and put the black glasses back on.

​I looked at the part of the road where the ugly, black car had been. I didn't understand why anyone would want such a car.

​I spotted another beggar, an old man named Choi-ahjeossi, sitting nearby. I nudged him with my foot.

​“Ahjeossi, why was that car so expensive? The one that crashed?” I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed ahead, playing the blind role.

​He didn't open his eyes. “That was a Lamborghini, you fool. Faster than anything you’ll ever touch.”

​"But it was so small," I argued, genuinely confused. "It only had seats for two people. What if you have a family of four? Isn’t it stupid to make a car so expensive and so small? A small car cannot hold a big family."

​Choi-ahjeossi sighed, a dry, dismissive sound. “You wouldn’t understand, Kook-ah. It’s for speed. It's for showing off.”

​I thought about the big, long buses that rumble past us. “But isn’t it better to go in a bus? Everyone can sit there. It’s cheaper. You can even talk to others and make friends with the driver! If I was a robber, I would rob enough money to buy everyone a free bus ride, not one of those ugly, two-seater cars.”

​Choi-ahjeossi just mumbled, “Mind your own business, boy. You’ll be safer if you keep your eyes closed.”

​But my eyes were open behind the dark mask, and my brain was running.

Soon, two men in crisp, blue police uniforms arrived. They were carrying small notebooks and looking bored. They stood a few feet from me, right where the rich mother had kicked me yesterday.

​They started talking in hushed, annoyed voices, but the sound carried over the traffic noise. I didn't understand every word, but I caught the important ones.

​“...son of the builder, the politician’s boy. Idiot child,” one muttered.

​“The Commissioner is waiting for the money to settle it. Just do a fake inspection and wait. Act busy,” the other hissed. “Just wait until the politician feeds the Commissioner enough money to shut this whole thing up.”

​My twelve-year-old brain felt a deep, dizzying tilt. The police—the ones who protect—were waiting for money to do a fake job? This was confusing. I thought only Father did fake things, like pretending to quit drinking.

​Then, the first officer sighed heavily and looked around. His eyes swept over me. I sat still, perfectly still.

​“We need a story. There was a young beggar boy who died yesterday when the car hit the pillar. We should have that minor drunk politician’s boy in custody, but now what do we say? The politician is taking so long to pay, and now we have to make up a story about the arrest.”

​Dead boy. Arrest. Money.

​These were the sounds of the powerful world. They didn’t care that the car was ugly and wasteful. They cared about the money that fixed the blame and the lie that protected the rich boy. The Government, Mina-noona said, was a robber. And here were the robber’s employees, talking about how they fixed the law with copper and paper.

​I felt a coldness worse than the winter wind touch my skin. They didn't even care that a real boy, a beggar like me, had died. They only cared that they had to find a fake boy to take place of the real one who was probably driving another Lamborghini somewhere else.

​I turned back to Choi-ahjeossi.

​“Ahjeossi, the buses. I read on a piece of paper that the Government says bus rides are free.”

​He snorted. “Yes, they say a lot of pretty things.”

​“But when I try to get on the bus, the conductor always demands money. And if I don’t give it, he throws me out, right onto the hard road.”

​My voice was tight with this new, terrible question. My mind went back to the tax on the bread.

​“Why does the Government lie? The lady yesterday said they give us ‘free food’ and ‘subsidies,’ but they take my bread money with ‘tax’—which is robbery—and they say the bus is free, but they steal my little penny when I try to ride it. If they didn’t steal, I would have money for the bus and an extra half-loaf of bread!”

​I clenched my fists, staring blindly ahead. The world was too full of complex, clean-sounding lies that all meant the same thing: we starve.

​Choi-ahjeossi opened one eye, looked at the black glasses hiding mine, and then closed it again.

​“The only thing free from the Government, Kook-ah,” he said, his voice flat, “is the right to lie under a bridge.”

​I didn't ask any more questions. I just sat, clutching the precious, dirty coins in my cup. The police, the cars, the beautiful toffees, the clean girl—it was all one big, organized, impossible lie. And I was determined to become the biggest, smartest liar of all. The biggest robber. Because only robbers got to eat.

The police officers, the ones who had been talking about the "fake inspection," finally finished pretending to look at the ground. They needed to write things down in their little notebooks. They needed to make the big robbery look like a small rule.

​They walked toward me, their boots clicking loud and sharp on the pavement. I kept my head down, the black glasses fixed in place. I looked sad and broken, just as Minho taught me.

​The first officer stopped right in front of me. I could smell his strong soap and the fainter, metallic smell of the city.

​"You there," he said, and his voice was flat, like a dead fish. "The blind one. Did you hear anything last night?"

​I shook my head slowly, still playing the role. I kept my voice weak, thin, and small. "No, sir. I hear only the traffic and the rats, sir. Nothing else."

​He sighed, sounding bored. He reached into his pocket and dropped a handful of small coins—some ten-won, some fifty-won—into my rusty tin cup. They clattered loudly, a sound of cheap pity.

​"A good blind boy," he mumbled to his partner. "We'll write that he heard 'a loud bang' and nothing more. Let's go."

​But they were leaving. And they were leaving the truth behind. The words I’d heard—dead beggar, fake inspection, money to shut this up—were burning in my head.

​I had to ask. It was more important than the coins they'd just given me.

​"Sir," I called out, my voice slightly stronger than before. They stopped. "You are the police. You protect the people, right?"

​The officer turned back, frowning slightly. "Yes, kid. That's the job. What of it?"

​"That is why you are protecting the rich man, the one with the Lamborghini and the money," I said, putting the pieces together simply. "But what about the other man who died? The beggar? Didn't he need protection, too?"

​The two officers looked at each other, and then they laughed. It wasn't a kind laugh. It was a cold, sharp sound, like a rusty saw cutting through wood.

​"Who is going to pay me for that investigation, kid?" the first officer scoffed, resting a hand on his belt. "That was just a measly beggar. We don't get paid enough to deal with this shit. Better shut up and continue begging."

​Measly beggar. That meant small and worthless, like a scrap of paper that could be thrown away. I felt a familiar, terrible heat rising in my ears.

​Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two dark, familiar shapes approaching on the bridge. Minho and Jae. They must have come to see if I was in trouble, and they stopped dead when they saw me talking to the police.

​I ignored them. My mind was fixed on the officer's words.

​"But that's robbery!" I cried out, forgetting my small voice. I didn't care about the glasses or the act anymore. "The rich man must be the Government, so he has paid you with his money and made you protect him instead of the truth! My sister said the law is just a stick for the rich to beat us with!"

​The second officer stiffened. His face went hard and dangerous. "Watch your mouth, street trash. You think you know about the law?"

​I pushed on, driven by the dizzying injustice of the bread tax and the kick in my stomach. "If everyone knows you took money from the rich man to stop the truth, will the other policemen support you too? They will be angry at you for lying, won't they? Don't they hate the robbers?"

​My simple, innocent questions landed like stones. The officers were suddenly silent. They looked uncomfortable, cornered by a dirty boy in broken sunglasses. They were used to people being afraid, not asking questions about justice and payment.

​He grabbed my arm, wrenching me up. The second officer noticed Minho and Jae hovering nearby.

​"Be glad you are blind so I’m pitying you," he spat at me. Then he swung his gaze to my friends. "But you two, come here. You beggar friends, come here."

​Minho and Jae froze. They were terrified.

​"Do you know this kid?" the officer demanded.

​Minho stammered, his eyes darting frantically. "Y-yes, sir. But he’s not... he’s not what he says, sir!"

​Jae, desperate to save himself, pointed a trembling finger right at me. "He's not blind! He's just pretending to be blind to get extra money, sir! Take him, sir! We don't know him!"

​My secret—my small, pitiful attempt at a successful robbery—was out. The world tilted again. My friends had sold my lie to save their own skins. They fled, their footsteps slapping away quickly down the bridge.

​The officer's face turned purple with sudden rage. He had been tricked, not by a smart criminal, but by a twelve-year-old boy.

​"You lie and pretend to be blind and then loot others’ kindness?" he roared, pulling me roughly toward him. "You abuse the pity of good people? Come, I’ll teach you a lesson about real lies!"

​My body crumpled instantly, fear finally replacing hunger. I tried to pull away, babbling my innocent defense. "But my friends said it was how the big robbers get money! They said people give you more if you are broken! I was just trying to get enough money for a house, sir! And bread!"

​His hand met my cheek with a sickening crack. The world went white. I fell back against the cold concrete, the rusty tin cup flying out of my hand and tumbling down the embankment, its precious coins lost to the dirt once more.

​The lesson was learned: The biggest lie is that a poor boy can ever truly hide.

They didn’t ask me anything more. They just dragged me away. The big officer grabbed my arm so tight I thought my bone would snap. I stumbled behind them, trying to keep up, but my body felt heavy and slow, weighed down by the dirt and the hunger that was always there.

​I was shoved into a car that wasn’t one of the clean, silent ones, but it still smelled of stale cigarettes and authority. The door slammed shut with a terrible, final sound.

​I kept talking, begging, my voice thin and high like a frightened mouse. “Sir, I didn’t do anything! I don’t know who died! I don’t even know what a Lamborghini is! I was just sitting, trying to get money for bread! I promise, I won't pretend to be blind again!”

​My words were useless. They were just noise that filled the small space.

​When we arrived, it was a cold, grey building that smelled of damp concrete and old paper. They led me into a small, windowless room. The walls were scarred and dirty.

​The big officer, the one who had dropped the coins in my cup, was suddenly furious. His face was red, and his pride—the thing Mina-noona said rich people wear like a clean coat—was clearly damaged by my simple questions.

​“You little bastard,” he hissed, his voice trembling not with anger, but with shame. “You think you can play the blind fool and then lecture me about robbery? Who do you think you are, street rat?”

​He didn’t wait for an answer. He hit me.

​It wasn't a kick to the stomach like the rich mother's, which was quick and cold. This was heavy, solid punishment. It felt like a stone being slammed into my cheek. The world turned fuzzy and silent for a moment. I tasted salt and metal, and the pain exploded behind my eye.

​They were two of them, and they took turns. They didn’t use their sticks at first, just their hands, hitting me again and again until I fell to the cold, concrete floor. I curled up, trying to make myself as small as possible, trying to protect the place where the pain was worst.

​“This is your lesson for talking back to the law!” one officer yelled, his words sharp with rage.

​“You lie! You freeload off honest people’s pity! Now you will learn what it means to be punished!” the other one shouted, kicking my leg. A sharp, searing pain shot up my thigh. I screamed, a small, choked sound.

​They went on, thrashing me, hitting the soft, skinny places on my back and arms. The stick, when it finally came, left a burning trail across my skin, a painful memory that would last far longer than the memory of the sweet toffee. I was crying now, silent, desperate tears that just ran into the dirt on my face. My breath came in sharp, painful gasps.

​When they were finished, I couldn’t get up. My left eye felt swollen shut, and my right leg wouldn't move properly. I lay there, helpless and defeated, a mess of dirt and simple pain.

They didn't charge me with anything. They just dragged me, limping and half-blind, to a small, dark cell and threw me inside. The metallic door clanged shut, mocking my brokenness.

​I lay on the cold floor, whimpering, my body aching everywhere. But the worst pain was in my mind: the realization that my friends had run away, and the police—the protectors—were the most brutal robbers of all.

​I heard the officers outside the cell, talking loudly. They were laughing now, sounding relieved, their anger completely gone.

​“The cash arrived!” the first officer announced excitedly. “Just now! Big wads, man! Told you that politician wouldn’t mess around!”

​My fuzzy, throbbing ears strained to listen.

​“That’s the Minister for Rural Development’s son, after all,” the second officer said, his voice full of mock respect. “That kid drives a car that costs more than our entire city budget. Money talks, right?”

​I didn't know what a 'Minister for Rural Development' was. It was just another long, confusing noise. But I understood the money.

​The first officer laughed again, a sound of pure, greedy glee. “You know the best part? That money was originally budgeted for the free rations and soup kitchens in the Daldongnae slums! The money was for the poor, but now it’s ours, to forget about that little accident.”

​The words struck me like a final, powerful blow, worse than any stick.

​Free rations. Soup kitchens.

​That was the free food the rich mother had scoffed about! The money that was supposed to buy Mina-noona and me a warm meal, maybe even some medicine for her cough, was now warming the pocket of the man who had just beaten me. They were using my food money to save the boy who had killed another beggar with his ugly, fast, two-seater car.

​I lay there, my eye swollen shut, the truth sinking in: The Government’s robbery wasn’t just a tax on my bread. It was the entire air I breathed.

​Then, I heard the final instruction, sharp and cold, delivered over the phone.

​“The orders from the Minister are clear. Keep a boy in custody. As a proxy. Until the Commissioner signs the paperwork. Just keep him in there. Once the file is closed, you release the proxy.”

​Proxy. I didn't know the word, but I understood the feeling. I was the placeholder. I was the substitute lie. I was holding the blame for a rich, high boy who had crashed a car because I was replaceable and cheap.

​I was just a measly beggar, but I was worth enough to take a beating, and to cover a lie. I cried then, not from the pain in my body, but from the cold, absolute horror that had finally settled over my small, shattered world.

—-