The cold in Muraki did not come from the wind. It seeped out of the walls, a damp and persistent chill that lived in the cracks of the old stones. Kai Sungho woke up before the sun, as he always did. He lay still for a moment, listening to the rhythmic, heavy breathing of his mother in the next room and the occasional creak of the floorboards. The air in their small house smelled of charcoal smoke and the faint, sweet scent of the herbal tea his mother brewed to settle her stomach every morning.
Kai sat up and rubbed his face. He was twenty eight, but some mornings he felt much older. His reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the sink showed a man with tired eyes and a jaw that stayed clenched even in sleep. He splashed cold water on his face, feeling the bite of it wake his senses.
He went to the kitchen, a tiny space where everything was neatly arranged despite its age. His mother, Soo Yun hee, was already there. She was hunched over the stove, her hands moving with a mechanical grace that came from decades of labor. She looked up and gave him a small, weary smile.
Yun hee said, "You are up early, Kai. The shop does not open for another hour."
Kai pulled out a wooden chair that groaned under his weight. He sat down and watched the steam rise from the pot. He answered, "I could not sleep, Mother. The room felt too quiet."
His mother placed a bowl of plain rice and a small plate of pickled vegetables in front of him. She stayed standing, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder. Her skin felt like dry paper, a reminder of the long hours she spent cleaning the houses of people who lived in a world completely different from theirs.
Yun hee said, "You think too much. A young man should have dreams that make him smile, not thoughts that keep him awake."
Kai looked at the rice. He did not tell her that his dreams were the problem. He did not tell her that every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of the men in the capital, the ones who spoke on television about progress while people in Muraki died of simple infections.
A small, tinny radio on the counter began to hiss. Yun hee turned the dial until a clear voice filled the room. It was the morning news from Kojin, the capital. The announcer spoke with an artificial excitement that made Kai's stomach turn.
The announcer said, "In a historic move today, Prime Minister Choi Sang ok officially inaugurated the Golden Gate Bridge in the heart of the capital. This billion dollar project stands as a testament to the kingdom's rising prosperity and the government's commitment to a brighter future for every citizen of Hakuran."
Kai gripped his chopsticks a little tighter. He looked out the small window. The "road" outside their house was a stretch of dirt and jagged rocks that turned into a river of mud every time it rained. There were no golden gates here. There was only the dust that covered everything.
His sister, Min ji, walked into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She was twenty two, a university student who spent her nights studying by the light of a single, flickering bulb. She looked at the radio and then at Kai.
Min ji asked, "Are they talking about the bridge again?"
Kai nodded. He said, "They are calling it a testament to our prosperity."
Min ji sat down and sighed. She said, "I heard the professors at the university talking yesterday. They say the materials used for that bridge cost three times what they should have. Everyone knows where the rest of the money went."
Yun hee lowered her voice. She said, "Min ji, be careful. You never know who is listening, even in a place like this."
Kai stood up, his breakfast half finished. The anger was there again, a slow, steady heat in his chest. He grabbed his worn jacket from the hook by the door.
Kai said, "I have to go. Mr. Sato will be waiting at the shop."
His mother followed him to the door. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small piece of bread wrapped in a napkin. She pressed it into his hand.
Yun hee said, "Eat this later. And please, Kai, keep your head down today. Do not look for trouble."
Kai kissed her cheek. He said, "I am not looking for it, Mother. It is everywhere I look."
The walk to the center of Muraki took twenty minutes. The village was a collection of grey buildings and narrow alleys tucked away in a valley that the sun seemed to forget. As Kai walked, he saw the reality that the radio never mentioned. He saw the local clinic, its windows boarded up because there was no money for a doctor or medicine. He saw the elementary school, where the roof had been leaking for three years, and the children sat in coats during the winter.
He turned a corner and saw Old Man Park sitting on a wooden bench outside his shack. Park was a man who had worked in the mines for forty years until his lungs gave out. Now, he spent his days waiting for a pension that was always delayed.
Park coughed, a deep, rattling sound that seemed to shake his thin frame. He looked up as Kai approached and waved a trembling hand.
Park asked, "Off to the shop, Kai?"
Kai stopped and nodded. He said, "Yes, Mr. Park. How are you feeling this morning?"
The old man shook his head. He said, "The chest is heavy today. The pharmacy in the next town says the price of the inhalers went up again. They told me it is because of the new import taxes."
Kai felt a familiar spark of rage. He knew those taxes were designed to protect the pharmaceutical companies owned by men like Okada Takeshi, the billionaire who funded the Prime Minister's campaigns.
Kai asked, "How much do you need?"
Park looked away, embarrassed. He said, "It does not matter, son. It is more than I have. I will just stay still today. If I do not move much, I do not need to breathe as much."
Kai reached into his pocket. He had very little, just enough for his commute and a small coffee. He took out the few coins he had and pressed them into the old man's hand.
Kai said, "Take this. It is not much, but perhaps it will help."
Park tried to push the money back. He said, "No, Kai. Your mother needs this. You work too hard to give your money to a dying man."
Kai leaned in, his voice quiet but firm. He said, "You are not a dying man, Mr. Park. You are a man who was robbed. Take it. Please."
The old man finally closed his hand over the coins. Tears filmed his cloudy eyes. He whispered, "Thank you, Kai. You have a good heart. In this country, that is a dangerous thing to have."
Kai continued his walk, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He arrived at the small grocery shop where he worked. Mr. Sato, the owner, was already lifting the heavy metal shutters. Sato was a man of few words, his face etched with the lines of someone who had spent his life counting pennies and worrying about the rent.
Sato said, "You are late by two minutes, Sungho."
Kai grabbed a broom from the corner. He said, "I am sorry, Mr. Sato. I stopped to talk to Mr. Park."
Sato sighed, his back to Kai as he arranged crates of wilted vegetables. He said, "Park is a ghost. We are all ghosts in this village. The government has forgotten we exist, and honestly, that is for the best. When they remember you, it is usually because they want to take something."
The morning passed in a blur of mundane tasks. Kai swept the floors, stocked the shelves with overpriced canned goods, and served the few customers who came in. Most of them were women like his mother, looking for the cheapest rice and complaining about the price of cooking oil.
Around noon, a black car drove through the main street. It was a rare sight in Muraki. The car was sleek and polished, its windows tinted dark. It did not stop; it simply glided through the dust like a predator moving through a forest.
A young man standing near the shop entrance spat on the ground as the car passed.
The young man asked, "Who do you think that is? Another tax collector?"
Kai watched the car disappear around the bend toward the highway. He said, "Or a surveyor. They probably found something else in the mountains they want to dig up and sell."
The young man laughed bitterly. He said, "And we will get the holes in the ground and the poisoned water. That is our share of the kingdom's wealth."
Sato stepped out from behind the counter. He said, "Get back to work, both of you. Talking about it won't change the price of rice."
Kai went back to the shelves, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking about Old Man Park's inhaler. He thought about the Golden Gate Bridge. He thought about his father, who had died in a crowded hallway of a public hospital because they didn't have a bed for a "simple laborer."
He remembered his father's face in those final hours. The man hadn't been angry. He had been apologetic. He had looked at Kai and said he was sorry he was leaving them with nothing but debt.
The memory burned in Kai's mind. It wasn't just the poverty that hurt; it was the indignity of it. The way the system made you feel like your life was a burden, a mistake in a ledger.
Later that afternoon, while he was breaking down cardboard boxes in the back, his friend Park Do hyeon arrived. Do hyeon was a few years older than Kai and worked as a junior accountant in a firm in the nearby city of Ryokan. He looked stressed, his tie loosened and his shirt damp with sweat.
Do hyeon said, "I need to talk to you, Kai. Can you take a break?"
Kai saw the look in his friend's eyes. It was a mixture of fear and a strange, frantic energy. He nodded and stepped out into the narrow alley behind the shop.
Kai asked, "What is it, Do hyeon? You look like you have seen a ghost."
Do hyeon looked around to make sure they were alone. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. His hands were shaking.
Do hyeon said, "I saw something at the office today. Something I wasn't supposed to see. I was reconciling the accounts for one of the construction firms that worked on the bridge project."
Kai leaned against the brick wall. He said, "And?"
Do hyeon whispered, "The numbers don't add up, Kai. Not even close. There are millions hundreds of millions listed as 'consultation fees' paid to shell companies. I tracked one of those companies. The registered address is a vacant lot in the capital. But the owner the beneficial owner is the brother in law of the Minister of Finance."
Kai felt a cold stillness settle over him. It was one thing to suspect the theft; it was another to see the mechanics of it.
Kai asked, "Are you sure?"
Do hyeon nodded. He said, "I have the account numbers. I have the dates. Kai, they aren't just skimming off the top. They are hollowing out the country. Everything they tell us about the 'national sacrifice' and 'austerity' is a lie. There is plenty of money. They just have it all."
Kai looked at the paper. For a moment, he felt a surge of hope, followed immediately by a crushing weight of reality.
Kai asked, "What are you going to do with this?"
Do hyeon looked terrified. He said, "I don't know. If I go to the police, the information will be on the Minister's desk before I leave the station. If I go to the newspapers, they won't print it. They are all owned by the same people."
Kai took the paper from his friend's hand. He felt the weight of it, the physical proof of the injustice that had defined his entire life.
Kai said, "Keep this safe, Do hyeon. Don't tell anyone else."
Do hyeon asked, "Why? What are you thinking, Kai?"
Kai looked at the dusty alley, at the broken crates and the grey sky. He thought of his mother's tired hands and Mr. Park's rattling breath. He thought of the billions spent on a bridge while his village didn't have a doctor.
Kai said, "I am thinking that we have been complaining in the dark for too long. We have been waiting for someone to save us, but nobody is coming."
Do hyeon grabbed his arm. He said, "Be careful, Kai. People who have this kind of information they don't live long lives in Hakuran."
Kai pulled his arm away. He didn't feel afraid. He felt a strange, cold clarity that he had never known before.
Kai said, "I am already dead, Do hyeon. We all are. We are just walking around to save them the trouble of burying us. The only difference is, I think I am tired of playing my part."
He walked back into the shop, leaving Do hyeon standing in the shadows. He went to the sink and washed his hands, watching the dirt swirl down the drain. He looked at himself in the mirror again. The tired eyes were still there, but the uncertainty was gone.
The evening came, and the shop closed. Kai walked home in the dark. The streetlights in Muraki had been out of order for months, so he moved by memory. When he reached his house, he saw the light in the kitchen. His mother was waiting for him.
He sat at the table and ate the soup she had prepared. It was mostly water and a few pieces of potato, but it was warm.
Yun hee asked, "How was your day, Kai?"
Kai looked at her. He saw the grey in her hair and the way she moved with a slight limp that she tried to hide. He thought of the paper in Do hyeon's pocket.
Kai said, "It was a normal day, Mother. Just like every other day."
He went to his room and lay on his bed. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the village. For years, that silence had felt like a cage. But tonight, it felt like something else. It felt like the breath a man takes before he screams.
He knew what happened to rebels. He knew about the prisons and the disappearances. He knew the power of the men in Kojin. They had the money, the police, the army, and the law.
But as he lay there, he realized they didn't have everything. They didn't have the truth, and they didn't have the soul of the people they were crushing.
He thought of a name. A name that had been floating in the back of his mind for weeks, a whisper of a dream he hadn't dared to name.
The Liberation Party.
It sounded grand, perhaps too grand for a shop assistant from a dying village. But as he closed his eyes, he didn't see a party. He saw a school with a roof that didn't leak. He saw a hospital where his father could have lived. He saw a version of Hakuran that didn't treat its people like cattle.
The sun would rise tomorrow, and the radio would talk about the bridge again. The Prime Minister would smile, and the people would go to work for wages that couldn't buy them medicine.
But Kai Sungho was done listening.
He sat up and reached for a small notebook on his bedside table. In the dim light, he wrote three words on the first page.
We are here.
He didn't know how he would do it. He didn't know who would join him. But for the first time in his life, the chill in the walls didn't bother him. The fire in his chest was more than enough to keep him warm.