EP Chapter 1.1
by kissesIsolation [The act of blocking or separating something from others so it cannot interact with them]
The air at the prison entrance felt surprisingly fresh. Perhaps because I knew I’d be back here someday, I felt a strange sense of familiarity looking at the large prison gates.
I received the dark khaki prison uniform, with my inmate number on the left chest and my cell assignment on the right, along with a few necessities. Then, I followed the corrections officer to my assigned cell.
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Naturally, there was nothing to be afraid of. Someone once told me during my previous time here that it helps to think of it as just joining a strict military.
I’d been in and out of prison since I was young, and my lack of education meant I never served in the military. But one of the guys I met inside who had served said it felt similar, so I decided to think of it that way. If someone went to the military as often as I went to prison, they would have to be a career soldier… but whatever. It didn’t really matter.
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* * *
After a few days in the new inmate holding cell with other ex-convicts, my sentence was finally handed down. Three months. Compared to the one year I received the first time I came to prison, this was much shorter. Back then, I was nineteen then. I used to serve coffee and Bacchus1 at the gambling den my father ran. Then the place got raided, and I got caught with him.
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It wasn’t like I did it because I wanted to. “Fuck, is it my fault I was born to the wrong parents?” I yelled back then. And then I got a harsher sentence for it.
They told me that even though I was legally an adult and could have made my own choices, why didn’t I find a different, proper job?
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Those words resonate with me now. They’re right. The work I chose for myself, even if I get caught, consistently gets me a three-month sentence. Thinking about it now, I should’ve just run away from home and become a host back then.
“Introduce yourself.”
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As soon as the corrections officer left, the cell leader spoke to me. I’d never met him before, but he looked familiar, a gangster through and through. Actually, with that yellow name tag2 and that face, he had to be a gangster.
I sat cross-legged, assuming a respectful posture, and discreetly observed the men in front of me. My luck had been terrible, but now it seemed to be turning around. I was assigned to a relatively spacious cell with only five people.
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“Greetings. Jin Woojoo, 28 years old. Charged with prostitution.”
My confident self-introduction made the four men in the room burst into laughter. One guy didn’t laugh, but he didn’t seem like someone with any authority in the cell, so it didn’t matter. The cell leader chuckled and asked,
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“Hey, you’ve got a decent face. But why are you so confident about getting locked up for prostitution?”
“I’m confident because I was selling, not buying, hyung-nim3.”
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“Damn, this kid’s got some experience.”
“Please, call it a ‘hoppa4’ work.”
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I readily recited the nickname I always got in prison, putting on a friendly act. As expected, the cell leader grinned and told me to share plenty of juicy stories. Just like always, it seemed like I’d be spending the next three months quite comfortably.
* * *
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The men in dark blue prison uniforms sat huddled on the floor together, eating dinner. Kimchi, watery soup with no ingredients, tofu, and some unidentifiable vegetables. Still, I felt like things had improved compared to the past. The food actually had some seasoning. Just a few years ago, they served food that tasted like they’d forgotten to add even salt. This was at least bearable.
However, the cell leader, used to this food every day, seemed to find it lacking. As the relatively normal-looking guy in this small group went to wash the dishes, the cell leader sneakily sidled up to me.
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“Did you bring any commissary money with you?”
The reason for his question was obvious. I was getting out soon, but he probably had at least ten years left to serve. He was trying to save his own money by mooching off mine. But I had way too much commissary money for a three-month stay, so I was happy to have him leech off me. I could already hear the sound of an easy prison life, free from chores.
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“I work with cash, hyung-nim. Even though I just got caught, I still have plenty to spend. If there’s anything you’d like, just let me know.”
“Alright, let’s get some chicken then.”
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The cell leader called over his lackey, who looked to be a guy in his early twenties, sitting a little distance away.
“Hey, go get some chicken with the hoppa.”
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“Yes, sir. Follow me.”
I followed the lackey out into the hallway. As soon as we were far enough from the cell, he started badmouthing the leader.
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“The leader calls himself a gangster, but doesn’t he just seem like a tough-talking old fart? Honestly, I feel like you’d be way more intimidating if we met outside…”
Judging by how ingratiating he was, he seemed eager to get on my good side. But I figured I was getting out too soon for that.
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“He’s a decent leader for this cell. It’s small, so there aren’t many chores to go around… Being a lackey sucks. Don’t badmouth others to just anyone, though. Screw up, and you could make your life hell in here.”
“Nah, I wouldn’t do that!”
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The lackey chuckled nervously and waved his hand dismissively. He filled me in on the other guys in the cell as we walked to the commissary.
The leader was serving eighteen years for some complicated gang-related crime. Two others were in for fraud, and one for embezzlement. The lackey himself was the embezzler. And the guy who didn’t laugh earlier during my introduction… murder. Now that he mentioned it, I remembered the case from the news before.
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Apparently, his father had been a well-rounded piece of trash, into drinking, gambling, and domestic violence. One day, while drunk, he’d accidentally killed his mother. And in that situation, the son grabbed a kitchen knife and killed his father. He’d stabbed him countless times, with no hesitation. In this land of filial piety, patricide is the greatest sin. They don’t even bother listening to the children’s side of the story…
I remembered he’d received a nine-year sentence. That news report was from when I was twenty, so he probably had about a year left.
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A guy like me. No, someone worse off than me. Someone whose life was so fucked up he just existed because he had to, someone who probably feared nothing anymore. I felt a pang of sympathy for him, a desire to show him a little kindness.
We distributed the vacuum-sealed chicken legs, one for each person in the cell. Of course, the lackey did the distributing while I sat cross-legged on the floor. The cell leader grabbed his chicken leg first, tore open the packaging in a flash, and took a large bite.
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“Hoppa, thanks for the food! Where do you want to sleep? Switch places with him, except for my spot.”
“It’s not even winter. I don’t care where I sleep.”
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“You must have a usual spot, though.”
“Not really. I just sleep anywhere.”
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Hearing my answer, the two fraud inmates visibly relaxed. The cell leader gnawed on his chicken leg and turned on the television in the center of the room. The other three gathered around to watch. That left just me and the murderer feeling isolated in the cramped space.
The murderer still hadn’t touched his chicken leg. He just stared at it in his hand, still in its packaging. I went over to him, took the package from his hand, tore open the plastic, and placed the untouched chicken leg back in his grasp.
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His gaze finally focused on me. Empty eyes, dry lips. Despite that, his features were sharp and defined. He stared at my face for a moment before finally taking a bite of his chicken.
“How old are you?”
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My voice was quiet but loud enough to hear, yet he continued to focus on chewing his chicken and didn’t answer.
[Examination of newborns has revealed that nearly half are born with Names already inscribed in them. This suggests that it’s not a phenomenon caused by love, but rather a predetermined fate from birth…]
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A boring news report about the Name Phenomenon played on the television.
“Love my ass,” the cell leader grumbled, and the others chuckled.
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Instead of joining in their laughter, I sighed softly, waiting for the murderer’s response. He’d probably have no way to make a living after getting out. Maybe he’d want to work with me.
We could share our ages, and he could finally use his real name instead of those damn prison number… Things like that. I thought I was being incredibly kind, but he seemed completely uninterested. As I put my hand on my knee, about to go over to the cell leader, the murderer suddenly grabbed my wrist.
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“27 years old, Im Jihoon… hyung… Don’t you remember me?”
I sat back down again, cross-legged next to him.
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“I don’t know.”
I didn’t remember him, but I thought if we had some kind of connection from before he went to prison, it would be interesting.
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