Page 9 of The Last Tiger

I wrinkle my nose, lifting a sleeve up to my face and sniffing.

Seung has insisted that I wear this dirty old rag that he found in the cleaner’s supply closet as a cloak.

I’m almost certain that he’s used it to clean the living room floors.

I suppress a sneeze, but honestly, a little dust is the least of my fears right now.

Seung takes us out through the servants’ back exit and weaves his way through the streets expertly, alley by alley.

He seems to know every nook and cranny. To me, each street looks the same as the last. But Seung somehow knows exactly when to turn down an unassuming little side street, taking an unexpected shortcut to—

“Whoa.”

All doubts vanish as, up ahead, I see lantern lights illuminating the night with a soft, golden glow.

The village has come alive at night, with huge men shouting and clanking bottles of soju, babies crying, mothers hushing them, and children squealing.

On the corner, a wizened old street musician plays the zither with the bow floating lazily in his fingertips.

His chin hangs low to his chest as he sways, lost in the music.

I can’t believe how free it feels. To be out here, on my own—

We’ve entered the village and are walking down the main path to the town square, when Seung abruptly grabs my arm and yanks me into an alleyway.

“What are you—”

“Shh!”

Seung puts his hand over my mouth. Back on the main path, a pair of Dragon soldiers marches past. One of them drawls something to the other, who chuckles. My heart pounds; I hold my breath. But they don’t see us and continue on past. I sigh, leaning back against the wall.

“You okay?” Seung peers at me. “We can go back, if you want.”

“No,” I say tersely. I pull the rags tighter around my shoulders. We’re nearly at the village square—I just want a glimpse of it. One last time, then never again. “I’ve already made it this far. We can’t turn back now.”

Seung nods, impressed. He leans out around the corner of the alleyway, looking briefly into the main road—before pulling back again.

“Ooh. Now there’s an idea,” he says, his voice suddenly light again as he notices something on the ground. He quickly squats down and swipes something from the street.

“What is it?” I ask, leaning closer. “What are you—”

To my astonishment, Seung stands up—

And smears a damp thumb across my cheek.

I stare down at his hand—it’s covered in wet mud .

Crying out, I frantically swipe at my face with my hands. My fingertips are swathed in wet dirt.

“You—you!” Enraged, I lurch toward him.

“Now you really look the part!” Seung chortles, dodging out of the way. “Your face is too clean; you’re sticking out! I swear, I’m helping you!”

Not so easily. I grab his collar and twist, pulling him back and smearing my own muddy hand across his nose. “Ha!”

“Whatever.” Seung shrugs, wiping at his nose as he walks back toward the main road. Over his shoulder he calls back at me, “I always have mud on my face, anyway.”

I clench my teeth to avoid laughing—I’m supposed to be much too furious to laugh right now—before following him down the stone path.

The marketplace is crowded and bustling, despite the late hour, vendors promoting their wares loudly at passersby.

Seung leads me forward purposefully through the crowd.

To my right, merchants call out, hawking textiles.

The pungent, salty smell of fish wafts through the air as we pass an old man selling trout.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, marveling and watching, engrossed, as a group of women sit on upside-down buckets, peeling and deveining shrimp.

“Really?”

“I can’t believe how many people there are. And their products—kinds I’ve never seen…”

Seung’s face sours.

“It’s okay. The marketplace has changed a lot,” he says.

“After the war started, the empire really started cracking down. When I was a kid, people used to sell hanbok here, all shades and colors. Now sales of Tiger clothing are strictly forbidden. Most of the original Tiger shopkeepers have had their licenses revoked. The only businesses remaining afloat are protected by—”

He stops himself, but from the look on his face, the rest of that sentence is clear.

Yangban.

Collaborators with the Dragon regime.

A bitter taste forms in my mouth.

Mother has always reminded me to take pride in our ancestors’ hard work and dedication—and to remember how blessed our family has been to live in splendor while the world fell to pieces around us.

It hadn’t occurred to me before to consider just how the wins of our family during a time of difficulty must have come at the steep losses of others.

I sneak a glance at Seung, with his sharp cheekbones and elbows. At the old women peeling shrimp, heavy lines etched into their sunken faces.

“I’m…sorry.” The words fall from my lips like stones. “I—”

“It’s not your fault.” Seung speaks rigidly. Like he’s forcing himself to say the words. Guilt twists in my belly, reminding me that Seung is only here because he has to be. He has to keep me happy, as part of our deal, as an employee of Father’s.

He’d probably rather be spending his evening with anyone else.

Seung continues to lead me along. My gaze lingers on a stand with an old ajumma stirring a huge vat of spicy rice cakes and vegetables boiling in a thick, soupy red sauce. The old woman catches my eye and reaches behind the cart, pulling out a large skewer. She waves it at me.

With a quick movement, she expertly pierces four rice cakes and holds up the skewer. The smell wafts through the air, the spice making me tear up.

“Sixty yen,” the ajumma croons, smiling. I try not to grimace—she’s missing most of her front teeth. I can’t let Seung know that I’ve never seen such poverty before. I nod nervously, eager to help support her business.

I’m pulling out my little purse of Dragon currency when Seung places a hand on my wrist, stopping me.

“Sixty yen?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Thanks, lady, but have a nice day.”

He pulls me forward, away from the tasty rice cakes…

“These are delicious!” the old woman insists. “Well worth the price!”

“Yes, but we can get the same tteokbokki much cheaper at the other end of the market,” Seung replies.

“Forty yen,” the old woman croons.

I nod enthusiastically, but Seung shakes his head.

“For forty I could still buy a whole bag of tteok and make them myself at home. You’ve got to be reasonable.”

“Thirty is the lowest I can go.” The lady frowns.

“Twenty.”

“Twenty?! Twenty-five.”

“Sold!”

Seung reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few coins. He wavers for a moment as he stares down at the coins in his palm before turning them over reluctantly to the woman, who gives us the rice cakes.

“You were about to pay sixty yen for tteokbokki?” Seung whispers as we walk away, incredulous. “It’s just rice cakes, sugar, and chili paste. Do you literally have no idea how much things are supposed to cost?”

I’m too embarrassed to admit I don’t. I haven’t paid for anything with my own money in my life.

“I guess there’s no need for them to teach you that in prep school, huh?” It feels like he practically shoves the skewer into my hands. I can hardly look at him.

“There wasn’t any— I thought maybe she could’ve used the money—” I reply weakly, trying to defend myself. “I was just trying to help.”

Seung turns sharply away. I’ve definitely said the wrong thing now. My stomach falls.

I open up my purse. “At least let me cover you for—”

“It’s okay.” He stops me. “I can afford to buy rice cakes. I don’t need your charity .”

From the way his jaw clenches as he speaks, and the reluctance with which he handed over those coins, I’m not completely sure I believe him. But there’s nothing in the world I could say now that would make Seung take money from me. Of that, I’m sure.

I swallow my pride, my cheeks pinking as I sneak a glance at Seung—then notice him staring off with a curious expression at the side of a building. I follow his gaze to the wall.

Nailed to the stone is a simple parchment with a detailed portrait of a girl.

She has enormous eyes that have been painted a deep, dark shade of violet that I’ve never seen a real pair of irises possess, framed by lush lashes.

Her hair has been portrayed in long, rough swipes of deep-purple black. The poster displays a simple message:

Wanted: Name Unknown

Girl of Magpie-Feather Hair

Beware of Conversation

Do Not Make Eye Contact

Reward: 100,000 Yen

Seung’s face goes pale as he squints at the poster.

“Do you know her or something?” I ask him, raising an eyebrow.

He lingers on the portrait a second longer, then shrugs vaguely, turning away.

I sneak another glance at the poster, wondering who the girl is. Looking around the marketplace, I notice that several of the same Wanted posters have been pasted onto trees, posts, and walls.

100,000 Yen , they display in bold text. I wonder what she must’ve done to have earned such an expensive reward. Certainly something worse than sneaking out at night to the marketplace with some guy.

Still, I can’t help but feel a rush of thrill that feels nearly criminal as I sink my teeth into the tasty tteok, my tongue exploding with a burst of spicy flavor.

Seung watches me eat. I feel my face grow hot as I realize that I’ve stuffed my mouth with one too many rice cakes than would be considered polite for a yangban daughter. It’s the first time I’ve had street food like this. I can’t believe how delicious it is.

“Take some.” I extend the skewer toward Seung, who holds up his hand, refusing.

“I’m fine,” he says stiffly.

“Come on. You paid for it; you might as well try some,” I insist.

Though Seung shakes his head, his eyes linger on the tteok long enough for me to reach forward, take his hand, and wrap his fingers around the skewer. Then I turn and march away before he has the chance to return it.