Page 13

13

If I Die Young

MOMOI

I t was easier to numb the pain than to face it.

I stumbled out of the bar, the world spinning in dizzying circles, the neon lights from the signs above blurring into streaks of sickly pink and yellow. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt sober, and at that moment, I didn’t give a damn. Every time I let myself think about it—the men from earlier, the threats, the weight of the past creeping back into every corner of my mind, making me choke on air.

So, a few days after the incident with the two strangers and Tatsuya, I drank. Because if I was to die young, I might as well die living it up while I still had my freedom. In fact, I was wearing one of my favorite shirts I bought from back home. It had the words “Life Fast, Die Pretty” across the chest.

The night started with a little whiskey at my apartment. Just enough to keep the darkness at bay. Just enough to stop my hands from shaking. Just enough to forget. I probably should move. But then again, they’d only find me again the same way they crossed an entire ocean to find me.

I knew what could happen when you start down this road, when you let the bottle take the edge off. But I never listened. Because when you're alone, when you’re abandoned by everyone you thought you could trust, that dark, poisonous liquid is the only thing that never leaves you. The only thing that doesn’t judge.

I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care at the moment.

The narrow streets twisted in on themselves, becoming more desolate with every step. I kept moving, trying to shake off the unease, trying to drown the thoughts that rattled in my head. I didn’t want to think about the danger I was in or the memories of men similar to the ones I’d encountered earlier, circling me, waiting for me to make a mistake.

I wasn’t ready to confront that yet. I couldn’t.

So I kept walking.

But there was a pull now. The familiar gnawing feeling in my gut, the tightness in my chest. I was slipping—no matter how many drinks I had or how many blocks I walked, the feeling wouldn't leave. I was being hunted again, and I couldn’t outrun it.

I didn’t know where I was going until I saw the flashing neon sign through the haze of my drunken stupor—another dive bar tucked away in an alley just off the main street. I should’ve kept walking. I should’ve ignored the pull. But the bar was too inviting, too promising in its dim, quiet comfort.

I pushed open the door and stumbled inside a bit. Awkward, but it is what it is.

It was dark. Darker than the other places I’d been. The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes, stale beer, and the unmistakable odor of people who used the night to escape their demons. The flicker of a broken jukebox in the corner was the only light, casting an eerie, sickly glow over the crowd.

I didn’t care.

I slid into a booth in the back, ignoring the few patrons glancing over at me, sizing me up. They didn’t matter. None of them mattered.

“Whiskey,” I muttered to the bartender, my voice hoarse.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t question me. He poured the drink, and I drank it down in one go. The burn in my throat was sharp, but it felt good. The first drink helped to numb, but the second and third—they made the world blurry enough for me to forget everything.

The people around me were similar to ghosts—half-living, half-dead—and I was just like them. I wasn’t different. I wasn’t better. We were all just trying to outrun something, something that always seemed to catch up.

My thoughts were muffled by the alcohol, my hands trembling less. But the bartender was eyeing me now, giving me that look. The kind of look people give when they know you're past the point of no return.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he said, setting the bottle aside and shaking his head.

I looked up at him, the words slow to form. “I’m not ready for enough.”

He frowned, but he didn’t argue. Just backed off.

I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, nursing my glass. The bar was quieter now, the chatter of voices fading into the background. I was starting to feel the weight of my choices pressing down on me again. The alcohol wasn’t doing its job anymore. My head was clearer, and that was the last thing I wanted.

I needed more.

I stood up, unsteady. “Another,” I said, my voice firm this time, as if I had control over anything at all.

The bartender hesitated, then poured me another. I grabbed the glass and downed it with a wince, ignoring the heat rising in my chest.

I didn’t know how I’d gotten here. I didn’t know how I’d gotten so far away from who I thought I was. But here I was, again, drowning in the only thing that made me feel anything at all.

I left the bar with the liquor sloshing in my stomach, feeling sick but not caring. I wandered the streets aimlessly, barely noticing the time slipping away. The cool night air stung against my flushed skin, and for a moment, I thought maybe I was starting to sober up.

Maybe.

But the moment I thought I had it under control, the world tilted again.

I didn’t see him at first. He was too quick, too quiet. But then I felt his presence—close behind me, just enough to make my skin crawl.

"Hey, girl," the voice was rough, too close. I didn’t need to turn around to know what kind of man he was. The kind I hated. The kind who could smell fear. "I’ve seen you before."

I froze. The words didn’t make sense at first. I turned slowly, the dizziness settling in my head as I tried to focus on the figure standing a few feet away.

He was tall and scruffy, with dark eyes that didn’t belong in this part of the world. His lips twisted into a grin when he saw me recognize him.

“You’re the one, huh?” His grin stretched, his voice turning sly. “You’re the Yakuza girl . That’s what they’re calling you, huh?”

I felt the knot in my stomach tighten again. My head was foggy, my heart pounding, and I couldn’t think straight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I slurred, trying to step around him, but he matched my movements, keeping me cornered.

The man laughed, low and mocking. “I think you do. Don’t play dumb with me, sweetheart. You think you can just waltz into this town, pretending to be some innocent little thing, but I know what you are.”

I reached for the knife I always kept in my jacket, my fingers brushing the cold metal, but the haze of alcohol clouded my thoughts. My hands shook, trembling not just from the liquor but from the cold grip of panic creeping up my spine. The fear was different now—raw, intense—and the alcohol couldn’t dull it anymore.

But it didn’t matter.

The man was already moving toward me, his hand outstretched, fingers curling as if he already knew the outcome. I couldn’t escape. Not this time. The thought lingered, cold and heavy— Maybe I should let him kill me . It would all be over then. No more running. No more paranoia. I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder anymore, wouldn’t have to keep up this charade of survival. It seemed so easy.

But as his hand reached for me, something shifted.

In the instant, his fingers grazed my arm, something deep inside me snapped. It was the same thing that had kept me alive all these years, the thing I’d tried to bury in the darkness. It ignited, setting my muscles into motion before my fogged brain could catch up.

I twisted, my body moving with practiced precision despite the alcohol clouding my senses. His hand gripped my wrist, but I shifted, pulling free and spinning away. My other hand shot up, the cold, familiar feel of the knife now steady in my palm.

The fear, the panic— they didn’t matter anymore . My training kicked in, the raw, instinctive survival I had learned over the years rushing back. I wasn’t just some helpless thing to be preyed upon.

He lunged at me again, too eager, too confident in his own strength. But I was faster. I sidestepped, the knife coming to life in my grip as I slashed it forward. It wasn’t meant to kill—not yet. But it was meant to send a message.

The man staggered back, his eyes wide with shock as he registered the blade that had come dangerously close to his throat. Blood leaked from the shallow cut across his arm, staining his sleeve.

For a moment, I just stood there, chest heaving, the adrenaline pounding through me. I could feel the tremors in my limbs, but they were no longer fear. They were the remnants of a fight, a reminder that I was still here, still alive.

I took a step back, the knife still raised, my breathing ragged. His gaze darted between me and the blade, and I could see the realization dawning in his eyes—that I wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

I wasn’t going to let him win.

Not like this. Not ever again.

The man hesitated, his own breath shallow. But I knew the moment he made the wrong move, this time, there would be no hesitation.