The Pawnshop Granny
Packing my clothes and gear, I slipped out of the ruined motel and headed for Hongdae, that chaotic hub of Seoul's revelry and excess, laced with the mystique of foreign wonders. Itaewon fit the bill too, but it drew far fewer "customers" than Hongdae. That made the two spots feel similar on the surface yet worlds apart in their vibes. The last time I'd set foot in Hongdae was at least five years ago—my memory was fuzzy, so maybe even longer.
Back then, I wasn't chasing thrills or luxury. After gaining independence, I'd started college in Seoul on the government youth independence stipend meant only for orphans. But "starting" was as far as it went; the road was anything but smooth. While others breezed past the starting line like it was second nature, just reaching it had pushed me to my limit.
To survive and build knowledge and experience, you need money—no matter what. Even pooling every penny I'd scrimped together since puberty with the government's aid barely covered half a college student's basics. No matter how frugally I lived, the math never added up for tuition and living expenses through graduation. So I juggled part-time gigs with classes.
Days were spent dragging myself through a brutal schedule of lectures; nights, I worked under a bar owner who promised decent cash from booze sales. To scrape by, I had to ditch any semblance of a normal life. That's why I hustled in Hongdae, where the bar scene boomed. Sure, booze joints thrive everywhere in Seoul, but Hongdae soaked up the young blood, endless free time, and cash these twenty- and thirtysomethings threw around—even borrowing to blow it.
It was a structure built for profit, and grinding there without sleep naturally paid off for me too. Ah, but I won't bore you with the chronic fatigue from sleepless nights, the wrecked biorhythms killing my focus in class, or the soul-crushing parade of asshole customers turning me into a husk. The point is Hongdae's role in all this.
Hongdae was a street of chaos, indulgence, and vice, so competition between spots ran red-hot. Just like the endless eateries in Sinchon flaunting celeb visits or TV shoutouts, Hongdae shops clawed for every sucker they could hook. Prime targets: rich punk kids flashing cash, sex-crazed lumps obsessed with guys or girls, or alkies who popped wood at the word "booze."
Want to draw eyes? Hint at something juicy! Lure guys with girls, girls with guys! Blast flyers about your shitty club with its underdog DJs and rappers! Scrape up decent-looking buskers from the street, toss 'em pocket change, and milk 'em on stage! If needed, team up with back-alley bosses to sling girls, booze, and sketchy drugs for max profit! That was the underbelly of nightlife most normies never saw.
Anyway, I'd hustled in that night-city inferno for cash. In a world where even breathing costs money if you're broke, what choice did I have? Now, staring down thirty in a couple years, why circle back to Hongdae? I needed the secret underworld—stuff normies don't know about and can't touch.
After Mae-ryeongji, the wrecked motel, and the coin laundry nightmare, I'd realized I had no proper tools for the job. For a Catholic exorcist, it'd be holy water and a blessed cross; for a shaman, bells, fans, blades. To bleach the damned—those poor souls locked for hell—and ship 'em heaven-bound with bleach, I needed my own kit.
Even self-proclaimed ghost hunters tote protective charms or enchanted gear. Me? Just the Bible I'd snatched from Seong Shinbu. And I'm no Christian—useless outside an open-book test. If I'd ditched my past, identity, and future to live as Han Daeri, I had to commit fully. No more half-assed penance and quick-sending sinners to heaven. Time to carve my existence and forge my path.
"Quiet during the day, huh."
In Seoul, Korea's shining metropolis, day and night blurred together—except in Hongdae, where the gap screamed loudest. More like the chasm between morning and night. Hongdae's mornings were quieter than anywhere else. Streets littered with puke, flyers, plastic cups perched like decorations. Cleanup crews and trash trucks worked silently amid the deathly hush.
If a big city's dawn buzzed with life, Hongdae's reeked only of demise. It perked up by midday, revved in the evening, then exploded into a runaway train at night. But I was here for daytime business. Night meant tangling with too many folks—connectors, gatekeepers, clingy pests.
Nightlife's core? Money. Late-night desperados needing quick cash hit pawnshops or loan sharks after the last train. That's what I was knocking on now.
Bang bang bang!
"Anyone home!"
No answer. Dead?
"The old bat who nitpicked every pawn was no match for time after a—urk!"
"You little shit. I ain't dead yet."
I flashed an awkward grin at the granny jabbing my ribs with her cane. Years back, during my bar gig, I'd pawned stuff forcibly taken from deadbeat dine-and-dashers—on the boss's orders. Paid their tab with the cash, then booted 'em out: "Come back with money, redeem your crap from XX Pawnshop."
Not always villains—sometimes legit broke folks flashing weird gems or statues for booze money. Suspiciously flush types turning penniless happened plenty.
"Tsk tsk, grown-ass man crawling back here? Worked nights as a punk kid, now live honest by day."
"Always been honest, then and now."
"Chasing cash till you wrecked your body. Whatever. Come in."
She unlocked the double barrier of iron bars and chains, ushering me into Kim Bokja's pawnshop. Figured she'd forgotten a nobody like me from way back, but her spry step and sharp memory said otherwise.
No wonder she runs this solo—goods and cash flowing constant. Stolen loot and dirty money mix in, so pawnshop folks need eagle eyes and street smarts to survive. Kim Bokja had run hers since before I was born; her depth was beyond me.
She led to a small parlor deep in the building's hall—reserved for special guests, tea and deals. I'd glimpsed folks brought here from bar duties, but first time for me.
"What'll you drink? Sweet peach tea for kids? Or green for old-timers like me?"
"I'm a kid next to you, granny. Peach tea."
"Thought you were clueless, but you know your place. Tsk tsk."
She steeped a peach teabag in a rough mug with boiling water, set it before me on a saucer. For herself, a cool convenience-store green tea from her walk.
Most elders hate cold stuff—sensitive teeth, weak guts—but Kim Bokja downed iced Americanos even on midnight visits. Progressive old soul.
"Coulda given me something cold too..."
"Then call ahead, you punk."
"Lost my smartphone on a job."
In my faded brown coat, duffel slung back, I screamed suspicious.
"Deep in debt, on the run? Nah, you're too clean for that."
"Do I look the borrowing type?"
"True, you always had cash but never bit off more than you could chew. So what? Killed someone?"
"..."
I paused, choosing words. Twelve, per Seong Shinbu and Yohan. I'd blacked out and judged twelve sinners on the night streets. Undeniable murders, really.
"Half right, half wrong."
"What kinda nonsense is that?"
"Killed, yeah. But not by me."
She sipped her cool green tea, eyes bulging at me—like when customers hyped junk as priceless. None fooled her sharp gaze; they all took the fair price and scrammed.
"Ran this place fifty-plus years, misjudged people once—except that one time."
Her late husband, who passed first. I knew.
"My 99.99% eagle eyes say you're no killer. Complicated mess, so I won't pry."
"Thanks."
"So why seek this old bag? Not restarting nights, I hope."
"Need items. Ones with that kind of story."
"Which kind?"
"Supernatural, please."
Tsk. She slammed her bottle down.
"From my late husband?"
"Picked up bits over drinks and smokes. Sorry if rude."
"Damn old fool. Couldn't die clean—left loose ends."
Kim Bokja never touched crime-tainted loot or cash. But her husband mentioned she occasionally took bizarre, worthless oddities.
He'd asked why stock junk; she'd said:
"Items with stories shouldn't float free in the world. Lucky they land here—I'll stash 'em safe, then clear 'em all before I go."
Always snippy with customers or neighbors, but to him, deepest respect. I'd scoffed at my father-in-law figure, got smacked upside the head.
"Need those story-laden items you can't let loose. Here to borrow and use 'em."
"Young punk got no filter with a dying granny. Wanna drop dead at your age?"
"If you doubt me, stake my life as collateral."
I bowed low.
"Invest in this Han Daeri."