I'm Not a Hero, Though (2)
The air in the Swamp Zone was clear.
You might call that bullshit, but it really was.
Think about it: in a world without cars or factories belching out toxins, how pristine would the air be?
Sure, the planet was crawling with otherworldly monsters, and humanity's turf had shrunk to scraps. But clean air? That's not half bad, right?
Of course, asking if that made our bodies as healthy as some pre-apocalypse gym rat's? Hell no.
Medical insurance was ancient history-book fairy tale stuff. Real doctors? Seoul only—and even those were mostly hack jobs riding their superpowers to the gig.
But those hacks were gold, so rare you had to shell out a fortune to snag one. That was humanity's grim reality.
"Gotta be raking it in..."
I gazed at the line snaking toward one of the Swamp Zone's precious few hospitals, genuinely impressed. Couldn't help it.
True to the collapsed world, it was wide-open—you could peer right inside. And the "treatments"? Straight out of a bad dream.
Not some street-side palm reader, but he'd park the patient in front, give 'em a once-over, jab a finger at some spot, and bellow, "Here's the problem!"
Whatever his deal was—maybe eyes like Mina's—patients flinched every time, blurting, "How'd you know?" Priceless reactions.
Faces like they'd stumbled on a legit shaman.
Then came the kicker.
Solemn as pulling a miracle cure from his ass, he'd produce a tiny pill.
"Pop this with water, pain's gone."
"Aigoo, thank you, doc!"
I knew exactly what that was, even if the rubes didn't.
Painkillers. Plain and simple.
Patients shuffling out beaming? Guess it was the best they could hope for.
I tore my eyes from him stashing bills under the desk and turned to Mina.
"Time to bounce."
"Yeah."
Fun sideshow, but we weren't tourists with all day to gawk.
New digs meant scouting furniture. Dinner grub. Exploration gear. Busy day ahead.
"Mina, dinner ideas?"
"Dunno."
"Not big on food?"
"...Honestly, no clue what's even around. Oh—the bulgogi at the hotel was tasty."
Ah, that mystery-meat bulgogi.
No way it was pork. Nobody's lazily farming pigs in this shitshow.
Dog? Nah, no funky aftertaste.
Beef? Even less likely.
Human...? Nah, not that dystopian.
Lower levels might peddle long pig, but Swamp Zone banned it. Probably some exotic beast I didn't know.
Whatever. Not stressing.
"Spot a butcher, we dip in. Snag meat for dinner."
"Boss said Choi's Butcher deep in the market—top quality, cheap prices. Buys there daily."
"Choi's it is, then..."
Mina and I plunged into the market's heart, buzzing with improbable life for a dead world.
Shoppers packed it—kids to geezers.
Felt like a rural fair in the tail end of the 21st century. Kinda nostalgic, but hey, beats nothing.
"Mister, what's that? Looks squishy..."
"Tofu."
"Tofu?"
"Done right, it's nutty, delicious, packed with nutrition."
Land was plentiful; guess they farmed it up.
I eyed the yellowish block—dead ringer for supermarket stuff back in the day. Curious about the taste.
Hotels never served tofu dishes. Trial by fire, buy and try.
"Not grabbing now. On the way back."
"Okay."
Press on.
Sundries stalls hawking odds and ends.
Guy strumming a battered guitar, fishing for tips.
Food stalls wafting mouthwatering scents.
Minus the heavy wear-and-tear, like rewinding 15 years to my old life.
"Mister, check that out."
"Hunters."
Prime real estate in the market: a massive shopfront mobbed by hulking dudes. Bet your ass, heavy-hitter hunters.
Should've been in that mix, but nah—not today.
Boss's payout bought us luxury buffer days.
We skirted the pack, burrowing deeper.
Hanam-town's sole legit market, apparently—30 minutes in, shops still thick.
Mostly edibles, but some artisans carved wood into tools and housewares with loving detail.
We halted at the old-timer's stall—craftsmanship screamed top-shelf.
"Mister, look! Super smooth."
"Damn, polished."
"Don't let looks fool ya—best woodworker in the Swamp Zone, that's me."
"Really feels like it. Barely any grit..."
Seriously slick—no wood rasp at all.
Sealed somehow? Other stalls weren't this refined. Old man's secret sauce.
"Grab cups and bowls."
"Oh, this pot? Fireproof."
"No kidding."
"Decades of tricks. Metal cookware? Pipe dream around here."
True—porcelain fantasies. Best bet: restaurant stainless, half-rusted anyway.
Even hotels ran wood. Smart for us too.
"Four cups, five bowls, one pot. Four sets chopsticks and spoons."
"Hold on."
Gramps rose slow, fetched a paper sack from somewhere, packed it up.
"Yours."
"Thanks."
Heavy load.
Tucked the sack under one arm, Mina and I headed out.
"Mister, next?"
"Furniture, ideally."
"Furniture row's that way. Fifty steps or so."
She pointed into the crowd-blocked distance.
Ability ping? When'd she trigger?
"Let's hustle."
"...Can I hold your hand?"
"'Course."
Sack in one arm, took her soft, warm hand in mine.
First girl-hand ever? Kinda felt like it.
Sudden heart thump. Chill, Isak.
She's a kid. Obvious baby-face palpitations? Felony territory.
...Laws here lax?
Lost in that nonsense, someone slammed into me.
"S-sorry..."
"Nah, fine. You okay—"
"F-fine! Sorry!"
The hell?
Purple-haired girl bolted through the throng. I tilted my head.
Then a tug on my hand, Mina's voice knife-sharp in my ear.
"Mister, pickpocket!"
"Pickpocket?"
"Purple-hair bumped you, then ran!"
Our whole damn fortune!
"Mister, chase!"
"Lead on."
"Got it!"
Sudden chore. Annoying as fuck.
Tailed via Mina's power as beacon.
Crowd choked speed, but position locked—easy enough.
"Mister, Viper turf ahead. Heard stay out."
"Snag her quick, grab cash, bail."
No choice—couldn't ditch our lifeline.
"...Right at alley corner, stopped. Some guy's—eek!"
"What? You good?"
Checked her stumbling, cheek-clutching stagger.
"G-getting hit."
"Hit?"
"Yeah..."
Whatever mess, cash hunt meant diving in.
Handed her the sack—no fighting with that drag.
"Stay put, wait. Back quick."
"Okay. Be careful..."
Left her worried gaze, slipped into the alley's reeking gloom.
Dark, stinking dead-end. What fresh hell?
Tingle of tension, rounded the bend—and saw—
"You stupid bitch, cut your quota and still fuck it up?"
"Just sell her off—more cash, boss."
"Th-that..."
Good call leaving Mina behind.
Pickpocket sprawled on filth, cheek ballooned from slaps.
Kid-faced, sure—infuriating, but this scene curdled my gut worse.
Didn't bottle the rage. Let it rip.
"Hey."