Peter Pan - 14
After finishing her last phone call with Seongha, Mikoto collapsed onto the street. Passersby stared at her oddly, but she lacked the strength to stand. It was all over now. Though it was her choice, she hadn't prepared herself to endure it when the moment actually arrived. She couldn't blame anyone. It was she who had abandoned him. The fake hatred she'd poured out on him had shattered her own heart.
-And it pissed me off! I'm older than you! Calling you "oppa" like that, putting on that ridiculous tsundere act—it really pissed me off!-
'It didn't piss me off at all... As an only child, I always thought it would be nice to have someone to call oppa.'
-I hate it! I said I hate it! Do I have to keep doing cosplay for a year, ten years from now?-
'I wouldn't like that, but I could have done it in front of you. Even if it was ten years later, even if you cosplayed the same character hundreds of times, you would've told me I looked pretty.'
-You just need a talking figurine, that's all.-
'If anything, I was the one treating you like a big teddy bear that listened to everything I said.'
What tormented her even more was that it didn't feel like mere posturing. In the end, she had abandoned him for her own sake and hurt him. The fake Mikoto she'd created to wound him was no different from the real one. Still collapsed on the ground, Mikoto wept and wept. No one passing by offered her comfort—not even her crying self.
Mikoto dragged her listless body to meet the identity launderer she'd arranged with. She sold off every bit of her hard-earned assets and received new ID and a fresh name. With her identity changed, she could escape Nemu's pressure if she was careful. It might be hard to land a proper role, but she prayed she could twist her voice enough to snag a third-rate adult game part. She thought achieving this would bring relief, a sense of lightness—but the loss of what she'd given up overshadowed it all. Friends, home, her hometown. Colleagues at the company, and even her master, with whom she'd spent a comparatively brief time that felt incomparable. The tiny freedom she'd gained by abandoning, betraying, and selling them all seemed so small and pathetic. Did someone like her even deserve happiness? The doubt crept in alongside it.
And as that doubt predicted, Mikoto couldn't find happiness. The car she boarded didn't head to her new "hometown"—it veered into a deserted abandoned factory. The organization she'd gone to for the identity laundering doubled as human traffickers, picking off anyone valuable to sell. They beat her while screaming that if she wanted to live, she should call her master and demand ransom. To the end, Mikoto refused to give them Seongha's number.
/////
In a way, it was only natural that Mikoto remembered Seongha's phone number perfectly. Excuses like "we didn't call much" or "my phone's at home" were transparent lies. Naturally, her kidnappers didn't buy it either. To torture her, they starved her, denied her water. The beatings with fists and feet were at least bearable. But strikes from discarded rebar or wooden planks felt like her body was truly breaking. After days of it, her whole body throbbed as if it always had. Every slight shift rubbed her wrists raw against the ropes, keeping them inflamed red.
"Still being stubborn, huh? Fuck, we've done enough already. Right?"
With her eyes closed in a daze, she hadn't noticed the gunman enter the room. Even if she had, there was nothing Mikoto could do.
"How can I... tell you something I don't know."
What remained of Mikoto's life was like a bond with endlessly high default risk. There was a thread of hope, but it felt worthless—something too regrettable to discard, yet not worth fighting for. She couldn't endanger him to protect it, couldn't make him sacrifice more for her sake. The math didn't add up. Or maybe she just lacked the face to see him again, trembling in fear and shame.
"Quit bullshitting! Spill it! Tell us!"
The thug stomped on her instep repeatedly to intimidate her. Having endured it so many times, the wound there ground open once more.
"Hey, don't you wanna live? Just talk to your master once, that's all I'm saying."
"I told you... I ran away. Even if he knew, he wouldn't pay a dime."
For a moment, Mikoto couldn't tell what she feared most. Was it realizing she was beyond saving, that even someone as kind as him would abandon her? Or was it him actually coming to rescue her, only for the traitor Mikoto to burden him again?
"That's not for you to decide, you idiot!"
The thug prodded her head with the gun barrel, then pressed it against her cheek and shoved her head back. Mikoto could only endure the sensation of cold metal shaking her face.
"This one's loaded, yeah? If this hits, you're really done."
The thug shoved the barrel into her mouth. Her fragile mouth was ruthlessly defiled by it.
"Whore who went off to sell yourself abroad—you must've eaten well and lived cushy up till now, right? That's why you're running with a full belly!"
"Ugh... ah..."
"Fuck, I pray every damn day. 'Please get caught by some random guy with bad eyesight and end up a slave—that'd be my wish.'"
The thug's eyes blazed with rage. Mikoto couldn't meet her bloodshot gaze.
"Nah, that's bullshit, you bitch. It's such a ridiculous pipe dream, I don't even pray for it."
She laughed hollowly. Mikoto tasted metal from the barrel in her throat. For an instant, it seemed like blood.
"Just... if you restarted this factory or something, worked like a dog, and scraped together a few bucks—that's all I pray for."
The thug sighed in lament, jamming the barrel deeper into her throat.
"You're just throwing a lovers' spat with your master. Fuck, if you'd share even a tiny bit of your cushy life with us. Your master's loaded, right? Just leave us his toenail clippings' worth!"
"Ugh... ah..."
"Guys like your master... Kidnapping one and cashing in big, then getting out of this shit life—that's the last hope, the dream for wretches like us..."
After glaring at her with the barrel jammed in her throat for a while, the thug sighed in defeat and pulled it out.
"Huh? Fuck..."
But then, the gun snagged on her body, pushing it slightly forward. Carelessly, her finger hadn't left the trigger. It pulled.
Bang! The shot filled the room.
"Kyaaah, ah, ah..."
Mikoto screamed in terror and pain, but quickly realized she couldn't keep screaming. Not because it'd provoke the thug—that was secondary. The heat grazing her mouth and throat told her instinctively she'd never use it again if she pushed it. The blank's powder was minimal, and the barrel's distance from her mouth was a stroke of misfortune's mercy. Otherwise, she'd be worrying about her brain, not her throat. But to Mikoto, the difference was negligible.
With treatment tomorrow, maybe a miracle could save her voice. But where would the money come from? Almost all her assets had gone to the organization for the laundering. Beyond that, there was no guarantee of release tomorrow or the next day. No reason for it, either. People that desperate for cash wouldn't care about a captive's vocal cords.
So, Mikoto could never be a voice actress again. Like her severed throat staring back at her body, she realized her death. So futilely, by one thug's mistake, her dream ended. Nothing remained for her.
"Fuck, shit, we're screwed. Sorry. You're not done for, right? Hey..."
The thug panicked and fled the room. Mikoto just laughed. It was absurdly ridiculous. Her life plummeting to ruin in an instant, ended by another's blunder—it was laughable in its injustice. Dazed, she stared at the closed door for a long time. Alone with her thoughts, she mulled over her total ruin.
The door opened. Mikoto didn't even look. Nothing mattered anymore.
But the heavy, rough footsteps differed from the familiar ones in the abandoned factory. Opening her eyes, she saw a man's face.
"Long time no see."
It was someone who absolutely shouldn't be here. She'd prayed never to face him again.
"Hey. Even if you're pissed, you can't just say that and leave like that, y'know?"
If she ever saw him again, she'd imagined fury and betrayal in his eyes. But he grumbled complaints while pulling a knife from his pocket to cut the ropes binding her. The seemingly unbreakable bonds snapped free effortlessly.
"If I pissed you off, sorry. Wait, no—actually, thinking about it, this pisses me off too. If something bothers you, say it while we're together. You say nothing the whole time, then just ghost? What was I supposed to do? Did I do something wrong to you specifically or what?"
For Mikoto, with nothing left, one tiny scrap remained. Not a future, hope, dream, or love—just a minuscule remnant.
She clawed at her scorched throat, grasping that final scrap.
"Go... away..."
Each word felt like her throat burning away. Everything she'd achieved smoldered slowly.
"Your throat doesn't sound right—don't talk."
His face hardened with concern. Mikoto gritted her teeth, trying to drive him away. The thugs, thinking she couldn't hear, shouted outside about what to do if he actually came.
She'd believed Seongha wouldn't come, so this scenario had stayed buried in her mind.
"Trap... they're... gonna catch you..."
Mikoto's heart had always been in her throat, not her chest. Opening her mouth to warn him now was like stoking the furnace herself—self-immolation, burning slowly.
"Got it. I'll get you out. Let's go."
"Can't... walk... burden... just go..."
Pain spread through every corner of her throat, piercing numb senses. Still, Mikoto kept screaming. It was her last way to help someone, to matter, to prove she was alive: begging the man before her to live.
Mikoto was selfish to the end, desperately clinging to what little remained.
"Sorry..."
What was left for Mikoto was Seongha alone.