Someone Else's Bowl
The stone floor of Dormitory 3 was exceptionally cold.
Beneath the knee pinning his neck to the flagstones, Marek wheezed and gagged for air. More than the agony of his broken toe, he seemed utterly incapable of processing the reality that the scrawny slip of a girl he had spent weeks tormenting had just slammed him face-first into the ground.
“Ghk… Y-You crazy bitch! Grad! Are you just gonna stand there?!”
Marek sprayed spit as he screamed toward the hulking figure standing by the steam heating pipe.
Seventeen-year-old Grad. He was the undisputed king of Dormitory 3, maintaining top-tier combat scores while lining his pockets by shaking down the younger kids for their ration chits. At that moment, however, Grad was still stupidly rubbing his jaw where my open palm had struck him square in the face.
Seventeen? Back in Korea, he'd be an eleventh grader scheming how to cut evening study hall. Wait, do kids even have night study these days?
To someone like me, who had lived to the ripe age of twenty-nine in my past life—grinding through the bottom rungs of society as a graveyard-shift convenience store clerk, a dive bar waiter, and an overnight PC café counter jockey—he was nothing more than an oversized brat. Spend eight years in the customer service trenches, and you can size up a person in an instant. You know immediately whether someone is genuinely itching for a brawl or just freezing up out of sheer terror.
Grad massaged his aching chin, his eyes darting down to Marek beneath my knee.
Had I subdued Marek through brute force alone, Grad would have charged me already. In this hellhole, kids either cried when they got hit or swung back blindly. But moments ago, I had effortlessly dodged every wild swing and struck only where it hurt most. That calculated precision was completely foreign to him.
He was trying to measure how far I was willing to go.
“Hey, Marek.”
I shifted more of my body weight onto the knee pressing into his nape.
“Urgh…!”
“Big bro lived a full life before this… actually, what I mean to say is, in my experience, anyone who messes with another person's rice bowl never lives a long and healthy life. A little punk like you is already running a territorial racket? Where are your manners, huh? Not a shred of basic decency.”
“Wh-What kind of bullshit are you spewing…!”
“One ration chit gets me a hard roll and a bowl of watery soup. That's my daily wage and my bare minimum living cost. You're trying to rob someone who doesn't even make minimum wage? You shameless piece of shit.”
I patted the inner pocket of my trousers to make sure my own chit was secure, then rummaged through Marek's waistband and ripped his free.
“Hey! That's mine!”
If you're going to covet what belongs to someone else, you'd better be prepared to lose your own. Isn't that right, Grad?
I lifted my chin and looked straight at the brute lingering by the heating pipe.
Grad's thick eyebrows twitched. He stood as tall as a grown man with a neck as thick as a bull's, but with his jaw still throbbing from my strike, he hesitated to close the distance. Around the room, the other children cowered on their bunks, holding their breath and watching the standoff with wide, frightened eyes.
“…Give back the chit, 317,” Grad growled low.
“Why should I? Are you his legal guardian? If your lackey causes a mess, you're the one who pays the bill.”
“You clearly don't understand the hierarchy here. Numbers dictate order, and whoever holds power is the law.”
“Is that so? Pretty sure I just rattled the jaw of that so-called 'power' a minute ago.”
Grad's lip trembled. I could see the internal debate playing out across his fists, clenching and unclenching in rapid succession. If a guy that size crashed into me with full momentum, this fourteen-year-old body wouldn't have a single intact bone left. But he held back because he couldn't predict my next move.
Fights are won on momentum. Back in my previous life, even the most belligerent drunks backed down not from guys holding clubs, but from the unhinged maniacs who grinned ear-to-ear while gripping a jagged, broken soju bottle.
Clack.
Right on cue, the iron grating on the door's observation slit rattled open.
“Fifteen minutes until evening distribution. Anyone finished eating, straighten your bunks.”
The guard's voice was dry, flat, and hollow as he paced through the corridor. The sharp clack-clack of his riot baton smacking against the reinforced steel door echoed through the hall.
That noise gave Grad his excuse to unclench his fists. He knew that causing any further commotion would land him demerits or get him thrown into solitary confinement.
“…To the mess hall.”
Grad turned away, roughly kicking Marek upright as he passed. Clutching his broken toe, Marek limped after him. His eyes burned with tears of blood and fury as he glared back at me, but the moment our gazes crossed, he flinched and ducked his head.
Yeah. You should have backed down from the start.
The moment the tension snapped, my stomach let out a loud rumble. My bruised ribs twinged with a sharp ache every time I drew a breath. First things first: I needed to eat.
The corridor leading to the mess hall was lined with drab, chilled concrete.
If anyone stepped outside the red boundary lines painted onto the floor, warning lights on the recessed wall-mounted machine gun emplacements would flare instantly. Security guards clad in navy uniforms flanked the path, clutching bolt-action rifles as their cold, predatory eyes tracked every subject's step.
Sifting through Sonya's memories, a pervasive rumor circulated among the children: survive until age twenty, and you would be reassigned to the Imperial military. Whether that was true, no one knew for sure—the ones who failed to meet the quota before then never returned.
Doped-up slop again today.
Reaching the distribution counter, I collected a bowl of thin cabbage soup and a dense lump of black bread. When I fed two ration chits into the mechanical punch, a second loaf slid into my tray.
The soup smelled foully of antiseptic and carried the harsh, metallic tang of licking raw iron. That came from the undiluted enhancer solution the facility mixed into our meals. To think this child had been forced to choke down this poison since the age of four; it was a flat-out miracle her taste buds hadn't withered away completely.
A triangle kimbap three days past its expiration date tasted better than this garbage.
Grumbling internally, I tore off a hunk of bread and drowned it in the broth. Beggars couldn't be choosers. Tomorrow morning brought the mandatory physical evaluation. If I went into it malnourished and my score plummeted, my number might end up on the next Graduation roster.
Carrying my tray to an empty corner, I chewed mechanically and forced it down.
Across the room, Grad's clique huddled together, muttering as they examined Marek's busted foot. With his chit gone, Marek was going to starve through the night. Serves him right. If you plan to snatch food out of someone else's mouth, you'd better be ready to have your own bowl emptied.
On the walk back to the quarters after dinner, my reflection caught in a polished metal panel mounted to the washroom wall. Pausing mid-stride as I wiped water from my hands, I leaned in to study my face.
Unnaturally pale skin framed by ragged, uneven platinum blonde hair. Irises of cool slate grey with a faint blue undertone, set beneath a straight nose and clean jawline that looked almost painted on. There was still a trace of baby fat clinging to the cheeks, but give this face a few years of proper nutrition, and she would turn heads across the entire continent.
Face passes with flying colors. Absolutely stellar.
Beneath the neck, however, the picture deteriorated rapidly. Track marks from countless syringe needles scarred the crooks of both arms, and her wrists and knees were unnaturally thick compared to the rest of her frame. Though short in stature, she carried the heavy, dense weight of a fully grown woman. A monstrous network of predator muscle and amplified nerves had been brutally forced onto the fragile skeleton of a child.
That was the reality of my current state: Test Subject 317.
All that from just one short burst of force?
Massaging my right thigh, I felt the muscle bunched tight as a boulder. Merging my modern knowledge with the sensory feedback of this body, I quickly pieced together its internal mechanics. The raw power was monstrous. The fatal flaw was that the body itself couldn't handle the strain. Exert too much force for more than a few seconds, just as I had against Marek and Grad, and the joints locked up completely.
Well, if I were a flawless, finished product, I wouldn't be rotting in Dormitory 3 in the first place.
There was a reason the researchers had cataloged me as a Stabilization Failure. The operating principle here was brutally simple: broken or useless components were discarded.
Whenever a child's scores dropped below the passing threshold, they were removed from the facility under the polite bureaucratic label of “graduation.” The researchers claimed the rejects were simply returned to their families, but only an idiot would buy that lie. Those scheduled for graduation were never escorted out through the main gates; they were loaded into the northern freight elevator, and not a single one had ever been seen again.
Returned home, my ass. They're probably gutting their organs to synthesize the next batch of enhancers.
In my previous life, illegal loan sharks made people sign waivers giving up physical custody. This place was a state-sanctioned corporate black enterprise running a legal organ-harvesting racket.
Returning to my bunk, I pulled the threadbare blanket over my shoulders. My designated spot was right beside the heavy entryway—an awful location where frigid drafts whistled through the gap and guards took great pleasure in kicking your frame every time they opened the door. In the far corner, Grad lay curled comfortably beside the radiating warmth of the steam pipe.
Tomorrow, the moment testing wraps up, I'm taking that bunk. I'll secure that warm spot first, and then I'll draft my resignation letter.
At six o'clock the following morning, an ear-splitting alarm shattered the silence as overhead fluorescent tubes flickered awake in unison.
“All subjects awake! Form ranks in the corridor!”
Guards in navy uniforms dragged their batons across the iron bars as they marched past. Conditioning took over; children tumbled from their cots and scrambled into numerical order. Even Marek, his broken toe throbbing violently and cold sweat pouring down his neck, stood propped on one trembling leg. Everyone knew that breaking formation meant taking a live rifle round through the thigh without warning.
The testing grounds occupied the center of Basement Level 2.
It was an enormous chamber thick with the pungent stench of cold steam and industrial lubricant. At the center loomed a massive pneumatic load-testing rig, built from blackened iron frames and heavy hoisting chains. The machine operated simply: the subject positioned their shoulders beneath the padded braces, grasped the twin lever arms, and pushed upward. A giant dial gauge suspended from the ceiling tracked the applied weight in real time.
Behind a pane of thick, reinforced ballistic glass, researchers in pristine white coats looked down with clipboards in hand, their expressions devoid of warmth.
“Subject 312, step forward.”
That was Grad. Moving with practiced ease, he mounted the steel platform and settled his broad shoulders against the braces.
Hisssss—!
A steam valve released with a high-pitched whine, and the needle on the overhead dial surged upward. Four hundred. Five hundred. Six hundred. Veins corded along Grad's neck, and the thick musculature of his forearms swelled like overinflated tires. The needle halted at 680 kilograms. He held the load for fifteen seconds before setting the levers down.
“Subject 312: peak load, 680 kilograms. Structural stability: acceptable. Pass.”
Behind the glass, a researcher made a neat checkmark without looking up. Grad rolled his shoulders and stepped off the platform, shooting a smug, lingering glance my way as he walked past.
Look at you puffing your chest out, you dung beetle.
Before my internal scoff could fade, my designation was called over the speaker.
“Subject 317, step forward.”
The moment my bare feet touched the platform, the bitter chill of the iron seeped into my soles. Squeezing my frame against the padded braces, I wrapped both hands firmly around the levers.
“Initiating pressure load.”
Psssssh!
A suffocating force bore down upon my shoulders, as if a boulder had dropped out of the sky. The gauge needle swept past three hundred, then four hundred in a heartbeat. The instant it crossed five hundred kilograms, a crushing weight slammed directly down my spinal column.
Up we go…!
Gritting my teeth, I locked my core and drove upward. In my past life, putting a fifty-kilogram barbell on my back would have ruptured three lumbar discs and sent me straight to an emergency room. But the skeletal frame of this augmented human held firm, refusing to snap even under six hundred kilograms of downforce.
The real crisis lay in the muscles and nerve channels.
Six hundred and fifty kilograms. The moment I heaved upward, a sharp, electric spasm tore through the inner flesh of my right thigh—the exact muscle group I had strained the previous night while dealing with Marek and Grad. A grinding agony flared between my patella and femur, threatening to buckle my legs beneath me.
If I collapse here, they'll dock my points immediately.
Holding my breath, I clamped down hard on my lower abdomen. Rather than relying on raw muscular exertion, I subtly adjusted the angles of my joints, redistributing the downward shear through the dense alignment of my bones. It was a survival technique beaten into my very marrow over ten years in this facility.
Clank-clank-clank!
The iron frame groaned as the levers rose one more notch. The needle pushed beyond seven hundred, finally quivering to a stop at 720 kilograms.
Behind the glass partition, the researchers froze, pens suspended over their papers. A fourteen-year-old girl, and a petite one at that, pushing past seven hundred kilograms was a rarity even within this testing block.
Yet that marked the absolute ceiling of my endurance.
My heart battered against my ribs like a caged beast, a fine tremor seized my fingers, and hot blood began to trickle from my right nostril. Pushing any further would tear the ligaments clean off my knee. The moment the yellow indicator lamp on the console stayed lit for three full seconds, I dropped the levers onto their safety catches.
CLANG!
“Subject 317: peak load, 720 kilograms. Pass. However, sustained output duration failed minimum standard, and acute neural recoil was observed. Overall adaptation score: 68.”
“Come on, can't you round it up by two points?”
“Request denied. Subject 337, enter.”
The researcher's mechanical voice crackled over the intercom. My calves trembled violently as I stepped down from the rig. Outwardly, I maintained a steady, casual stride, but internally, I desperately wanted to lean against the wall and collapse.
Grad stood nearby with his jaw set tight, his gaze fixed on me. The wariness in his eyes had deepened considerably. He had witnessed my sheer explosive force outstripping his own, but he had likely also realized my critical flaw: I couldn't maintain that power in a drawn-out struggle.
Doesn't matter. In a one-on-one, I'll snap your neck within three seconds anyway.
Unfortunately, my physical condition turned out to be the least of my worries. The real catastrophe struck once the morning evaluations concluded and all test subjects were herded into the central assembly hall.
A figure in an immaculate white military uniform stepped onto the raised podium at the front of the hall. It was the Imperial Facility Director, Ehrmann.
With his gaunt features and silver-rimmed spectacles, he looked less like a living human being and more like a corpse chiseled to perfection. As he stopped before the standing microphone, an orderly pulled open the large status board mounted against the wall. Displayed across the surface were the numbers and cumulative scores of all one hundred and twenty test subjects.
My designation, 317, rested on the forty-eighth line. Seventy-one points. A seemingly comfortable safety margin. At least, it had been until this morning.
Ehrmann leaned into the microphone.
“Effective today, by special directive of the Imperial Ministry of Military Affairs, the schedule for final subject selection has been completely revised.”
The air in the assembly hall plummeted to a dead freeze. Under the original protocol, the final selection process was reserved solely for subjects reaching twenty years of age. By all rights, I should have had a six-year grace period remaining.
“Beginning this week, all subjects, regardless of age, will undergo integrated evaluations. The bottom ten performers will be graduated on a weekly basis. The final deployment assessment for survivors reaching age twenty will remain unchanged.”
Not even a whisper broke the silence. In place of discussion, an orderly walked along the board, pinning bright crimson tags beside the lowest ten numbers.
“Commencing roll call for graduation candidates.”
“Subject 104. Subject 219. Subject 088…”
As each number was read, heavily armed security personnel strode purposefully into the ranks. Some children collapsed to the floor and wet themselves in terror; others shrieked for mercy, clutching desperately at the instructors' trousers. Without hesitation, the guards seized their limbs, bound them in restraints, and dragged them away like slaughtered cattle.
Mounted heavy machine guns glinted menacingly along the perimeter walls, their barrels trained on the crowd. Not a single soul dared to resist.
The guards did not drag their quarry south toward the facility's main gates. They hauled them straight toward the sealed northern iron doors.
…You psychotic bastards.
I bit my tongue until I tasted copper, counting down the lines on the scoreboard.
Forty-eighth out of one hundred and twenty. With ten culled just now, sixty-two subjects remained below me. If no new subjects were brought in and my rank stayed static, my name would end up on that execution list in precisely seven weeks.
What if a muscle spasm prevented me from hitting the target weight during next week's exam? What if I got injured in another scuffle with Grad's gang, causing my score to crater?
Back in Korea, corporate management had pulled every dirty trick in the book with 'voluntary resignations' and 'recommended layoffs.' This otherworldly workplace took the concept a step further: they simply severed your physical neck.
Director Ehrmann stepped down from the podium, snapping his ledger shut. The heavy northern doors clanged shut behind him, cutting off the dying screams of the condemned children.
I wanted to live. In my past life, I had run from a brain tumor only to get flattened by a delivery truck. I had zero intention of letting my life end in a slaughterhouse like this.
Time to haul ass.
The only rational move when trapped in a corporate meat grinder like this was to quit immediately. And in this facility, the only way to get a resignation letter approved was to cave in a guard's skull and vault over the perimeter wall.
That evening, in the dinner queue.
Balancing my meal tray, I casually slid onto the bench directly opposite Grad. The older boys sitting beside him froze mid-motion, their spoons hovering in the air. Marek, his foot wrapped in thick layers of dirty bandages, hovered uselessly against the far wall, not daring to approach the table.
Grad set his spoon down and glared across the table.
“This isn't your seat.”
“He's graduating next week anyway,” I said flatly.
Grad's eyebrow shot up.
“You saw the board today. His score tanked to twenty-two points this morning. That puts him right at the top of next week's purge list, doesn't it?”
“…And?”
“So I'm taking his cot. The one next to the heating pipe.”
“You? Why would I let an uncontrollable psycho—”
“Cut the tough guy act. I'm not looking to be your friend; I'm offering a business transaction.”
I swallowed a spoonful of the watery broth, lowering my voice so only Grad could catch the syllables.
“I'm breaking out of this place.”
Grad's hand froze completely. His eyes darted nervously across the mess hall, checking the perimeter.
“…What kind of crazy talk is that?”
“You know the layout and schedule of the laundry room. Once every two weeks, that oversized linen cart gets hauled away. A single guard pushes it down the northern corridor toward the rear exit, right behind the emergency maintenance hatch.”
“Are you insane? You can't open that security door from the inside. Only high-ranking officers carry the keys.”
“I'll handle the lock myself. All I need from you is the guard rotation schedule and patrol routes you've picked up over the past ten years.”
Grad stared at me for a long, silent beat. Once he realized there wasn't a shred of bluff or hesitation in my expression, the corner of his mouth twisted upward into a smirk.
“You know it's a firing squad if you get caught, right?”
“Better to die catching a bullet while trying to escape than to sit on my ass waiting to be processed into fertilizer.”
Grad snorted quietly, pulling his tray closer.
“Fair enough. If you lie flat inside that cart, your feet will stick out past the frame. One of the wheels is bent, so it rattles twice on every rotation. Shifts rotate every eight hours. The guy on duty Wednesday nights barely glances at the left corner before signing off.”
The negotiation was settled in under a minute.
Evening roll call concluded, followed by the dull chime signaling lights-out.
The overhead fluorescent lights died, plunging the dormitory into darkness save for the pale blue glow of an emergency lamp filtering through the ceiling vent.
I walked confidently down the central aisle toward the coveted bunk resting right beside the steam heating pipe.
With the tip of my foot, I nudged Marek's foul-smelling, ragged bundle of clothes off the mattress, letting it tumble onto the dusty floor. Unfurling my own thin blanket, I spread it neatly across the wire frame.
A gentle, radiating warmth seeped up through the iron pipe, soothing the ache in my lower back.
Compared to shivering by the entrance while freezing winds cut through the door gaps, this was nothing short of a luxury suite.
So warm. I should have stolen this spot ages ago.
As I stretched out with deep satisfaction, the dragging sound of an uneven limp drifted down the corridor.
“…Hey.”
It was Marek.
Dragging his yellowed foot bandages across the floor, he came to a halt at the edge of the bunk. His face was flushed crimson with impotent rage and humiliation.
“What the hell… do you think you're doing here?”
“Are you blind? I'm lying down to sleep,” I replied, resting my head against the thin pillow without sparing him a glance.
Marek's breathing turned ragged. The harsh grinding of his teeth broke through the quiet room.
“That's my bed! Get the fuck out!”
“Too bad. It's mine now.”
“You crazy little bitch…!”
Stamping his uninjured foot, Marek raised an arm as if to strike. But the memory of his toe being crushed beneath my heel clearly lingered; his hand trembled in midair, unable to close the distance to grab my collar.
Failing to muster the courage, he turned pleading eyes toward Grad, who lay on the adjacent bunk.
“Grad! This bitch stole my cot! Are you just gonna lie there and let her take it?!”
Despite the desperate plea, Grad remained turned toward the wall, not twitching a muscle. The only sound was the faint squeak of his bedsprings as he settled deeper.
“Grad…?”
“Shut your mouth and go to sleep. You're giving me a headache,” Grad's flat, disinterested voice answered.
“B-But… she's lying in my bed! Where am I supposed to sleep?!”
“There's an open spot by the door.” Grad adjusted his pillow, his tone cold and dismissive. “You're riding the northern elevator next week anyway. What difference does a bunk make? Her old spot by the entrance is empty. Go crawl into it.”
“…What?”
Every ounce of color drained from Marek's face. The phrase 'next week' struck him like a physical blow. The memory of his designation highlighted in crimson after his morning score of twenty-two flashed behind his eyes.
Realizing he had been thoroughly discarded, Marek's lips quivered.
“Grad, I… my foot's broken, I can't sleep by the door…! The guards kick anyone in that spot every time they do their rounds…!”
“Then just die.”
Grad didn't bother offering another word.
Marek stood frozen, clutching his hair with trembling fingers. The other children lying in their bunks held their breath, careful not to make a sound. Even the lackeys who had spent yesterday laughing behind Marek's back as he extorted chits were now resolutely facing the wall, pretending to be fast asleep.
Seniority and restructuring in this hellhole were pitiless. In an environment like this, there was zero sympathy to spare for someone whose performance metrics had fallen off a cliff.
Propping an elbow on the mattress, I rested my chin in my hand and looked up at the shattered boy.
“Hey, Marek.”
His bloodshot eyes met mine, brimming with a pathetic mixture of terror and resentment.
“I told you already. Anyone who acts above their station and steals another person's rice bowl never lives a long life.”
“…Shut up. Shut up, you psycho…”
“All talk and no bite. You had plenty of fun these past two years, didn't you? Shoving weaker kids toward the drafty doorway and stealing their bread? That cold slab by the entrance is the exact bed you chased them into.”
I gestured with my chin toward the vacant, draft-swept cot beside the door.
“If you feel wronged, come take it back. Do what you always did. If you don't like it, kill me. That is, if you actually have the guts.”
“…I'll curse you till the day I die. When they drag me away, I swear to God I'll drag you down with me…!” Marek spat, a trace of bloody saliva flying through his bared teeth.
“Be my guest. Assuming you even have the energy left to flap that mouth by next week.”
Offering him a cold, mocking smirk, I settled my head fully back onto the pillow.
Marek stood shaking with clenched fists for several long moments. But the second I twitched a finger as if preparing to sit up, he scrambled backward in sheer panic. Dragging his mangled foot, he retreated miserably into the darkness.
A short while later, the faint creak of the door-side bunk drifted across the room, followed by muffled, stifled sobs. Through the silence came the distinct chatter of teeth knocking together against the freezing draft slicing beneath the door.
Reap what you sow.
I felt no pity for him. The reality of my own impending deadline terrified me just as much. If I hadn't forced Grad into a corner, I would be the one waiting for the slaughter. I had no luxury to waste sympathy on anyone else.
Once the room settled into total quiet, broken only by the rhythmic breathing of sleeping children, I quietly rolled over toward the wall by the heating pipe.
Extending my right index finger, I used the edge of my fingernail to scratch into the shadowed concrete obscured behind the bed's iron frame.
Scritch. Scritch.
Fine white stone dust gathered beneath my nail.
A rough square representing the dormitory. Beside it, the mess hall and the testing grounds. Then, the route of the laundry cart leading toward the northern laundry room that Grad had described. The exact point where the bent wheel rattled twice, and the perimeter line where guards changed their eight-hour shifts.
Finally, right before the heavy iron exterior door, I dug the tip of my nail deep into the stone, carving a large, deliberate question mark.
It was the first blueprint of my escape.
Just you wait, Ehrmann.
I intended to deliver my letter of resignation my own way—written in fresh blood and shoved violently down his throat.
If I wanted to reclaim my peaceful, unemployed life, I was going to tear this godforsaken facility apart.