Chapter 5.1

Chapter 5.1

After three days of only catching sunlight through the bars, I vowed never to openly break the rules anymore.

I also decided not to hope for luck.

It started with something bizarre enough to belong in the horror corner of a third-rate magazine, and being possessed in the body of a woman locked in prison—out of all the bodies—felt like I’d already run out of whatever luck I had left.

Three days after I put in my request to Eyes, a response came from Choksae.

“Entertainment News, November Issue has a Geummi feature. Three packs of cigarettes.”

Before heading to the workshop, Eyes whispered this, and I nodded solemnly. After hearing we’d exchange the cigarettes and magazine at a designated spot, I felt, for the first time in a long while, like I could breathe again.

For two months, I had been trapped in the body of an unknown woman and living as an inmate.

No matter how certain I was of my sanity, there were moments when I doubted if I really was crazy.

This is all completely absurd. What if I’m truly insane? What if, like Wangnyeo or Yera said, something in me has snapped?

But I clearly remembered my life as Geummi.

My birthday, where I was born, the sh*tty memories of childhood, the twists and turns before my debut, the exhilarating moments on stage, the taste of my favorite foods, perfumes, even the men I’d slept with… I remembered it all. That had to be my life.

Until now, I’d felt like I was drifting on a vast ocean in a tiny boat, not knowing how to steer.

But now, I finally found a clue. It felt like I’d secured a meaningful lifeline connecting two disparate worlds.

Yes, you’re Geummi. Kim Geummi, the scrappy fighter from Ssangmi-dong, Yongcheon-gu. Don’t forget how you got to where you were. So, I can find a way out of this damned situation.

I steeled myself, as if brainwashing my own mind.

I had set foot on the mountain; now I just had to climb over it. Sure, another mountain probably waited ahead, but with three packs of cigarettes, I figured I could clear the first peak without trouble. But the problem, as expected, stood waiting for me at a distance.

“No commissary money? What do you mean?”

I clung to the iron bars, questioning Chief Park, who was handling commissary purchases. He checked the ledger and replied, sounding annoyed.

“There’s none, so there’s none. Look here, No. 7059, commissary balance: zero won.”

The handwritten ledger clearly showed my inmate number with a blank amount next to it. I couldn’t believe it.

“Why zero? I’ve been locked up for two years. How can there not be a single won?”

“How should I know that?”

It wasn’t his problem, so Chief Park’s response was indifferent. But for me, this wasn’t something I could brush off with an “Okay, I understand.”

“Did they miss something when I was transferred? There’s no way my family or friends—someone—haven’t deposited a single won all this time.”

“How would I know? No. 5983, come out and get your requested items.”

Yera pushed me aside from the bars and took her items through the slot. I quickly grabbed the bars again.

“What about the workshop? Nothing from my labor either?!”

Going to the workshop for over eight hours a day, morning and afternoon, earned a small amount. But it varied slightly depending on the workshop. Inmates without family or friends to send money relied on that to buy necessities.

I’d diligently gone to the workshop after facing reality head-on. I couldn’t believe there wasn’t even a penny. My grip on the bars tightened.

“You’re lying, right? I’ve been working for two months! How can there not be a single won? Something’s wrong…!”

I’d expected the commissary to be low, sure.

Inmates with no money had to make do with the bare minimum supplies provided by the state. Ham Yeohee’s belongings were not just modest, they were shabby and pitiful.

While other inmates bought laceless white sneakers with their commissary, Yeohee still wore white rubber shoes. She couldn’t even afford a bra, which had to be purchased, so she went around bare-chested. Still, I never imagined it would be zero.

“That’s written by Hands, isn’t it? What if my money went somewhere? You can at least check, can’t you? Please?”

According to Eyes, such things happened all the time. Pocketing a bit of commissary money and not recording it was easy enough, and no one would bat an eye. In a prison where guards practically ruled as kings, what could a convict possibly say?

But I was desperate. The amount enough to buy three packs of cigarettes—no, even just one—should have been recorded in that ledger. To me, it was no different from another word for hope. I was desperate. I was clinging.