Natural light gave way to artificial, as the lightbulb overhead flickered. “Mask,” the kids whispered to each other, “mask.”

  Bats and mallets clattered on the floor, as they fitted the straps of elastomeric half-mask respirators behind their heads and necks. Ahrisu’s respirator was tangled in her clothes, where it was going to stay. She shuddered at the thought of putting it on over her sore nose.

  The lift thudded to a stop, and a bell rang, as the doors swished open. The younger kids dashed out, but didn’t wander far from their older friends.

  Ahrisu exited last, shambling forward a few more steps so her backpack wasn’t caught in the closing doors.

  The tunnel was tiled in smooth plaster, from ceiling to walls and floor. It reminded her of an indoor swimming pool she once stumbled upon in an abandoned recreational center in Pohang. The chlorine water long drained, she had intruded on the territory of a jugyeonsa, the spider yogwe the size of her forearm and the ruler of a fortress-sized web spanning half the pool. But jugyeonsa preyed on snakes to feed on their venom so this one let her sleep in a corner it didn't claim.

  The underground here decidedly had no spider yogwe building kingdoms. Instead, opposing the elevator were stalls with different goods and products, divided by large panels of marine plywood. Clothing racks stood in rowboats, which were pinned to the floor by mooring lines tied around metal cleats. Scuba tanks, with a mask and regulator each, were placed beside the counters of every shopping stall.

  Gomusin and rain boots were arranged in rubber daeya, the colorful basins themselves sitting on pool floats. Most were rings and some ducks and pink flamingos.

  Ahrisu resisted the urge to kick the bright yellow duck floats. They were lucky they were cute.

  A woman in her 30s handed out ppeongtwigi to the kids, whose respirators hung around their necks so they could eat. Her big eyes were perpetually squinted because she used all her facial muscles to smile widely while calling the kids “brats” and “rascals.”

  The round, plate-shaped puffed rice crunched with every bite, and the kids dropped crumbs on their respirators and clothes. They munched on their second ppeongtwigi—yes, she kept track—and trailed after the woman between the rowboats.

  One of the shirts on the rack was a white graphic tee: a cartoon cat character eating through a box of sweet potatoes. First ppeongtwigi, now goguma. A few minutes down here and food Ahrisu couldn’t eat right now gloated at her.

  The shopkeeper twisted the large bag of ppeongtwigi and tied it while shooing the kids away. They ran off, thanking her with short bows, and went down the left, where the passageway twisted and curved.

  To the right were more shopping stalls, one of them offering elastomeric respirators and filters. Her filter was clean, but she should get a new one while she still could—

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  Ahrisu stumbled backwards, her backpack squishing against the elevator. The shopkeeper’s eyes, their size amplified by thick double eyelids, were trained on her.

  “Where’s your respirator?” she asked. “Did you forget it? Or do you not have one? You can get one right here. Wait, what’s wrong with your face?”

  Her face? What about her—Ahrisu yanked her hood down and staggered to the left, avoiding the shopkeeper’s outstretched hands. She thoughtlessly, fearlessly, stared back at a stranger.

  Darting away, Ahrisu rushed down the tunnel. “Did your parents hit you?” the woman called out. “Did you run away from home?” Her voice echoed, but footsteps didn’t follow.

  A path of tactile paving steered her through bends and curves, and her feet slipped on the truncated lines.

  When the yellow warning plates turned to the left and right, she chose the former and crouched. Her right sneaker glowed from the LED lights lining the floor where it met the wall.

  One step into civilization and she encountered someone well-meaning, yet nosy. The worst type of person for her current situation. If adults found out she legally didn't exist, they'd tell the authorities, who would become new pursuers. She could shake them off, but if they caught her, bigger trouble would catch up.

  She shook her head to chase away her imagination and the memories creeping up on her. Hopefully, the shopkeeper didn't care too much.

  Wheels rolled on the floor. A pair of middle-aged men, wearing fishing bibs and rubber boots, pushed a trolley stacked with crates. They glanced at Ahrisu, who covered her face with her hood. And made herself look more suspicious.

  When the sound of rolling wheels grew fainter, she raised her head. The men continued down the pedestrian walkway and turned a corner to the right.

  Sighing, Ahrisu rested her shoulder against the wall. The walkway resembled the underground system for subways in cities, where commuters shopped and ate meals in between stops or to avoid the weather aboveground.

  Across from her, however, weren't stores and restaurants, but a lengthy space for vertical farming. Shelves upon shelves of leafy greens sprouted under artificial sunlight, the LED lights making the ceiling too bright to stare at for long. Deep grooves in the floor were paired with shutters currently raised up.

  Hedges of chives were planted, too, and smaller sections were devoted to mushrooms, tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, cheongyang chili peppers, and prized strawberries. She tasted the latter once, its sweetness dust on her tongue . . .

  The direction the men with the trolley came from opened to another area through a door-less entrance. A colorful train passed by.

  Ahrisu stood with some effort, pressing her palms against her knees. Lines of rope were nailed too close to the ceiling to grab and pull herself up with.

  A shopping cart cruised by next. Tugging on the straps of her backpack with her thumbs, she plodded down the walkway and poked her head through the entrance, marked by another deep groove in the floor.

  The cart trundled along a single cable inserted in the floor, like a cable car, and two lanes of this flowed in opposite directions. The tracks continued up a gentle slope in the middle of a wide staircase, and the cart passed a descending house, green with a sloped roof.

  No, it was one of the gondolas from the Ferris wheel. The number 12 was printed on its door. Inside were the seats, untouched.

  Shopping carts, gondolas, trolleys, toy trains that could seat four people, giant, yellow teacups with beverages spilling out painted on the rims, and sea lions balancing balls on their noses traveled ceaselessly at a leisure pace.

  The “house” flowed farther down towards a cargo elevator, where people unloaded boxes and stacked them on off-track carts. Onions, carrots, and other root vegetables stuck out of the flaps.

  As the gondola made a U-turn and joined the right-hand track, the adult men at the elevator burst out laughing. They took turns hitting the back of a young man, the youngest there. His work gloves didn’t reach his wrists.

  Ahrisu accompanied the “house” up the stairs. Both the steps and the slope for the tracks were covered in anti-slip grip tape.

  People disappeared into the walls. Because short passageways led to various chambers. The people who “disappeared” sat at counters facing kitchens, like a bar.

  Letting the gondola go ahead first, she devoured the varying aromas wafting in the air. Her nose ached, but the pain didn’t dull her sense of smell. Or cause her to lose her appetite. At this rate, her first priority was eating.

  Women mixed fresh vegetables, seasonal greens, and kimchi with noodles and a spicy gochujang sauce to serve bibim-guksu to waiting customers.

  An adult brushed past Ahrisu, who drifted too close without realizing, and strolled down the passageway. She climbed the stairs, with slow, deliberate steps.

  In the next chamber, kimbap were rolled up after layering the sheets of gim with barley rice, kkaennip, carrots, cucumbers, danmuji, and fried tofu, then brushed with sesame oil. The sliced kimbap were served with large bowls of miyeok-guk, the seaweed soup huffing clouds of steam.

  Men stood behind desk-sized griddles and cut pajeon with metal spatulas before transferring the green onion fritters to plates. Others flipped over bindae-tteok, the mung bean pancakes sizzling in oil and its edges turning crispy.

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  This was a dangerous place.

  Before Ahrisu gave in to her stomach and splurged on food, she rushed to the top of the stairs and caught up with the “house.”

  She left behind the inside of an ant colony for a marketplace. While the cable car tracks ran through the middle of a spacious pathway, the markets on both sides were elevated from the ground floor, accessed by either wide staircases of five steps or ramps.

  It was as if she walked on subway tracks, and the stalls and lots were the platforms above. Ahrisu shuffled through the bustling crowd, raising her shoulders to her ears to avoid bumping into others. In any case, the slow-going pace gave her time to scan her surroundings.

  The produce from vertical farming were arranged in sokuri, the finely woven bamboo baskets round and also rimmed to prevent spills.

  Baechu were piled high in huge daeya, the leaves of the cabbages a rich green color with prominent white veins. It was the peak of gimjang season, but baechu was eaten in many dishes, outside of kimchi.

  But the crown jewel of any market were the fruits. Fewer people blocked Ahrisu’s view of them.

  The smooth skins of apples reflected light. Beside them were bae, the Korean pears round and yellowish and one of the few fruits she sometimes ate in winter because she didn’t have to peel them. The juice of the sweet and crunchy bae refreshed her mouth after the long streak of snacks and instant foods she ate.

  There were three different types of persimmons: the regular yellow-orange gam; the wrinkly gotgam, dried until natural, white powder formed on the skin; and the ultra-sweet yeonsi, persimmons that ripened to resemble tomatoes and were so soft they had to be eaten with a spoon.

  Gyul were arranged as towers, the tangerines orange, round, and flat. They were another fruit she ate in winter because they were easy to peel.

  The bright yellow yuja had a refreshing fragrance, and the smallest in number were the Hallabong. Whether in the last month of 2056 or several decades ago, the sweet oranges were always expensive.

  The strawberries caught Ahrisu's eye, and their redness intensified the longer she gawked at them. But she had no time to waste being entranced by the fruits or any money to spend on them.

  A line formed near the stairs of one of the stalls, and the people waiting carried small jars and containers. Others evaded the traffic jam by crossing the tracks to the other side.

  Up ahead was a small space between larger stalls, where a variety of cheong was sold. The syrups ranged from plum and quince to ginger, including her favorite yuja, though she wasn’t adding the citron syrup to hot water any time soon. Why was there so much yellow down here?

  The line wasn’t for cheong, however, as workers used the space to unload onggi from a wagon on the cable car tracks. Each earthenware jar required two men to lift and place on the floor. By guessing alone, the onggi contained the three jang: gochujang, doenjang, and ganjang.

  Ahrisu propped up her foot on a ramp, as she was fenced in by the line. As expected, dollops of red pepper paste and soybean paste and ladles of soy sauce were distributed.

  “Today’s dinner is stew,” a woman shared while receiving soybean paste. “My oldest wanted doenjang-jjigae with everything possible in there. Mushrooms, onions, potato, squash, tofu. Even radish!”

  Ahrisu could smell the soybean paste stew served with a bowl of freshly cooked rice. How something salty and pungent tasted like honey in her mouth.

  Like strawberries, she couldn't remember the taste of a home-cooked meal. Well, she could, but she didn’t want to think about it.

  Once the onggi were unloaded, the wagon went ahead, triggering the vehicles to move again. She squeezed past people in the line and timed her crossing through the tracks before bounding across and avoiding seals and teacups.

  On the other side of the marketplace, shopkeepers scooped cups of white rice, barley grain, and soybeans into medium-sized burlap sacks. Dried and salted foods were sold next to freshly made noodles that only had to be boiled.

  Ahrisu spotted one of her destinations. Snacks and instant foods took up three lots, though other non-food items shared the same space. As expected, mostly kids congregated there, though she didn't see the dokkaebi occultists or wannabe Viking warriors among them.

  Next door, customers examined sweet potatoes and squash, picking and dropping them until their baskets were filled. The bin for the potatoes was empty. She smelled the onions, garlic, and ginger from here. A generator droned, as it powered a fridge holding eggs, a mix of poultry and quail.

  The end of the marketplace was the base of more stairs going up to another ant colony. While the last lot on the left-hand side was empty, the opposing stall was visited by a teenage boy. He didn’t peruse and instead waited.

  Ahrisu reached her main destination. Tanks, box-shaped and cylindrical, took up most of the space behind the counter and fit squarely under the ceiling. Water jugs, as big as the onggi, were poured into filters.

  A tall woman in her 30s—her long, black hair haphazardly tied back with a claw clip—filled a pitcher with water from one of the filters.

  From the boy’s hand came a jangling sound. He held a palmful of yeopjeon, squares cut out of the brass token coins to keep them on braided strings. That wasn’t a “currency” used in any of the cities or rural towns Ahrisu visited.

  The boy unclasped the metal lock of the string and took out two coins. After paying, he left with his full pitcher, holding it against his stomach for extra support.

  The woman, whose pretty features culminated in a “handsome” face, dried her hands on a rag. But she paused mid-turn. To look at Ahrisu, who lowered her head.

  “You need water?” the shopkeeper asked seamlessly. “How much?”

  Ahrisu pulled down her hood. “D-Do, do you take cash?”

  “Ah, you’re a new face.” The shopkeeper leaned against the counter on her elbows and picked up one of the yeopjeon. She pinched it between her fingers.

  “We operate a bit differently here. This is our ‘money,’ and you ‘pay’ for everything with it. You earn them by taking jobs posted at the bulletin board. There’re lots, don’t worry, but the best-paying ones go quickly. Then, you exchange these yeopjeon with anything sold or offered here.”

  Straightening her posture, she appraised the marketplace. “It’s late in the day so there won’t be much work left. How about this? I’ll give you drinking water for free and exchange your money for yeopjeon. Even with a little bit of money, you’ll end up with a lot.”

  While the shopkeeper spoke, Ahrisu’s shoulders had regained some of their edge and height. Plenty of token coins, on top of free water. The offer further lifted her mood from the dirt it crawled in for the past few days.

  People living here received as much as they worked for and didn’t have to worry about money. But it wasn’t a life for her, and her shoulders deflated. She couldn’t settle down here or anywhere. Because of them. And, most of all, because of herself.

  Ahrisu opened her backpack halfway to retrieve her water bottle and gave it to the shopkeeper with both hands. The shopkeeper asked if she wanted to exchange all her money, which was a definite “no,” and the woman nodded.

  “Alright, then I’ll help you calculate how many yeopjeon you’ll need for now. You can always exchange more later, too.”

  While she filled the water bottle, she rattled off a list of necessities. Ahrisu cleared her throat to reply “yes” or “no” to each loudly, and the shopkeeper nodded along. She twisted the cap closed and handed it back. The water bottle was the heaviest it had ever been, and Ahrisu cradled it in her arms.

  “Do you need room and board?” the shopkeeper asked. “We don’t have any available spaces for new tenants, but you can rent a bed. It’s one nyang for every night.”

  Ahrisu couldn’t live here, even if she wanted to. That made it easier for her to say “no,” though the tinge of disappointment in her voice made her grimace. There was no reason for her to be upset.

  “Well,” said the shopkeeper, “I’m sure you know what you’re doing. To be on the safe side, I’d say you’ll need about 20 yeopjeon to start off. Do you have ?10,000?”

  Ahrisu did, in fact, have plenty of Sejong the Great to pick and choose from. She stuffed her bottle in her backpack before digging through to peel a green banknote out of the envelope.

  Taking it, the shopkeeper opened a tin box from underneath the counter. Coins clattered, and she added them to a braided string with a metal clasp.

  Ahrisu received the string of yeopjeon with both hands. The token coins were heavy in her palm and cool to the touch. Her own. Eyeing the shopkeeper, she shifted to the side and lowered her arm to check the amount was correct. 20.

  The shopkeeper didn't seem to mind—or ignored her—and opened a large ledger that shook the countertop with a loud thunk. She flipped through the pages and clicked a ballpoint pen.

  “We have to record whenever yeopjeon are exchanged,” she explained while jotting down a name and “two nyang.” “To keep track of transactions and inventory. What’s your name?”

  “Ah-Ahrisu.” She tried again. “Ahrisu.”

  “I’m assuming ‘Ah’ is not your surname.”

  “Yes. Just Ahrisu.”

  “Okay. You’re the only ‘Ahrisu’ around here so I don’t need any other details.”

  The shopkeeper took a moment longer to record the ?10,000 exchange for 20 yeopjeon before pointing to her right and Ahrisu’s left.

  “Up those stairs, there are public baths and coin laundry services. From there, just go up to the top, and you’ll find the bulletin board. You’ll want to get there by six in the morning for the high-paying jobs. It’s first come, first serve.”

  Ahrisu slipped the string of yeopjeon in her jeans’ pocket. “Th-Thank you. For helping me. And for the water.”

  Her already quiet voice died down at an elderly man, carrying a jug, exclaiming, “Aigoo, our Buchonjang-nim! What’s the occasion? Where did Miss Kang go?”

  No wonder the shopkeeper was knowledgeable. She was the “vice-village chief” of this place, if the elderly man wasn’t teasing her.

  “Ms. Kang’s husband returned today,” she replied, smiling. “She wanted to make dinner for him so I’m just stepping in for her.” The vice-village chief took the jug from the elderly man and glanced at Ahrisu. “If you need help,” she said in a lowered voice, “you know where to look.”

  As another conversation sprang up between the vice-village chief and elderly man, Ahrisu bowed her head in thanks and stepped away. Clutching the yeopjeon in her pocket, she climbed up the stairs to the ant colony, in search of the public bath.