The contract [Yeongyu]

chapter-1

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The room Beomgyu called “home” was hardly more than a square of rotting wood and thin walls that groaned when the wind pressed against them. The single window had no glass, just a broken frame covered with a scrap of cloth he had found in the trash weeks ago. At night, cold slipped in easily, crawling under his thin shirt and biting at his bones.

The floor was bare. No mattress, no bedjust the dusty boards where he curled up, pulling his knees to his chest as if his arms could protect him from hunger. His ribs pressed against his skin every time he shifted, sharp reminders that he hadn’t eaten properly in days.

Food was survival, and survival was luck. Some nights, luck came in the form of leftover bread tossed outside the bakery, hard as stone but edible if he chewed slowly. Other nights, he had nothing but water, stolen from the pump behind the market. Tonight, his stomach twisted angrily, a hollow ache echoing louder than the silence around him.

Beomgyu didn’t complain. He didn’t fight. He learned early that protests got him nowhere. His neighbors yelled at him when he tried to ask for food, shopkeepers pushed him away when he lingered too long by their stalls. He never raised his voice back only lowered his head, nodding, whispering apologies like a trained pet afraid of being kicked.

He was small like that quiet, obedient, desperate.

When he walked through the streets, no one saw him. Or maybe they chose not to. His hair was tangled, his clothes mismatched, thin fabric with holes that let the cold in. His shoes had given up months ago, the soles torn, so now his feet were always dirty, scraped from the stones of the alleys.

Still, he carried himself gently, carefully, like a boy afraid to break what little he had left.

That night, he sat against the wall, head resting on his knees. His eyes stung from lack of sleep, but his body was too restless to let him drift off. Hunger kept him awake, gnawing at him, louder than any lullaby the night could offer.

A soft whimper slipped out of his lips not for anyone to hear, not even for himself. Just the kind of sound a starving body makes when it’s too tired to cry. He pressed his forehead to his arms, whispering words he didn’t believe in anymore.

“Tomorrow… maybe tomorrow I’ll find something.”

But tomorrow never promised anything to boys like Beomgyu.

The morning came.

Light leaked through the torn scrap of cloth that hung over Beomgyu’s window, painting the shack in pale, gray streaks. He stirred, groaning softly as he rolled onto his side. His body felt heavier than stone, weighed down not by sleep but by the ache of hunger that hadn’t left him for days.

His throat was dry. His lips cracked when he licked them. He pushed himself up slowly, arms trembling from the effort as if standing required more strength than he had left.

The shack was empty, as always. Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. Just broken boards, dust, and a boy who had grown too used to both.

Beomgyu sat for a while, knees to his chest, staring blankly at the floor. He wanted to move, but his body argued with him, every muscle begging him to lie back down. But lying down meant nothing changed. And Beomgyu… Beomgyu still hoped for change.

So he stood.

His bare feet touched the cold ground as he stepped outside. The morning air hit his face, sharp and biting, making him shiver. The streets were waking up—merchants pulling carts, women carrying baskets of vegetables, children running with energy he could no longer remember having.

Beomgyu moved quietly, head lowered, eyes on the dirt. People didn’t like when he looked at them too long. He had learned that lesson quickly.

The bakery was his first stop. He lingered by the corner, watching as trays of golden bread were carried out to be displayed. The smell hit him like a punchwarm, sweet, intoxicating. His stomach growled loudly, but he didn’t reach forward. He never did. The last time he tried, he was shoved so hard he hit the ground, and the shopkeeper shouted until the whole street stared.

So Beomgyu just watched. His lips parted slightly, like a dog waiting for scraps. His eyes followed every piece of bread as though memorizing it would somehow feed him.

A boy his age walked by with a small loaf in hand, tearing it apart casually, crumbs falling to the ground. Beomgyu’s gaze flickered to the crumbs, and for a second, he thought of picking them up. But the boy glanced his way, frowning, and Beomgyu quickly lowered his head again, stepping back.

His stomach hurt. His chest hurt worse.

He moved on.

At the water pump, he cupped his hands, scooping cold water to his lips. It wasn’t food, but it quieted the ache for a few moments. Drops slid down his chin, soaking into the collar of his thin shirt.

When he was done, he sat by the wall, pulling his knees up again. He pressed his face into his arms, listening to the noise of the street—laughter, bargaining, footsteps. All sounds that belonged to lives bigger than his.

And somewhere, beyond the noise, beyond the crowd, eyes followed him again.

The same heavy gaze. Patient. Calculating. Watching the way Beomgyu obeyed the world without a word, how he never resisted, how hunger had turned him into something small and silent.

Like a stray dog no one claimed.

Like a boy waiting to be bought.