Glass Blade

The market behind Gwanghwamun Gate was alive with steam and noise. Lanterns swayed on strings, vendors called out prices, chestnuts cracked in hot pans, and a rope-drummer thumped a rhythm that stitched the air together. Five-year-old Han Jiwon held his mother’s hand with one fist and a dalgona candy with the other. A tiny crane was pressed into its brittle amber surface. He lifted it up to the light, delighted that the world looked like honey through the sugar window. “Don’t break the crane,” his mother said, smiling. “I won’t,” he promised, solemn as only a child can be. His father, tall and elegant, carrying bags of skewers, crouched to Jiwon’s height. “If you win the shape, we’ll frame it.” “Frame it?” Jiwon’s eyes went wide. “He’s teasing,” his mother laughed, pulling him close. The warmth of her perfume clung to the air, jasmine and soap. Beside her stood Seo Mira, dressed neatly in a white blouse with a single pearl at her throat. A family friend. Almost family. She carried one of Mr. Han’s bags without being asked, smoothing Mrs. Han’s scarf when the wind tugged it loose. She smiled softly, as though her place here had been earned long ago. “Such a beautiful boy,” Mira said, her voice low and affectionate. “He looks like you today.” Mrs. Han flushed and shook her head. “You’re too kind.” But Mira’s smile, though soft, held the tiniest tremor at the corners. The older brothers orbited nearby: Minjae, the eldest, tugging Taeyang back from a chicken stall; Jungho, fanning his face against tofu steam. The family was together but loosened by food and noise, like a shirt undone at the collar. That was when a single red balloon slipped loose from a vendor’s stall. It floated toward the alley that cut between storage sheds and the ramp to an underground parking lot. The balloon bobbed like it had chosen Jiwon. “Red!” Jiwon gasped. “I want it!” “You already have candy,” his mother said, still laughing. “Just one balloon. Please.” His father brushed his hair back. “After we watch the rope cups, alright?” But Jiwon’s eyes were on the drifting balloon. He pulled against his mother’s hand. She let her attention slide for a second—answering Minjae, steadying Taeyang, smiling at Mira—and in that soft opening, Jiwon slipped free. Two steps. Then three. Small, quick, unremarkable. No one noticed at first. --- The balloon vendor followed with a rueful smile. “Aigo, this naughty one,” he said, chasing the red. His apron was clean, his smile practiced. In the alley, the air grew cooler, the sounds distant. A scooter ticked as it cooled, a mop sloshed somewhere, a cat flicked its tail on a windowsill. “Almost got it,” the vendor said, lowering the string just out of reach. “I’m fast,” Jiwon said proudly, stepping deeper. Another man appeared—a dark jacket zipped to the throat, his face calm, his hand clean but marked with a scar across the knuckles. He caught Jiwon’s wrist gently as he reached. “Careful,” the man said, voice low and even. “You’ll hurt your arm pulling like that. Here.” He guided Jiwon’s hand to the string. “Hold tight. Balloons are fickle.” “What’s fickle?” Jiwon asked, intrigued. “Changeable. Like cats. Like weather. Like crowds.” The words sounded true. The man’s hand didn’t move from his wrist. “Come,” the man said. “Stand in the shade. Your mother can’t see you past the light. We’ll wave when she turns.” That sounded right. Jiwon obeyed. Then the vendor’s hand landed on his shoulder—firm, practiced—and pinched a point that made his body jolt. Jiwon twisted, mouth opening for his mother’s name. A white van rolled to the curb. The sliding door sighed open. Something sharp-smelling pressed to his mouth, lemon and metal. His eyes watered. He kicked, but he was small, and the arms lifting him were steady and sure. The balloon popped against the van’s ceiling with a soft crack. A scrap of red latex fluttered down into his hair like a petal. And just like that, he was gone. --- At the mouth of the alley, Seo Hana—Mira’s daughter, seven years old in a yellow cardigan—froze. She had followed because she always followed. She saw the van door closing, saw the man in the dark jacket glance back at her. He lifted one finger to his lips: shh. The gesture wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t kind. It was absolute. Hana’s throat locked. She didn’t shout. She didn’t run. She only stood there, obedience sealing her feet to the ground. The door shut. The van rolled forward into traffic. Hana finally moved. She ran back toward the lanterns, heart hammering. “Omma! Auntie!” --- Mira turned at once. “Hana?” “Jiwon—” Hana gasped, grabbing her sleeve. “A man—he looked at me—he—” Mira bent quickly, eyes sharp but face gentle. “Don’t run. You’ll fall.” Her hands steadied her daughter, firm but soft. Mrs. Han turned, distracted from the rope cups, a sudden prickle down her spine. “Where’s Jiwon?” “He was here,” Minjae said, stiff with alarm. “With you,” Taeyang said, confused, half-smiling. Jungho spun, scanning faces. “Jiwon-ah!” Mrs. Han’s voice rose above the market noise, sharp with fear. “Jiwon!” “I’ll check the alley,” Mira said quickly, calm and decisive. “Seungmin—call security.” Her husband was already on the phone, voice clipped. Hana tugged again, whispering, “Omma, in a van—” Mira’s hand closed over hers, eyes shining with convincing grief. “You were brave to tell me. I’ll take care of it.” She pressed Hana to the edge of the alley. “Stay here. Don’t move.” Hana nodded. She always obeyed. Mira walked a few steps into the alley, bent, and picked up the shred of red balloon. It stuck slightly to her palm, damp with dust. She tucked it into her pocket and glanced at her watch. Right on time. --- When she returned, she let her face crumple. “Nothing,” she told Mrs. Han. “Where is he?” Mrs. Han gasped, eyes wide. “We’ll find him,” Mira whispered, folding her into her arms. “Breathe. I won’t leave you.” But Mrs. Han pulled free, wild-eyed. “Jiwon!” She stumbled toward the alley, voice cracking into something raw and animal. “Jiwon-ah!” The brothers scattered. Minjae barked orders, Jungho sprinted for the gates, Taeyang climbed a bench and shouted his brother’s name into the crowd. Strangers paused, uneasy, the festive noise unraveling into tension. Security rushed in. Descriptions were given. Radios crackled. “Brown jacket,” Minjae said, his voice trembling. “White sneakers. Candy with a crane.” Mrs. Han’s words broke on her tongue. “He knows to stay.” But he hadn’t stayed. Mira’s arms caught her again, warm and steady, the perfect weight of comfort. “I’m here,” she murmured, cheek against her hair. “I won’t let go.” --- Down the street, the van slipped easily into traffic. Inside, the man in the dark jacket adjusted a blanket so it wouldn’t catch in the door. Jiwon lay slumped, the crane candy sticky on the floor. The scar across the man’s knuckles gleamed pale against the wheel. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. His face held nothing at all. The market behind them throbbed with panic, voices calling a boy’s name over and over, each time more desperate, each time more hollow. But no call could reach him now. ---