A life's worth

(11k words)

Seoul feels different when you have dust in your pocket — oh wait, no. Actually, only you feel different.

To rephrase that, Seoul hasn’t changed at all. It’s still loud, still fast, still flooded with strangers who know where they’re going and most likely figured out their lives. You’re the one who is not. Hollowed out. Like the city shoves you into one of its sidewalk cracks.

One of your 2 dead-end jobs finished two weeks ago. “Budget cuts,” they said, which you definitely were sure was a euphemism for “you look too tired and we can’t risk you do dumb shit.” Since then, life has been a loop of trying to not be fired from your only other job, scrambling for leftover job openings, and looking to collapse to bed at the end of the day.

And tonight is the last straw.

You’re standing in a dingy pawnshop, your breath fogging up the scratched display case. In your hands, the only thing you own that has any monetary and personal value left in you that you told yourself you’d never let go of — a camera.

Not a fancy one, not even modern. Just old, scratched at the corners, a little dented from that one time you dropped it on the subway stairs. (Wasn’t exactly a fun time being paranoid whether the drop ruins the inner electronics or whatever, counting the allowances you had left back then for repair or replacement.) But it didn’t matter — it was yours. A reminder that once, a long time ago, you had dreams, something that you love to take extra attentive care to, something that defines you, something that made you feel like life is not so shitty.

The fuckwit of the pawn shop guy didn’t even bother looking at you when he took it.

“One hundred thousand won,” he grunts.

“…that’s it?" Your voice was small.

"That’s it.” He repeats. “Take it or you can get your camera back.”

You stare at it one last time. The weight of every memory pressed in your palms. You’re so angry, but more so because of how low the number is. Hunger wins, truly. Pride is fucking useless when your stomach is empty.

You step back outside with a plastic bag full of instant food and the crushing feeling that you just sold a piece of yourself for a handful of calories. The neon lights flicker above you — pink, blue, white — almost mocking, like even the signs laugh at you. The pavement is damp under your shoes. A cold breeze cuts through your thin jacket. You end up sitting on the curb, the city rushing past you like you’re not even here. You rip open a triangular kimbap like it’s the last rope keeping you alive. Your fingers shake, maybe from the cold, or maybe because reality is finally catching up.

That’s when you hear the creak of a door. An old man shuffles out from the store next door. He’s wearing a cardigan that probably lived a full life before you were born, and he walks with a cane that taps unevenly against the ground. His eyes, way too sharp for someone his age, land on you immediately.

“Looks like you led a difficult life, young man.” he says. Zero hesitation. Zero sugarcoating.

You swallow your mouthful of microwaved rice. “…Thanks. I wasn’t sure if it was obvious enough.”

He squints at your dinner. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“Broke?”

You let out a humourless laugh, showing him the packet of microwaved food you’re eating. Damn this guy is very blunt. “Very.”

He taps his cane against your knee twice, like he’s knocking on wood. “Then sell your lifespan.”

What the fuck is he saying?

He jerks his chin toward the main road. “Three blocks down. Beat-down sign. Looks abandoned. Don’t worry, it’s not.”

You stare at him, waiting for the punchline or a “surprise, motherfucker”. An awkward minute later, and he still gives none. Wow, he ain’t joking.

“They buy lifespan,” he continues casually, like he’s talking about selling old phones. “Time. Health. Whatever you’ve got. Pay in cash. Good rates, usually.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Are you—are you messing with me?”

He shrugs. “Want money or not? Up to you, young man.” He doesn’t wait for your reply. Just shuffles back inside his store like he hasn’t just said something insane.

You sit there, staring at the pavement, your cold fingers crushing the empty kimbap wrapper. It sounds ridiculous. Stupid. Impossible. But so is living off 80,200 won for the rest of the week. So is the idea that something good might happen to you ever again.

“Three blocks down, huh…” you mutter, standing up. Desperation makes people curious. Curiosity makes people reckless. And tonight, you’re both.

And that old fart was not lying about the place.

A narrow building squeezed between a nail salon buzzing with UV lamps and a rice cake shop closing for the night. The well-beaten door creaks open even though there’s no breeze. The sign above the door lives longer than you at this point with all the missing letters and faded symbols. You step inside, and the air that greets you is thick with dust and incense. Like the metallic scent of an unplugged machine that hasn’t woken up in years. A bell chimes overhead, and the sound brittle, like it hasn’t been rung in years.

Behind the counter sits a girl. Maybe your age. No way a girl your age is willingly working in a place like this. Sharp-eyed. Expression unreadable. You look at the nametag on her shirt (Ning…ning? Chinese?). She looks at you the way someone might look at a clock they’ve already memorized — already calculating exactly how long you’ll last.

“Time, health, or lifespan?” she says. Not a question. But a line that she might have been sick of repeating for ages.

You try to find your voice. “I… yeah. Lifespan, please.”

"Ok…" She looks at you for a moment before looking back to her screen. “That will take about…3 hours.”

You step back outside to kill time, allowing the city to swallow you whole again. Somewhere along the walk, you remember a particular morality lesson back in elementary. You’ve been told that life is something that can’t be replaced, and that it’s more valuable than anything. Your old teacher gave out a hypothetical question about what if you assign per-year value to your lifespan. Some kids already theorised with ridiculous numbers, some were already yelling about the ethics of even mentioning it, and the class clown joked about how low the value of his life can be. Of course, the teacher concluded that there was “no right answer”.

But a right answer sort of exists. You just have to reach your thirties to find it.

You end up on a park bench, staring at nothing in particular. Out of pure boredom (and maybe masochism) you start guessing. Potentially, Thirty-three million? Maybe? Should be a more modest guess than back then. Three hundred million if the universe was feeling generous? Hell, three billion if miracles still existed and you cope hard enough?

“Ok, here’s your result.”

The hum of the printer fills the room, vibrating faintly through the floor, through the counter, through your chest. A sheet of paper slides out. She takes it with two fingers, glances over briefly, then places it in front of you.

3,000,000 won.

You blink. Once. Twice. Wow, per-year, huh. This is actually pretty good. Potentially, if you live for eighty more years, that will be 240 million won. That does sound like a provocative deal. Optimism begins to fill your mind. This is enough for rent. Enough for food. Maybe even to stabilise things during this short time. But a life surely doesn’t actually equal the allowable balance to take for a house loan right? Although, you thought you shouldn’t try to bargain. Beggars can’t be choosers.

You’re about to nod, then she speaks again. “Concerning your per-year value, you were given the bare minimum of 100,000 won.”

Your head jerks up. Wait, what the fuck?

“And as you have thirty years and three months remaining, you will be able to leave here with up to 300,000 won.”

…huh? What? 300,000 won?

“Sorry, the minimum?”

“Yes.”

On paper, right there, is your result. This damn pathetic figure in black ink, is your worth. Not even fucking close to any guess you give. Not thirty-three million. Not three hundred million. Not even in the same universe.

300,000 fucking won.