Chapter Text
The woman clutched her baby tightly as she ran, not caring about whatever gruesome mess she stepped into as her old and torn boots hit the pavement.
She continued running in a hermetically packed crowd, tens of people uncaring of who they shoved over to get away from the horrendous massacre behind them.
Hundreds of armed guards marched through the street shooting everything they saw to the point where it was unrecognizable. Mangled body parts of all sizes and colors lined the streets—unfortunate people who couldn’t run fast enough.
The man next to the woman fell, trampled to death by the raging crowd behind them.
She ran faster.
She knew it was her fault they were here. She had broken the law, after all. The guards were here for her but didn’t care who they had to kill to reach their target.
She ran.
Everyone in her small town was either dying or dead. There was no escaping these people, they always found you.
Especially if you were the person they came for.
An old music box.
That’s what started all of this.
A music box and a traitorous husband.
The music box was safely tucked in her hands alongside her newborn baby. A baby only four months old.
The woman hated her husband for what he did to her. The music box had been passed down to her after generations, now it was why she would have to leave her son so early. Her husband was a huge supporter of the regime. And the regime hated music. Every form of art or music was strictly prohibited, anyone caught with either would be mercilessly killed.
A gunshot rang out and the teenage girl on the woman’s side dropped, a hole in the back of her head. No one cared, they just ran right over her bleeding body.
The woman took a turn, separating herself from the crowd. She ran across a small bridge and jumped off the side of it, hiding herself in the dark stream below.
She took a breath, a cloud forming in front of her mouth.
It was cold.
She clutched her child closer to her, applying enough pressure to keep him warm but not enough to hurt him.
The baby shifted slightly, small noises of unrest leaving his tiny mouth.
“Hush now, it will be okay, dear, we’ll be okay,” the woman said gently in an attempt to console the child. She knew he couldn’t understand her and she knew nothing she said was true.
She wouldn’t leave alive, she knew that. The fate of her child was uncertain.
She heard heavy boots run over the bridge she was hiding under, she held her breath, praying to any god that would listen to keep her child safe.
She didn’t care about herself. Her life was meaningless, nothing would ever come out of it. She was destined to be a poor woman living in a small house. She was nothing and nothing was what she would always be.
But her baby was special, she may have sounded crazy saying it but it was true.
She knew he was meant to be something.
“Do you know where she went?” A man’s rough called out. The woman’s breath hitched.
“I don’t see her, you’re sure she went this way?” Another man’s voice called.
“Positive, her footprints were in the mud over there,” the first man responded.
She heard the boots get closer.
She heard a soft laugh from above her, a cruel, sinister laugh, no traces of joy or happiness.
Her heart skipped a beat.
The footsteps approached, inching closer and closer to her. A tear slipped down her face.
She looked down at her child one more time, caressing the small, pink birthmark next to his eye.
“Come out, woman, we know you’re there,” one of the men spoke.
She held her head high, packing away all of her fears into a little box. If she were to die, she would at least do it with her head held high.
Her arm was grabbed and she was yanked out of her hiding place, her face hit the filthy, muddy ground.
She looked up at them, eyes narrowed.
“You are charged with the crime of owning an object with the intent of playing music. You have been sentenced to death by the grand regime.”
The woman sat up, the child clutched still in her arms.
“Oh look at that,” one of the men grinned, “is that a child? You’re a mother?”
The woman remained silent, staring at the ground.
“That makes it even funnier, you know? Your husband ratting you out,” he laughed at her.
They placed a gun to her head and continued laughing.
It was a game to them.
“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it.”
The trigger was pulled and the woman’s body jerked back. Her head exploded into multiple pieces: a macabre scene, blood pulling around the woman’s head.
“Take the child.”
“Yes sir.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Yes sir, the name on the blanket says Kang Yeosang.”
“Take him. Give him to the president and his wife, it’s their anniversary isn’t it?”
“And the music box?”
“Smash it.”