What happens to people who don't pay their debts?
The question echoed in Gun's mind as he took the train home, its weight refusing to leave him.
He sighed, staring out the window. He lived at least thirty miles away from his workplace, in the slums.
When the train reached his stop, he got off, retrieved his battered bicycle, and rode through the dark, crumbling streets that most people avoided.
This was the world no one wanted to see, the ugly side of life. The leaky roofs. The abandoned, decaying houses. Streets where power, water, and heating were distant luxuries.
Gun pulled up to a rundown bungalow. Parking his bicycle, he climbed the rickety, hundred-step staircase he knew all too well. Each creak underfoot felt like a reminder of his life's fragile balance.
What happens to people who don't pay their debts?
The question came back to him as he knocked on the mosaic of a door, patched together with bits of mismatched wood.
His mother answered, coughing as she greeted him.
"Welcome home, my son."
Gun hugged her lightly. "Hi, Mom."
Inside, their cramped home awaited. A rat darted across his path through a hole in the wall. He sighed, ignoring it as he sat down.
"How was work?" his mother asked, handing him a cold cup of noodles.
"Same as always," he replied, loosening his shirt as he stared at the ancient box TV. It played the only channel they had access to.
An ad blared: Are you tired of struggling?
Gun winced and quickly turned the volume down with the remote.
His mother sat beside him, hesitating before she spoke. "I've been thinking…"
Gun glanced at her. "Yeah?"
"I want to take a loan to start a small business," she said softly.
The words struck him like a hammer. "What?" He turned to her, disbelief written across his face.
She swallowed, nervously rubbing her hands. "I know how you feel about loans, but—"
"But what?" he snapped, standing up abruptly. The cold noodles slipped from his hand, splattering against the already stained wall. "What Dad did wasn't enough for you?"
She flinched at the mention of his father. That name hadn't been spoken in years.
"I-I know…" she stammered.
"You know?" He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. "Then why the hell are you even thinking about it? Mom, Dad's loan destroyed us! It put us here, in this damn slum, eating scraps every day!"
Her voice cracked as she spoke. "I just want to make things better. I hate seeing you like this, living in this… this tiny, filthy box. Eating this garbage every single day."
Gun's anger softened, and he stepped forward, pulling her into a hug. "Mom, I love you. But don't ever mention taking a loan again. Got it?" His voice was cold, sharp, and final.
She nodded, her fear evident.
Gun reached into his pocket, pulling out a bottle of pills. "Don't worry about me or a better life. There is no better life."
He handed her the pills and a glass of water. As she swallowed them, he muttered, "Everything's a delusion."