Weak Class of Anti-Hero

I thought she was taking me to a local café. But she stopped in front of a red sports car, so shiny it looked unreal. She unlocked the doors with a click and slid behind the wheel with feline grace.

"Get in," she said, her smile as enigmatic as ever.

I hesitated for a second. Getting into a stranger’s car... Min-Soo would have surely given me a list of ten reasons why it was a terrible idea. But the strangeness of the situation was stronger than my caution. I got into the passenger seat. The interior smelled of leather and expensive perfume.

The car started with a powerful purr and merged into the Seoul traffic with unnerving ease.

We weren’t heading downtown. We were heading toward the outskirts, to neighborhoods I didn’t know, where the buildings became more industrial and spread out. The most deserted corner of the city.

"So, young man with the sad face," she began, not taking her eyes off the road. "What brings you to the hospital with such a long face?"

"My mother," I answered simply. "She’s sick."

"Ah. Money, I assume?" she asked. It wasn’t a question full of pity. It was a guess, a fact.

I nodded.

"And those bruises on your face? That doesn’t look like you fell down the stairs," she continued.

I tensed up. "A fight."

"A fight you clearly lost," she said with a small laugh. "Are you a student?"