I came to myself by degrees, first assailed by a foul admixture of odours—burnt oil, putrefying flesh, and some tang of metal that defied ready definition. Even as I gagged, I felt coarse refuse crinkle beneath me, and the deep pounding in my skull seemed to echo throughout my limbs. I blinked in the dim half-light falling through a grate above, wrestling with the question of where I might be.

  All around me lay an alley that felt more fever dream than reality: a crooked warren of pipes, bent conduits and grasping metal limbs that might have been the fingers of a starveling giant. Their shadows sprawled along walls slick with an indescribable film. Gnarled piles of detritus rose at odd angles, the city’s refuse heaped like offerings to some hidden, unspeakable god.

  I forced down my panic. Think. Observe. Assess. The air caught in my throat, tasting of decay and industry. With caution, I eased myself to a seated position and took inventory: My garments—simple jeans, a sweatshirt, battered sneakers—were none the worse for wear. Nearby, I spied my canvas backpack leaning against a rust-streaked mass of broken metal. Inside it, upon inspection, lay my laptop, textbooks of no great interest to thieves, plus pens, pencils, and a tattered notebook. My wallet and phone remained safely in my pockets.

  No signs of a mugging, then. But that only gave rise to fresh questions. My phone—a new model, purchased scarcely a month before—refused all attempts to capture a signal, as though no cell towers existed for miles. It displayed only a mockery of reception, an empty bar mocking me with each swiped command.

  A creeping disquiet seized me as I clambered to my feet; my muscles cried out in protest at the effort. Two corridors presented themselves, each as inviting as an ossuary. The walls, half stone and half corroded iron, were festooned with pipes that exhaled intermittent clouds of vapor, as though the city itself breathed. Far overhead, the outlines of more scaffolding and wires made any glimpse of open sky an impossibility. Occasionally, a neon sign buzzed in the gloom, lighting my path with a sickly radiance.

  I brushed a hand through my hair, shuddering at the grime that clung to my fingers. “Where is this place?” I murmured. No memory rose to the surface—no stray recollection of wandering here, nor of any trivial misstep that might explain my presence. I shook off my unease and started down one alley, each step slow and deliberate. Broken glass gleamed underfoot like stunted stars, and I had to brace myself against a wall weeping foul moisture.

  Soon I emerged onto a street that felt alive in the worst possible sense: a living organism limping toward collapse. Masked figures trudged through the narrow lane, their shoulders drawn up and guarded. Buildings of stone and metal leaned upon each other for support, as though they might tumble at the faintest breath of wind. Overhead, sagging cables spat sparks, while a faint hum set my very bones vibrating.

  This could not be Seoul, nor any other city I knew. Nonetheless, I thought perhaps I might find a clue among the city’s denizens. Approaching a gaunt man beside a cart of scrap, I asked my location. The man glanced up, his eyes narrowing, then he muttered something in a low voice—English, but distorted by a rough accent. I caught the words “Zaun” and “move along” before he turned his back on me entirely.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Zaun. The name meant nothing to me. I tried again with a woman peddling greasy skewers under a feeble lamp. Her withering stare was answer enough. By the third such dismissal, I abandoned the effort. My phone, too, remained obstinately silent: no signal, no hope, no explanation.

  There was a voice in me—one that had guided me through many a difficult study session—insisting on order, logic, and reason. Yet this place seemed crafted to confound logic, and I found my confidence eroding. Still, I pressed on, each step quicker than the last, as if I might outpace the dread that gathered around me.

  With the press of the crowd receding, the noises of this subterranean realm dimmed to a lonely hiss of steam and the clang of some distant mechanism. Those few souls I passed hunched their shoulders, unwilling to meet my gaze. I sensed in them a studied indifference, borne of hard living. Overhead, the pipes exhaled their vapours, as though sighing at my plight.

  At length, I turned down an alley, narrower than the others, the walls closing in on either side. A dead end, strewn with trash. I sighed and turned to retrace my steps when a voice stopped me.

  “Hey, kid.”

  I spun to face a hooded fellow who lounged against the wall as if he owned it. His grin revealed teeth yellow with neglect and sharpened by ill-fortune. “Lost?” he asked, with a sympathy that was anything but.

  My body tensed. One must be careful with assumptions—particularly the darkest ones—but I knew what he was. “…Yes,” I managed. “I need directions, perhaps the authorities—”

  He laughed, a hollow sound in the gloom. “No authorities down here, boy,” he said. “You’re on your own.” Then, without ceremony: “Hand over the bag, and maybe I won’t gut you.”

  I tried reason: “Trust me, it’s just textbooks and notes. You’ll find nothing of value.”

  “Let me worry about that,” he growled, knife gleaming in the half-light. “Bag. Now.”

  I weighed my options. Fighting was no talent of mine. I was trained in it, like all Korean males my age were, but seriously doubted my chances when a single false move could be fatal. Yet giving him the bag was unthinkable—my only link to who I was and what might remain for me in this city. Steeling myself, I swung the pack upward, catching him off-guard beneath the chin. He staggered, cursing.

  For an instant, I thought I might escape unscathed. Then, like a good fool, I slipped on the detritus and slowed just long enough for the man to find his bearings. A lance of agony ripped through my side as his blade found flesh. I reeled, hand pressed to the wound. With desperate anger, I swung again, this time striking the man’s temple. He stumbled and spat more curses, but I did not linger to hear them.

  I ran. The alleys of this sun-forsaken place became my labyrinth: every twisting corridor seemed to lead further away from any hope of succour. My side burned, each heartbeat flooding me with fresh pain. At last, I saw an open doorway limned by pale light. I plunged inside, colliding with a workbench. Tools clattered like startled insects.

  The chamber, a workshop by the stench of chemicals and stale oil, appeared empty. I slid behind a stack of crates, breath ragged, pressing trembling fingers to my side. Blood slicked my palm. My vision wavered, shrinking until only a small circle of light remained. The world around me receded into darkness as the pain blotted out thought.

  Somewhere beyond my fading consciousness, I fancied I heard footsteps—a harbinger of either rescue or doom. But the darkness claimed me before I could discover which.