The Token Under My Pillow

My shoulder aches more than I wanted Gu Nari to see. I iced it on the train because the bruise felt personal, as though the intermediary had managed to bruise my pride along with the meat. He was surprised when I recognized him. That tiny loss of composure pleased me more than it probably should have. I keep replaying it, searching his face for the moment he understood that I was not some disposable treasure hunter hired to move boxes before Baek arrived.

The Maru token is on my desk now. Its wear does not matter as much as the possibility it opens. I mapped every entrance tonight, and the routes that could slip past inspection make my stomach tighten. I want the vessel badly enough to be dangerous, but not badly enough to let hunger make me careless. Maybe those are different things. I am not sure I trust the distinction yet.

Eunha and the crew chiefs can wait for confirmation. I can wait too. I hate waiting. Waiting makes the Maru feel like my grandfather's gold: something I can almost name but never quite reach, no matter how certain I become that I was meant to find it.

My family would call this obsession. My family would call most of my life a mistake, so their opinion has limited authority. Still, I imagine one of them finding this sketchbook and recognizing the childish hunger beneath the practical lines. I would be humiliated. I would keep drawing anyway.