Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

She came home with blood beneath her fingernails.

Not from violence, not directly. But from scrubbing too long, lifting too much, grasping too hard onto a life that never stopped taking. Her hands had begun to split where the skin stretched—raw fissures at the knuckles, a permanent sting behind her nails. Her fingertips, once soft and painted when she still believed in love, had hardened into something more like bark—coarse, cracking, silent witnesses to her sacrifice.

And yet, in the crook of her arm, she held the toy.

It was the exact model her son had pointed to on the TV screen weeks ago—the one advertised between cartoon shows, where the plastic robot turned into a jet and back again with a single press of the chest. That one cost more than her monthly pay.

She stepped into the cramped living room where her son sat cross-legged, staring at nothing. His eyes flicked to the toy, and he blinked once. No excitement. No sprint forward. Just silence.

She smiled anyway. That fragile, trembling kind of smile mothers wear when the world has given them nothing and they offer a piece of their soul in its place.

"Here," she whispered, crouching before him. "I promised, didn't I?"

He reached out, hesitantly, and took it. But his grip was loose. The robot sagged in his palm like it weighed too much.

She didn't notice. Or didn't want to. Her knees cracked as she lowered fully to the floor, fishing out her phone from her coat pocket. The screen was smeared and flickered with battery warnings, but she pulled up the online store again and only scrolled through the rich people section where a simple child's hoodie was—₩300,000.

Tiny LED shoes that lit up when you ran—₩420,000.

A limited-edition schoolbag—sold out.

And right there, beside her, her son saw the numbers too. Saw how she flinched each time they blinked back at her. He saw her jaw tighten, the same way it did when she didn't eat dinner and said she was already full.

But she spoke louder now. Too loud. Like if her voice kept moving, the truth wouldn't catch her.

"You can pick anything you want," she said. "I'm serious. Just point. I'll get it. Do you like this one? Or this one? Or both? We can buy both."

She was scrolling too fast. Her thumb jittered across the screen like she was chasing something, a phantom price she could afford, a reality that might forgive her poverty.

This was the same woman and child.

The same child who'd tugged on his mother's coat days ago, pointing at the sky as dark snow began to fall—a thick, silent ash that made the city's air taste wrong.

"The snow is black," he'd whispered then, eyes wide with a fear he hadn't learned from cartoons or bedtime stories. She'd smiled tiredly, brushing it from her shoulder. And when it touched her skin, she felt... nothing. Not then. Not immediately.

But something had entered her.Not a voice. Not a spirit. Not a curse she could name.Just a presence, like a drop of oil in water, invisible at first—but slowly, unstoppably, it had spread.

That when things got worse.

And now...

It sat behind her ribs. Breeding inside her like mold beneath wallpaper.

At first it was small: just a glance too long at the mothers in the toy store with their shiny handbags and clean nails, lifting iPads off shelves like they were snacks, their husbands standing behind them, wallets open, jokes easy.

Her own hands had been shaking then—dry, calloused things with cracking knuckles and skin worn red at the joints. The cold had cut her hard this winter. So had the extra shifts.The toy her son had pointed to that day had cost nearly four months' worth of groceries.

She'd smiled. She'd promised. "I'll get it for you. One day. I swear."

That was all it took.

The seed of envy and jealous, already there, grew thicker with each promise. It clung to her exhaustion. Fed on her sacrifices. Twisted her love into desperation.

Now, weeks later, she returned home from her fifth job with her breath fogging in the cold air, shoulders sagging from her 6-hour shift

She scrolled through another section—jackets for children, ₩300,000. Plastic toy sets, ₩250,000. A remote-control car, ₩410,000.

Every price stabbed her pride. But her voice only grew more frantic.

"You want that one? I'll get it. Hell, I'll get five. You'll never want again. I'll get you new shoes, that game you wanted, a coat that's warm enough, you'll—"

She kept speaking. Too many words. Tripping over promises.

So many that her son began to retreat. Physically. Emotionally.

He leaned back, inch by inch, confused by the rising mania in her tone.

But she caught his wrist before he could pull away.

"No, no, no, listen, baby, listen—I can do this, okay? I just need you to pick something! Anything! Umma's gonna give you the life you deserve, the one they all get, the ones with daddies who take them to school and pay for piano and birthday clowns and—"

"I'll get you the whole set. The shoes, the clothes, the tablet with games, the headphones like the other kids have—hell, I'll get you your own bedroom. With a bed! With lights in the ceiling like stars!"

"Ma…"

"I just have to work a little more, that's all. Three more shifts, maybe four. I can do it. I will do it. Because you deserve everything. Everything, baby. Not like me. Not like what I had. You'll have the life they all have; you'll have—"

The more she spoke, the more the light behind her eyes faded. What replaced it was something unsteady, something sharp and brittle. Her voice cracked mid-sentence, then sped up again. Words stacked on each other like bricks with no mortar. Promises, visions, boasts, dreams, desperate spells cast into the air.

The boy tried to scoot back.

She held his arms. "Don't move, baby. Just pick something. Anything. I can get it."

The seed inside her pulsed.

Not with love. Not truly. But with resentment disguised as devotion. A throb of envy, thick and green and hungry, pressing against her ribs.

She thought of the other mothers—those with glossy hair, with gym-toned arms and manicures, laughing at brunch tables as they swiped black cards for their children's weekend toys. She thought of the birthday parties at private schools with actors in costume, and of the school chat group where the other moms shared pictures of vacations while she debated which utility bill to delay.

She thought of fathers who showed up. Who lifted their kids onto shoulders and bought ice cream without checking their wallet twice.

Fathers who kissed their wives on the cheek, who said things like "I've got it covered."

She had no one. Just her and her son and the aching rage of having to play both roles. And now her son was afraid of her voice.

She could see it.

She could feel it.

And the seed inside her glowed. Warm at first. Then searing.

The child's eyes began to fill.

He hadn't asked for all this. He didn't understand why she was trembling now, why her voice cracked between syllables, why her hands were digging into his sleeves like he might float away.

And all the while, inside her chest, the seed pulsed.

Not with love. Not anymore.

But with jealousy.

It made her remember the other mothers. The ones who didn't cry into their scarves at midnight on the subway. The ones who didn't lie to their children about overtime just to make up rent.

Remembered seeing a man lift his son onto his shoulders while the boy held the very same toy her son had begged for. The man had laughed. The woman beside him had kissed his cheek. Their son had smiled like he believed the world existed to serve him.

She had watched them through the glass.

Her son had watched her instead.

And in that moment, the seed—black and warm and perfectly still—took root.

It did not scream. It did not demand.Not yet.

But it glowed.With every thought like:Why not me?Why not us?Why do they get help, and I only get harder days?What did I do wrong that I ended up alone?

It fed on those thoughts. On her sacrifices.And it waited.

Because envy and jealous, like a storm, never arrives all at once.They brew.