I get home with a loaf of barley bread and a half dozen eggs. I pause outside the door to our apartment, painted sky blue by me and my brother a year ago. But the color is already fading, matching the rusty concrete that haunts the rest of the building. I sigh and promise myself to save up more. My pockets are weighed down with coins, but not nearly enough. We have money for a week's worth of food. And none of that can be wasted on decoration.

"I'm back," I call out.

The house is eerily silent. Squinting, I make out the facets I grew up around for my entire life. The threadbare carpet, the flickering light bulb, and the antique clock that's broken but hung above the hall to the bedrooms for a "nice touch," as Mom likes to say. The living room and kitchen are combined, and we only have two other rooms—one for our parents and one for me and my brother, Zion. The coziness of our home is comforting, compared to the sprawling parts of Seoul overrun with thieves and freaks much like the one who cornered me on the outskirts.

Even though the walls are peeling and the windows are cracked, I look at this place with a warm heart. Home is home, no matter how many things need to be fixed.

I look down. My mother's shoes are gone, but Dad's and Zion's are still here. Maybe they're taking a nap? But I rule out the thought. Dad is always up writing articles for coin, and my brother has too much energy for naps. If he's struggling with homework, I'll have to help him.

"I'm home," I call out again.

Then I hear it. A deep sob that sounds like it was pulled from the gut. I quickly set my groceries on our only table and head down our hall.

I glance into my room. Dad is on his knees, his head buried into his palms. My brother is lying motionless on his bed. The only sign of life is his chest, rising and falling weakly.

"What's wrong?" I manage to get out. My throat is closing up, the shock raking through my body.

Not once have I seen my dad cry. Today, the tears wet his cheeks like he dipped his face into the shower. I grit my teeth, preparing for the news. I almost sense his words before he says them. A family bond calling to me like a shared scar.

"Heart failure," he says, resting on his good leg. His lame one looks even weaker than usual—maybe because he's kneeling at my brother's side for so long. "That's why he's been so tired. And has had trouble breathing."

A dagger funnels its way into my chest. And now it's me who's having trouble breathing. How could I have not noticed? I'm Zion's sister. I must've been caught up in trying to bring in money, not bothering to notice his decline. I assumed he was dealing with a common cold, something that would go away with time. But heart failure? That's something not for a boy of twelve.

"When did you find out?" I ask. My voice is small, and I feel strangely detached from my body.

"This morning," Dad says. "Mom took him for an exam. We had enough for the x-ray. But the treatment... there's no way we can afford it."

"How much do we need?" I ask.

Dad states the amount. My brain is spinning, not because I'm calculating but because of the sheer impossibility that we'd be able to afford it. Zion needs help, and as his sister I've never been more helpless than right now. Math problems, exams, class presentations—all of that could be controlled. But if his body is failing, I'm not some heavenly being who has the power to heal him. I can't dish-wash this away, or scavenge for a pill that doesn't exist.

"How long does he have?" I ask, and I push down my own temptation to cry.

Dad, after drying his face, looks miserable, like he's the one who's dying. "A few months," he says. "He needs a transplant as soon as possible."

The clock sets up like an altar in my mind, counting down. Taunting me about the time we don't have. Before I black out on the carpet, I turn around and leave Zion and my father. Even though all I want to do is kneel and hold my little brother's hands. In the kitchen, I down a glass of water that tastes like rust. I leave my groceries for my mother to find later. And with the image of my crying father and my pale brother, I exit the apartment.

Half of me is scared that I'll run into Mom on the way down. Then there will be no way in hell I'll be able to put on a brave face. I'll break down, dragging her with me. And we'll spend the rest of the night huddled around Zion, praying for some miracle that won't happen.

I'm exhausted from a day of scavenging, but still, I move like I'm controlling a character in the game. My movements are robotic and strained. To an outsider, I probably look like a malfunctioning android.

Zion's laugh, his optimism and humor, haunts me as I make my way through the city. Not my little brother. Why does it have to happen to him? You'd think his innocence would protect him from harm—but that's a lie that I tell myself, something to comfort me and make me believe that nothing bad would happen to my family.

Now that cars are a thing of the past, most people travel by foot or bicycle. Since my father was injured on a bike, our family walks.

Seoul was once a city sprawling with light and life. Now, it's half of what it once was. Sure, there are still food stalls along the street and more buildings than you can count. There are people crowding outside century-old clubs on the weekends and a scary amount of cafes and restaurants. But there is a wariness within the people who walk these streets. Questions rise every day whether we'll survive the nuclear radiation despite the shield that's been in place for decades. With half of the city sanctioned for growing food and producing necessities for Seoul's citizens, half of the city has been dealing with overpopulation. Not enough apartments to hold everyone. Homelessness rates on the rise.

Of course, I know New York and London are dealing with the same problems. At least Seoul is mostly riot free, and our crime rates are lowest among the three cities that survived.

Zion often shouted out that he loves living on the "fringes," our apartment which happens to be close to the outskirts. I didn't believe him. I thought he was making up a fantasy, as children often do to deal with disappointments.

When I asked him why, he took me to the window in the kitchen and pointed, toward the outskirts and the invisible shield. To the grayness beyond. "Because we have the best view in the entire city," he'd said.

I almost cried right there in front of him.

Now, I move in the opposite direction that Zion pointed. It takes me ages to walk. Even though the habitable part of Seoul has been halved, getting anywhere important on foot is a day's worth of journey.

A mile later, I've seen my share of dilapidated buildings, roads that need repairing, and abandoned cars. I cut through a shortcut through the abandoned subway station, shuffling quickly past several drunk men trying to get even drunker in the shadows.

"Hey, girl!" one of them shouts.

I ignore the crawl across my skin, pushing toward the staircase with my brother in mind.

Thankfully, the man doesn't pursue. It won't be a repeat of the episode at the outskirts.

Finally, I make my way into one of the sanctuaries of Seoul. There are several, preserving the most popular districts of the city. The current president has decreed that some districts are worth keeping in top shape, a symbol to encourage the people that Seoul will someday return to its former glory.

Gangnam is one of those sanctuaries.

It's almost scary how different it is from my neighborhood. The lights of the skyscrapers and neon signs fill the place with a glow that cannot be found anywhere else in the city. People, mostly the rich who live here, parade the streets in their best outfits. It looks like many of them have stepped off the runway. Instead of smartphones, which have gone out of use since the satellites cannot function, they clutch fancy lanyards which hold keys to unlock their designer bicycles from the parking stations.

But I'm not here to look around. I'm here for one purpose only.

I walk like a girl who has zero seconds to spare. I push past a girl with a fur coat, and a rage in me ignites. This girl, wearing her coat in the middle of summer, has enough money to afford a heart transplant. If she has a little brother, she doesn't need to worry about how to afford his treatment. I'm tempted to push her again. As if that would put a band-aid on the torrent within me.

I don't have to look hard for my goal destination. It lights up the sky with warmth radiating within the rows of glass levels.

The League of Fame building.

People seem to distance themselves as they walk past. For good reason. No one wants to associate with the mysterious executives who hold the annual games. The games only remain legal because of the volunteer aspect. No one forces anyone to join the League of Fame. It's only for the desperate and the ones headstrong enough to risk their lives to become a star.

For me, it's the first reason. Becoming a star in Seoul is a ticket to wealth. If one wins the League of Fame, they will be blessed with a mansion in the hills along with enough pensions to afford a thousand transplants.

A star in the post-war era has different roles than the idols that we've learned about in history class. They are used for moral support, beacons that point society in a positive direction. Not so much dancing and singing, although that could be an element too. But a star who wins the League of Fame event will be expected to be a role model. That's if they survive the games.

In a world where the majority of the population has been nuked to dust, the League of Fame corporation doesn't seem like such an evil. The games they promote are a private enterprise, kept top secret. The only shared knowledge is that for everyone who enters, the only ones who survive are the stars. And they are sworn to secrecy.

I enter the revolving glass doors, into an ornate lobby, where the maroon carpet matches the wallpaper and makes the air alight like fire.

My eyes land on a boy standing in line for the counter.

He turns around. The boy who saved me. Jungkook.