4. 胎儿编号

Kang Soo-ah was not what So-hee expected. Up close, in the dim glow of the incinerator tunnel's emergency lights, the shaven-headed attendant revealed a face that had been hardened by years of deliberate emotionlessness—but her eyes betrayed her. They were the eyes of someone who had learned to swallow grief in small, digestible portions, like a woman eating a meal she knew would be her last.

"You're early," Soo-ah said, her voice a low monotone. "I said 3:00 AM. It's only 2:45."

"I couldn't sleep," So-hee admitted. "And I wanted to see your maps before the guard rotation changed."

Soo-ah reached into her black uniform jacket and produced a folded bundle of papers—pages torn from a technical manual, covered in hand-drawn overlays. She spread them on a concrete ledge near the tunnel entrance. The first page showed the island's entire above-ground layout: the cubicle wings, the medical suites, the admin offices, the director's quarters, and the rooftop garden that So-hee had seen in the propaganda brochure. But there were additions that the brochure had omitted—a helipad behind the incinerator, a fuel depot near the northern shore, and a dock that was marked "Restricted: No Personnel Access."

"The restricted dock is where they bring in supplies," Soo-ah explained, her finger tracing a dotted line. "And where they take out... products. The babies. They ship them in temperature-controlled containers, labeled as 'pharmaceutical samples.' The crew that handles the containers are not island staff—they're contractors from a Japanese logistics company. They don't know what's inside, and they don't ask."

So-hee studied the map. "What about the basement? You said your sister was taken there. Where is the entrance?"

Soo-ah's jaw tightened. She unfolded a second page—a cross-section of the island, showing three underground levels beneath the main complex. The basement, labeled "Level B1," was a warren of small rooms, each marked with a host number. Below that, "Level B2" contained what appeared to be storage and a medical waste incinerator. But Level B3 had no label—just a question mark drawn in red pencil.

"I don't know what's on B3," Soo-ah said. "Even the senior guards aren't allowed there. Only Mr. Okada and the medical director have access. But I know that the women who are sent to B1 never come back up. And my sister was sent there on January 14, 2025. The official log says she died of 'septic shock' on February 3. But I never saw a body. I never got her ashes. They told me the incinerator was 'undergoing maintenance' on the day of her cremation."

So-hee felt a cold knot in her stomach. She had heard similar stories from Mayumi—women who vanished, whose deaths were recorded in clinical language but never witnessed. She looked at Soo-ah and saw, beneath the hard exterior, a sister who had been denied even the dignity of mourning.

"I can get into the server room again," So-hee said. "I know the password. I can find your sister's file—the full medical record, not just the transfer log. If there's any discrepancy in the cause of death, I'll find it."

Soo-ah nodded slowly. "Do that. But be careful. Mr. Okada changed the keypad code yesterday, according to the duty roster. The new password is 'Fertility2025'—he rotates it every year. I confirmed it through a maintenance notice."

So-hee memorized the number. "I'll go tomorrow, during the lunch break. The admin wing is quiet between 12:00 and 1:00. But I need you to create a diversion—something to pull the guards away from the corridor."

Soo-ah thought for a moment. "There's a smoke alarm in the cafeteria. If I trigger it at exactly 12:15, the security team will respond to that location. That will give you a ten-minute window. No more."

"Ten minutes is enough," So-hee said. She folded the maps and tucked them into her jumpsuit. "I'll have the file by tomorrow afternoon. But you have to promise me one thing: when we get the proof, you help me get off this island."

Soo-ah met her gaze. There was a long silence, filled only by the distant groan of the incinerator's ventilation system. Finally, she said: "I promise. But only if you promise to help me find out what happened to my sister—and to the other women who disappeared. I've been watching this place for two years. I've seen the lies. I've seen the cover-ups. If there's a mass grave on B3, I need to know about it."

So-hee extended her hand. Soo-ah took it—a firm, callused grip, the hand of a woman who had worked in the service of evil but had never stopped dreaming of justice.

"I promise," So-hee said.

The next morning, So-hee went through the motions of her maintenance duties with mechanical precision. She mopped floors, emptied trash bins, and restocked soap dispensers in the restrooms. Her mind was elsewhere—on the server room, on the password, on the ten-minute window that would make or break her mission.

At 11:45, she positioned herself near the admin wing, pretending to clean a water fountain. She watched the corridor fill with staff heading to the cafeteria for lunch. At 12:10, the flow of foot traffic thinned to a trickle. At exactly 12:15, a shrill siren erupted from the direction of the cafeteria, accompanied by the strobing flash of emergency lights. Guards sprinted past her, their boots pounding on the linoleum. So-hee counted five of them, all headed toward the noise.

She moved. Her maintenance badge flashed green at the server room door. She typed "Fertility2025"—the door clicked open. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, her breath shallow.

The workstation was still humming, its monitor glowing with a login prompt. She navigated to the transfer logs again, but this time she looked for a sub-folder labeled "Medical Archives." Inside, she found a directory of individual host files, organized by year. She searched for "Choi Young-ji" and clicked on the file.

The medical record was extensive—multiple pages of test results, physician notes, and drug administration logs. So-hee scrolled through it quickly, her eyes scanning for anomalies. The cause of death was listed as "sepsis secondary to peritonitis." But beneath that, in a section that appeared to have been appended later, there was a handwritten note scanned into the system: "Subject showed signs of organ failure consistent with X-7 overdose. Dosage exceeded recommended maximum by 300%. No autopsy performed per family request."

So-hee's blood ran cold. There was no family. Choi Young-ji had been a defector from North Korea, with no known relatives in the South. The "family request" was a fabrication—a cover-up designed to avoid an investigation. The overdose was not a mistake; it was negligence, or worse, a deliberate experiment that had gone fatal.

She printed the entire record—seven pages—and folded them into her pocket. She also noticed a hyperlink at the bottom of the file: "Associated Records: Level B3." She clicked on it, but a password prompt appeared, requiring a level of clearance she did not have. She tried "Fertility2025"—access denied. She tried "Okada"—denied. She tried the date of the island's founding, the director's wife's birthday, everything she could think of. Nothing worked.

She had to leave. The ten-minute window was closing. She logged out and slipped back into the corridor just as the siren stopped. The cafeteria smoke alarm had been a false alarm—a "malfunction," the intercom announced. So-hee returned to her maintenance cart and resumed her duties, her heart still pounding.

At 3:00 AM, she met Soo-ah again in the incinerator tunnel. She handed over the printed medical record. Soo-ah read it in the dim emergency light, her face unreadable. When she finished, she looked up with eyes that glittered like wet stones.

"They killed her," she said. "The overdose was not an accident. They were testing the upper limits of X-7. She was a human guinea pig, and they harvested her organs after she died. That's what B3 is—it's a harvesting facility."

So-hee felt the floor tilt beneath her. "Organ harvesting? Are you sure?"

Soo-ah pointed to a line in the file: "Organ function monitored for possible donation. Consent obtained from next of kin." She laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. "There was no next of kin. They forged consent. My sister's kidneys and liver were probably sold to rich patients in Seoul or Tokyo. That's why they keep the bodies on B3—to harvest everything valuable before they incinerate the rest."

So-hee remembered the incinerator, the black smoke she had seen on her first night, the ashes that floated over the sea. She had thought they were the remains of defective embryos. But they might have been the remains of women—women like C-9, like Choi Young-ji, like every host who had been "decommissioned" and never returned.

"We have to stop this," So-hee said. "We have to tell Park Jae-ho. He needs to know about B3."

Soo-ah nodded. "I know. But we can't just send another package. The fishing boat won't return for another week. And Mr. Okada has increased the radar sweeps after your phone call. He knows someone is leaking information. He's suspicious of everyone—including me."

So-hee thought for a moment. "Dr. Sato. He might know how to access the B3 records. He's the senior physician. He must have clearance."

"Dr. Sato is under house arrest," Soo-ah said. "I heard it from the security chief. Mr. Okada accused him of 'professional negligence' and confined him to his quarters. He's not allowed to see patients or access the medical records."

So-hee felt a pang of guilt. Dr. Sato had helped her, and now he was paying the price. She had to find a way to free him—or at least to communicate with him.

"Can you get a message to him?" she asked. "A note, maybe?"

Soo-ah considered. "His quarters are in the east wing, guarded by two officers. But I can slip a note under his door during my rounds. What do you want to say?"

So-hee pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper from her pocket. She wrote: "B3. Need access. Can you help? —B-7." She folded it and handed it to Soo-ah.

"Deliver this tomorrow," she said. "And tell me if he responds."

The next day, Soo-ah returned with a reply: a single sheet of paper, folded into a tight square. So-hee opened it in the privacy of her cubicle. Dr. Sato's handwriting was shaky but legible: "B3 access requires biometric verification—Mr. Okada's fingerprint. He keeps a backup key in his office safe, behind the painting. The safe code is his daughter's birthday: 0806. I am being watched but still loyal. Beware of the night patrols—they have been reinforced."

So-hee read the note three times. Biometric verification. That meant she could not hack her way into B3; she would need the director's actual fingerprint. But she had access to his office—or at least, she could create another diversion. She also had the safe code. If she could find a way to lift his fingerprint from a surface—a coffee cup, a door handle, a phone screen—she might be able to replicate it using a simple adhesive tape method she had read about in a crime novel.

She did not know if it would work. But she had no other options.

That night, she laid out her plan to Soo-ah. The diversion would be bigger this time—a fire in the fuel depot, triggered by a simple electrical short. The security team would be forced to evacuate the admin wing, giving So-hee a clear path to the director's office. Once inside, she would lift his fingerprint from the glass of his desk photo frame—she had seen him touch it multiple times during his phone calls. Then she would use the print to access B3.

Soo-ah listened in silence. "That's insane," she said when So-hee finished. "If you're caught, they will kill you. And they will kill me too, for helping you."

"I know," So-hee said. "But if we don't try, more women will die. Your sister's death will mean nothing. C-9's death will mean nothing. We have to take the risk."

Soo-ah stared at the floor. Her hands were clenched into fists, her knuckles white. Finally, she looked up and said: "I'll trigger the fire. But if you're not out within fifteen minutes, I'm leaving you behind. I won't die for a dead woman's dream."

So-hee nodded. "That's fair."

The fire was set at 2:00 AM on the third night. So-hee watched from the incinerator tunnel as a plume of orange flame erupted from the fuel depot, followed by the wail of alarms and the frantic shouts of guards. Soo-ah had done her job well. The security team scrambled, dragging hoses and donning fireproof suits. The admin wing was deserted.

So-hee sprinted through the corridors, her maintenance badge glowing green at every checkpoint. She reached the director's office, swiped her card, and slipped inside. The painting was still in place; the safe was still closed. She entered the code—0806—and the door swung open.

Inside, beside the satellite phone and the handgun, was a small leather case. She opened it to find a silicone mold—a backup finger, identical to Mr. Okada's, complete with his fingerprint. It was a prosthetic used for biometric authentication. Dr. Sato's note had been right: the director was paranoid, and his paranoia had created the very tool she needed.

She grabbed the silicone finger and closed the safe. Then she moved to the desk and lifted a fingerprint from the glass photo frame using a strip of clear tape she had prepared. She pressed it onto the silicone finger to reinforce the print. It was not perfect, but it might be enough to fool the scanner.

She had eleven minutes left. She left the office and headed toward the basement entrance, which was located near the Procedure Suite. The door was reinforced, with a biometric pad at eye level. She pressed the silicone finger against the pad. The scanner beeped, blinked green, and unlocked.

The basement stairs were narrow and steep, lit by dim blue LEDs. So-hee descended, her footsteps echoing in the silence. Level B1 was a row of small cells, each with a solid metal door and a viewing slot. Through the slots, she saw women—some curled on thin mattresses, others pacing like caged animals. A few were screaming, their voices muffled by the thick doors. Others were silent, their eyes vacant, their bodies trembling.

She did not stop. She needed to reach B3.

Level B2 was the storage level—shelves of medical supplies, boxes labeled "Organ Transport Kits," and a cold room with a heavy lock. She passed through quickly, her heart racing.

Level B3 was different. The lighting was harsher, the air colder, and the smell—the smell was something she could not name. It was metallic and sweet, like old blood mixed with antiseptic. The corridor was lined with stainless-steel tables, each equipped with surgical lights and suction hoses. On one table lay a body, covered with a white sheet. So-hee pulled back the sheet and saw the face of a woman—young, with a shaved head and a tattoo of a chrysalis on her wrist. It was Eun-ha.

So-hee stumbled backward, a scream caught in her throat. Eun-ha was dead. Her body was already prepped for harvesting—incisions had been made along her torso, and her organs were exposed, glistening under the harsh light. There was no blood; it had been drained. She was no longer a person; she was a product.

So-hee fought the urge to vomit. She had to leave. She had to get out before she was discovered. She turned to run—

And found Mr. Okada standing at the top of the stairs, flanked by two armed guards. He looked down at her with cold, empty eyes. In his hand, he held the silicone finger—the one she had used to access the door. He must have retrieved it from the scanner.

"B-7," he said, his voice calm and almost amused. "I suspected it was you. You have been very busy—the phone, the records, the fire. Did you really think I would not notice?"

So-hee's mind raced. She had no weapon, no escape, no ally. She was trapped in the basement of hell, standing over a dead woman's body, with the devil himself blocking her path.

Mr. Okada descended the stairs, his guards following. He stopped a few feet from her and smiled—a thin, predatory smile.

"You are resourceful. That is why I am going to give you a choice. You can work for me, full-time, as my personal assistant in the medical program. You will help me select the next hosts for B3. You will help me manage the inventory. In return, you will live—and you will be allowed to make one phone call, to anyone you choose, before you begin your new duties."

So-hee stared at him, her blood pounding in her ears. She knew what he was offering: a partnership in evil. A chance to become the very thing she had fought against.

"And if I refuse?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Mr. Okada's smile faded. He gestured to the guards, who stepped forward and grabbed her by the arms. "Then you will join your friend on the table. And I will harvest your organs while you are still conscious. I have done it before. The screams are very instructive."

So-hee closed her eyes. She thought of her mother, her brother, Mayumi, C-9, Eun-ha. She thought of all the women who had been taken, used, and discarded. She was not going to become one of them. But she was also not going to give in.

She opened her eyes and looked Mr. Okada directly in the face. "I will never work for you," she said. "You can kill me, but you cannot make me your monster."

Mr. Okada nodded slowly, as if she had confirmed something he already knew. "Very well. Then you will die. But I want you to know—before you go—that the fishing boat you sent your package to was intercepted. Your evidence is at the bottom of the sea. And Park Jae-ho is in a jail cell in Tokyo, charged with espionage. No one is coming to save you."

So-hee felt the last thread of hope snap. She had failed. The evidence was gone. Park Jae-ho was gone. She was alone, at the mercy of a man who harvested organs from living women.

But as the guards dragged her toward the stainless-steel table, she heard a sound—a faint, rhythmic tapping from the other side of the wall. It was Morse code: three short, two long, three short. SOS.

Someone was alive. Someone was still fighting.

So-hee let herself be pushed onto the table, her wrists strapped down, her legs immobilized. She looked up at the surgical lights and smiled—a grim, defiant smile.

She was not dead yet. And as long as she was alive, the fight was not over.