A little girl, aged about six, runs along the dimly lit street, her tiny arms desperately holding on to the freshly baked bread, her breath coming out in puffs. A few stray cats meow from the dumpster cans but she doesn't pay any attention to them; she’d feed them later. Along the way she nearly slips and falls on some wet slippery dirt cloth adorning the dull, dirty and cracked road. The air is thick with the slight stench of the nearby sewer, surprisingly though, this night it is less than usual.

“Aunty Jung!” The girl cries, as she comes to a stop in front of an old wooden shack. “Aunty Jung!” Holding on to the cluster of bread, trying to stifle the rumble coming from her stomach, she knocks on the door and calls out again. But there is no answer. Feeling slightly uneasy and ruffled, the girl pushes open the door with her foot. It creaks open.

“Hey, Aunty Jung! Look what I got!” She exclaims, her eyes adjusting to the darkness inside, the only source of light being the fire from the fireplace which would die soon. “The ahjussi from Ocha Tea Shop gave me some extra money today! I got some of that expensive bread! Aunty Jung? Aunty Ju-"

But the little girl isn't able to see the look of happiness which would have lit up Aunty Jung’s wrinkled face – after all the bread is from that sophisticated bakery near the InfoCenter where all the rich people work; bread which people claim to be imported every morning from France would make anyone happy right? – because Aunty Jung is sitting on the chair, an apple in .

And a knife in her heart.