Midnight in Itaewon They lay there scattered, like curled leaves, up and down the endless flights of stairs. No blood, no crushed dismemberment, no trampling or struggle-tidy ash-coloured faces in quiet repose, hoping for rescue while calmly awaiting instruction. A charred shoe remains from one young woman who made a frantic phone call in a smoky train car. The doors are locked, she cried to her husband as she rested her head on warm glass, tearing her stocking on the fire extinguisher beneath her seat.
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