Stripes in the Dark

In the center of Pyongyang city in North Korea, far down into the complex corridors of an old government ministry, sat a man named General Min-ho in a dark office. There were paintings of leaders past and present on the walls, each of them wearing an unreadable smile a smile that offered safety, but whispered over-watch.

Min-ho was a feared man in the regime, and he was also disciplined and loyal. To the people, he was a tiger proud, fierce, and untouchable. But this evening, the stripes within him were beginning to smolder.

A sealed envelope lay on his desk, stamped with the red insignia of the Supreme Leader. Inside it, a single sentence:

"You are being watched."

He knew what it meant. The regime had a strange way of thanking its most loyal men — with silence, exile, or sometimes... disappearance.

His hands trembled as he pulled out an old photograph from his drawer. It showed a younger Min-ho — smiling beside his brother Jin, a poet once arrested for smuggling foreign literature. The same literature that had awakened thoughts in Min-ho's heart that he never dared to express.

The next morning, he was summoned to a grand meeting — a ceremonial hall where the leader himself rarely appeared. The room was cold, silent, and the ceiling lights buzzed ominously. Several high-ranking officers were lined up, awaiting judgment for “philosophical deviation.”

One by one, names were called. One by one, men disappeared behind a curtained door.

Then, the Supreme Leader entered. With slow, deliberate steps, he walked up to Min-ho and whispered:

“A tiger’s stripes are visible. But yours are inside, aren’t they, Min-ho?”

Min-ho didn’t answer. He simply bowed.

The Leader smiled. “A true man hides his doubts deep enough to outlive them.”

That night, Min-ho returned to his office. The envelope was gone. The photograph was gone.

In its place was a mirror.

He stared at his reflection. And for the first time, he realized. The tiger had survived. But the man inside was gone.