Amid August heatwaves, yellow tear-gas liquid cascaded down on us from the sky. Swooping police choppers whipped up wind sufficient to pull umbrellas from our feeble hands. Riot police scaled the factory fences like invading cockroaches. Armed police commands fired rubber bullets and stormed the rooftop of the factory from freight containers pulled up by giant cranes. They brandished their clubs over our heads as they chased us. Police were trampling us, beating us, and continuing to beat us even after we fell unconscious. We were flipping and tumbling like origami in the ddakji game that a mysterious recruiter used to attract contestants in Squid Game.

The ear-piercing noise of the swooping choppers drowned out our screams, depriving us of even the right to cry. For how long were we beaten? Workers fell on the rooftop like dried squids. Smoke from burning tires was billowing everywhere, thickening the air, like we were in a warzone. Outside the plant, families and supporters stomped in anger and frustration. They made ferocious, but vain, attempts to charge the police cordon until the line of human shields became a wailing wall.