Chapter 5

Stray flower petals mingled with the cigarette ash on the concrete. Seo Mu-yeong swept them into a nearby waste bin and climbed back into his van. Reaching into the glove compartment, his fingers found a clear plastic container packed with traditional rainbow sugar candies.

Mu-yeong popped a piece of the sweet into his mouth. The crisp, refreshing burst of sugar melted across his tongue, rapidly lifting his spirits.

In his childhood, those rainbow candies had sat stacked like a pagoda atop the shaman altar, bewitching him with their mere presence. Back then, this cheap candy—something he was allowed to taste only on the rare days he was exceptionally well-behaved—had seemed more precious than any jewel under heaven.

Even though the grandmother who used to give them to him had vanished from the earth. Mu-yeong tucked an earbud into one ear and queued up the audio recording captured from yesterday evening.

Deciphering the conversation was no easy task. Choi Sijin had an annoying habit of blasting music at deafening volumes whenever he rode in a car. On top of that, the rumble of the engine and the rough vibration of the road noise muddied the track.

Still, it was clear that only two people occupied the vehicle: the manager and Choi Sijin. Mu-yeong concentrated intently on Sijin’s voice.

―“…what’s the big deal? When I’m busy, you should be even more…”

Why was the boy suddenly whining in that spine-chilling tone?

―“…saying I want to…”

Want to do what? Drugs? Mu-yeong cranked up the volume and scrubbed backward on the playback slider. Buried beneath the blaring bassline, the muffled words sounded distinct.

―“I said I miss you.”

Mu-yeong tapped the pause button. Was Choi Sijin in a relationship?

Yet the partners Sijin met at private hotel suites changed constantly. Mu-yeong had never witnessed him hold anyone’s hand, gift flowers, or carry shopping bags for a lover.

Of course, Mu-yeong knew next to nothing about healthy, normal romances; his entire career revolved around shadowing adulterous couples. Even so, if cheaters routinely performed such romantic gestures, surely ordinary couples did the same.

―“Can’t you really make time tomorrow?”

A brief, loaded silence hung over the phone line.

―“After I went this far… Forget it, I don’t even want to look at you! Hang up!”

Snapping venomously, Choi Sijin heaved furious breaths. Through the speakers, the manager asked tentatively, ―”Sijin-ah, was that…?”

―“…Shut up. It pisses me off.”

Who on earth was that on the line? He had never witnessed Sijin act that way with anyone. As Mu-yeong puzzled over the mystery, Choi Sijin emerged from the studio entrance. Keeping a cautious distance, Mu-yeong tailed the celebrity’s van.

Cruising smoothly through traffic, the van pulled into the underground parking garage of Sijin’s luxury apartment complex. Mu-yeong tailed close behind the vehicle directly following the van, slipping past the barrier arm just in time.

The subterranean lot gleamed with an array of colorful, high-end foreign cars. The second he exited the vehicle, Choi Sijin swiped his key card and disappeared beyond the glass security doors. The van pulled out to exit the complex.

Parked in the shadows near the security entrance, Seo Mu-yeong sank into deep thought. Who in the world could make Choi Sijin drop all formal honorifics and plead so desperately? He spoke respectfully to his father, and while he used casual banmal with his mother, the tone was completely different.

Could it be that older brother he was rumored to have?

Mu-yeong knew virtually nothing about Sijin’s brother. While there were at least a few scraps of intelligence regarding his father, Choi Hak-gyun, and his mother, Kim Jeong-seon, the lone sibling remained a ghost—no photographs, not even a name. The only clues came from passing remarks Sijin had dropped on variety broadcasts.

‘My hyung… ah, hyung is three years older than me.’

‘Hyung always calls me “our Sijin.”’

‘Hyung just works at an ordinary corporate office. Our schedules never match up, so we can’t hang out much, which is such a bummer.’

The discrepancy between Choi Sijin on and off camera was vast. As such, Mu-yeong had never taken the claim of close brotherhood at face value. Yet perhaps those words had contained a grain of truth after all.

Given how furious Sijin had been yesterday, was it possible the brother might drop by to check on him today?

If so, staking out the lobby was well worth the wait. If Sijin truly held affection for his brother, the man was prime investigative collateral.

Pressing the earbud deeper into his ear canal, Mu-yeong listened through the rest of the recording. A few hours slipped by before bright xenon headlights blazed at the garage entrance. A black Volvo sedan glided smoothly down the ramp.

The car pulled to a halt, and a suited man climbed out from the driver’s seat. Built like a brick wall with an angular, severe jawline, the driver opened the rear passenger door and bowed deeply from the waist.

“Section Chief, we have arrived,” the driver announced deferentially.

A polished leather dress shoe set down upon the urethane floor beneath tailored trousers. Mu-yeong casually glanced toward the man emerging from the backseat, only for his gaze to lock instantly in place. Though he observed hundreds of faces every day, this man belonged to a completely different tier.

Eyes as black as the sedan behind him formed deep, cavernous hollows against his sharp facial bones. Though his expression hovered past stoic into absolute, chilling detachment, the sheer heaviness of his features and the massive frame of his physique exuded overwhelming physical intimidation.

Still, Seo Mu-yeong had no reason to fear being noticed. Inside a darkened, parked vehicle, he was completely invisible unless he leaned on the horn, so he studied the newcomer with unhurried scrutiny.

Late twenties. Just shy of one hundred and ninety centimeters, with deep, sun-browned skin. Hair slicked back carelessly with pomade, a pitch-black dress shirt tailored skin-tight across broad shoulders, rolled-up sleeves exposing thick, vascular forearms.

And creeping up the left side of his neck, the gaping, fanged maw of an inked serpent.

A gangster.

Mu-yeong instinctively traced the Sign of the Cross. He knew celebrities, judges, and pro athletes inhabited this luxury complex, but he hadn’t expected actual mobsters. Yet as the tall man cast a lazy glance around the underground lot, his eyes suddenly snagged on Mu-yeong’s van.

Huh?

Mu-yeong blinked in confusion. Sitting quietly inside his car, there was no way anyone could register his presence; it had never happened in his entire life.

Surely the newcomer was just staring because the beat-up van looked out of place among luxury imports. Yet the Section Chief gave a curt flick of his fingers, gesturing directly toward Mu-yeong’s vehicle.

Receiving the silent order, the burly driver marched over with heavy strides. He inspected the driver’s footwell, the passenger seat, and the rear cargo space, peering through every window before returning to bow to his boss.

“There is no one inside, Section Chief,” the driver reported.

It was the exact response Mu-yeong had anticipated. Yet the Section Chief barely seemed to register his subordinate’s words, his eyes boring straight through the tinted windshield at Mu-yeong. Though his face showed blatant boredom, his focus never wavered for a single fraction of a second.

Hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, the tattooed man began striding toward the van. Even as Mu-yeong shifted in his seat and turned his head, those predatory black eyes tracked his exact position. Curling into himself like a startled pill bug, Mu-yeong broke into a cold sweat.

Rap, rap.

Knuckles tapped sharply against the driver’s side window. The Section Chief leaned down, locking his black irises squarely with Mu-yeong’s. His lips shaped two silent, unmistakable syllables without uttering a sound.

Get.

Out.

Faced with a situation beyond anything he had ever experienced, Seo Mu-yeong turned to stone. He had barely drawn breath—how on earth could this man see him? Rather than speak again, the man straightened up. He reached behind his back and withdrew a solid metal baseball bat.

Smash!

The driver’s window splintered into a spiderweb of frosted fractures. As repeated blows rained down on the glass, Mu-yeong scrambled frantically across toward the passenger seat. In his panic, his elbow knocked over the plastic cup, spilling cold, brownish liquid onto the floor mat.

His fingers, slick with sticky custard cream, slipped uselessly against the passenger door latch. Right at that moment, the door behind him wrenched open.

Click.

A spine-chilling terror raked down his backbone as massive hands seized him by the ankles, hauling him backward out of the cabin. The Section Chief slammed him face-first onto the slick urethane floor. At a jerk of the boss’s chin, the suited driver rushed in and bound Mu-yeong’s wrists behind his back.

The motions were crisp, practiced, and merciless. Seeing heavy industrial cable ties being used as restraints, Mu-yeong realized these were no petty punks playing at being gangsters; they were genuine syndicates.

Forced onto his knees, Mu-yeong darted his eyes around the garage, but before he could spot any passing residents, his view was blocked. The Section Chief crouched down on his haunches, bringing his face level with Mu-yeong’s.

Mu-yeong’s panting, disheveled reflection flickered in those dark, fathomless pupils. Pulling out a smartphone, the tattooed man dialed a number. The classical music playing softly through the lot was cut by the chime of an answered call.

“Yeah, my sweet Sijin. It’s me,” the man answered casually.

The Section Chief offered perfunctory responses to the caller on the line. Listening to the high-pitched yapping pouring through the receiver, he nodded in rhythm with lazy amusement.

“Of course I missed my precious Sijin with all my fucking heart. But something just came up suddenly today,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving Mu-yeong.

The man extended a broad hand toward Mu-yeong’s face. Mu-yeong jerked his head back in terror, but he had nowhere to run. A pungent, intoxicating masculine cologne washed over his senses as his eyes squeezed shut in reflex.

Long, callous-roughened fingers pinched the silicone earbud lodged in Mu-yeong’s ear. With a half-twist, the man plucked the earpiece free, his thumb deliberately brushing the sensitive curve of Mu-yeong’s earlobe.

“I’ll call you later, alright?” the man told the phone.

The earbud rolled between his fingers like a glass marble. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, the Section Chief rose to his full height. Then, without a fraction of a second’s hesitation, he swung the aluminum bat.

Crack!

White light exploded behind Mu-yeong’s eyes. As consciousness violently plunged into blackness, Seo Mu-yeong cursed Choi Sijin with every fiber of his soul.