Chapter 13

“You really have quite the talent, Seo Mu-yeong-ssi—barking pure bullshit in such colorful varieties.”

“…” Mu-yeong swallowed hard, keeping his lips sealed.

“Is it because an errand agency counts as customer service?” Choi Yook continued, his tone cutting. “I told you not to get cocky, yet you keep running that mouth right beneath the boundary line like a true professional. Even the way you prattled on until reading the room and shutting up just now.”

In a monotonous cadence resembling the chanting of a Buddhist sutra, Choi Yook dissected Mu-yeong’s inner psychology. Mu-yeong chose to remain silent. Having those fierce eyes bore into him was suffocating enough on its own.

That was the problem with those eyes: they never let him slip away.

No matter how severely others glared at him, Mu-yeong could always smile back. But before these eyes, that defense shattered. For someone who had spent his life photographing targets from the shadows, he felt as though he had been pinned dead-center in someone else’s crosshairs.

Without blinking, Choi Yook tightened his grip. The bone beneath Mu-yeong’s ear felt on the verge of snapping. While instinct screamed at him to shove the man away, Mu-yeong endured the agony without laying a hand on him. Choi Yook glanced down at Mu-yeong’s fingers digging into the vinyl seat cover.

“Banter isn’t bad. Testing the waters is fine, too. Craving an easy life is human nature, after all.”

“…” Mu-yeong made no move to resist.

“However, once you understand my meaning, don’t play dumb and talk back,” Choi Yook warned, his voice low and dangerous. “If you keep inching forward to see how far you can stretch your legs, you might find your ankles chopped off.”

Coming from this man, it sounded less like a metaphor and more like a literal promise. Forcing a compliant smile to placate him, Mu-yeong managed to speak,

“I won’t do it again,” Mu-yeong managed to say, offering a strained smile.

“Good,” Choi Yook murmured coldly. “I suspect I’d prefer a Seo Mu-yeong with ankles over one without them, too.”

The crushing pressure threatening to shatter half his face vanished in an instant. Releasing his hand, Choi Yook leaned back and drained the iced Americano in several deep gulps. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed heavily with each swallow.

It was a stark contrast to Han Seo-yoon, who had guarded himself by refusing the beverage. That didn’t mean Choi Yook trusted Mu-yeong; rather, he treated him like a wretched earthworm incapable of posing any harm—something he could crush underheel whenever it irritated him.

They said even an earthworm turns when trodden upon, but if Mu-yeong so much as squirmed, his spine would be snapped in two on the spot. Still, an earthworm had the skill to burrow into the soil and hide. As long as he could slip past Choi Yook’s gaze, he would find a way to reach Choi Sijin.

Watching the traffic lights, Mu-yeong readjusted his grip on the wheel. As the signal turned green, the sedan surged forward. Cherry blossoms blooming extravagantly along the roadside showered petals across the tarmac.

Crushing the fluttering petals beneath the tires, the vehicle merged smoothly onto the Gyeongbu Expressway. Green highway signs pointing toward Mangcheon came into view. Despite the throbbing ache in his jaw, Mu-yeong asked in a professional, cheerful tone,

“Where in Mangcheon should we head first, Section Chief?”

“Mount Yeongno,” Choi Yook answered.

Choi Yook crunched a cube of ice between his molars as he spoke. Much like Mu-yeong, he acted as if nothing had transpired between them—like a man who smacked a malfunctioning television set before calmly resuming his program. He tapped the navigation screen to set their destination.

“Mount Yeongno Hiking Trail Entrance Public Restroom”

The automated voice chimed clearly, announcing the route guidance. Come to think of it, the mountain had risen directly behind his grandmother’s house. Scanning the projected route, Mu-yeong asked,

“So the old shaman’s house was near here, right?”

“No,” Choi Yook replied flatly. “This is the spot.”

“…Pardon?”

The question slipped from Mu-yeong’s lips unbidden. Looking too annoyed to repeat himself, Choi Yook leaned his head back against the headrest.

“I told you, everything burned to the ground. In a country where people scramble over every square foot of land, it’s only natural something new would be built on top. Even designated human cultural treasures are forgotten once they die, so what point is there in preserving the ruins of an amateur shaman’s shack?”

Crimson tongues of flame flared vividly before Mu-yeong’s eyes. The stretching highway, passing cars, and the verdant slopes of Mount Cheonggye all seemed engulfed in an inferno.

Somewhere, the smell of burning vinyl flooring drifted to his nostrils—though it was likely just the chemical odor of the brand-new seat covers he had installed for Choi Yook. Habitually moderating his foot on the accelerator, Mu-yeong asked, “Then how did a public restroom end up being built there?”

Choi Yook closed his eyes slowly.

“There were no heirs to inherit the property, so it went to public auction. The buyer built a public restroom on the lot and donated the facility to the state. To put it simply in terms you can understand: the government sold it, a private buyer purchased it, and then handed it right back to the government.”

It was a relief he phrased it simply. Mu-yeong nodded along.

“If they donated it for free like that, whoever they were must have been a remarkably kind soul.”

“It was my father,” Choi Yook said casually. “Guess he felt his time was near and wanted to launder his life a bit.”

Choi Yook’s tone was indifferent. Mu-yeong’s mind went completely blank.

So Chairman Choi Hak-gyun had murdered his grandmother, burned down the house, and built a public restroom on the ashes. Not a lucrative commercial development, nor a luxurious vacation villa—a public toilet where any random passerby could walk in to piss and shit.

Had the man erected an apartment complex on that land to pocket tens of billions of won, Mu-yeong would not have been so utterly flabbergasted. He couldn’t even find the words to respond. The grotesque absurdity of the scheme was so staggering that tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Thanks to that, the voice that slipped past his lips trembled with what sounded like genuine awe.

“How on earth did he come up with such an idea?” Mu-yeong marveled, wide-eyed. “Your father sounds truly immaculate. Sijin must take after him.”

“…” Choi Yook offered only silence.

“Wait, if there was no heir to inherit the land, does that mean the shaman had no surviving family?” Mu-yeong asked, tilting his head. “I assumed she shared blood with the child we’re looking for.”

“None,” Choi Yook stated flatly.

Dismantling the theory without hesitation, he said, “We dug through everything under her shamanic title as well as her legal name, but there were no adoption records under either. The kid wasn’t officially registered as her kin to begin with.”

“We dug through everything under her shamanic title Baek Woon-dang as well as her legal name, Kang Shim-soo. Not a single relative turned up. Likely an orphan, much like you, Seo Mu-yeong-ssi.” Poking callously at Mu-yeong’s rawest wound, Choi Yook continued, “She did have one daughter, but she and her husband died in an accident nearly twenty years ago. There were no children between them.”

“Are you certain?” Mu-yeong pressed.

“I pulled their official family relation certificates myself, so yes, I’m certain.”

What Choi Yook’s words signified was unmistakable: ■■■ had not merely been processed as missing or deceased. The very birth registration proving he had ever been born had evaporated into nothingness.

As a young child, Mu-yeong had visited hospitals and attended daycare without the slightest bureaucratic hurdle. Though he had long since forgotten the digits, his mother had told him his resident registration number. Thus, the reason all administrative proof of ■■■’s existence had vanished without a trace was painfully obvious.

Because ■■■’s name had been stolen.

The realization brought no shock; he had already suspected as much. From the very second his name was stripped away, ■■■’s existence had effectively been expunged from the world. He had no right to hold records that were no longer his.

It was as though no one had ever dreamt the conception dream of an injured elephant.

Still, that pristine erasure had shielded Mu-yeong all these years. In a country where even the revocation of one’s civil registry left a permanent bureaucratic footprint, such total obliteration was an extraordinary blessing for someone living in hiding. Above all, it had kept the Choi family hopelessly mistaken about the child’s gender—a positive development indeed. Smiling faintly, Mu-yeong nodded to himself.

“That explains why you couldn’t locate the child all this time—no legal ties to the shaman whatsoever,” Mu-yeong remarked casually. “Where do you suppose she brought the kid from, then?”

“That is precisely what you are being paid to uncover, Seo Mu-yeong-ssi,” Choi Yook answered dismissively.

Waving a careless hand, he added, “Besides, there’s another reason the kid was never adopted. The girl was registered as deceased on paper. To adopt someone legally, their resident registration needs to be active, but if the record was struck off as dead, there’s no way she was fostered out under her real identity.”

“Besides, there’s another reason the kid was never found until now.”

“What’s that?” Mu-yeong inquired.

“Every bastard who investigated the case lost his damn mind.”

Without a flicker of change in his expression, Choi Yook elaborated, “They ended up dead, driven insane, or vanishing into thin air. After that, vile rumors spread, and no one would touch the job. If you’re going to drop dead, Seo Mu-yeong-ssi, I’d prefer you find the kid first before kicking the bucket.”

His tone was as dispassionate as someone estimating a phone’s remaining battery percentage.

So that’s what Han Seo-yoon meant on the phone. Mu-yeong now fully grasped why Choi Yook had dumped the assignment onto someone he clearly didn’t trust—as well as why Kim Sang-beom harbored such deep, unspoken dread toward Yeongchwi Capital.

“How did those people meet their ends?” Mu-yeong asked.

“Traffic accidents were the most common,” Choi Yook answered. “Others plummeted off the mountain, drowned in the reservoir, or smashed their skulls against the bronze bell of a Buddhist temple.”

What was that last one about—re-enacting the fable of the grateful magpie? Unable to comprehend the bizarre fatalities, Mu-yeong let out a sigh.

“Our boss mentioned he was in a car crash in Mangcheon ten years ago, too,” Mu-yeong said thoughtfully. “There must be a notorious high-accident zone around here. They really ought to fix the lanes and signage early on. I wonder if the municipal budget is lacking or if the civil servants are just slacking off.”

“…” Choi Yook maintained his silence.

“Or do you see it differently, Section Chief?” Mu-yeong probed.

Receiving no answer, Mu-yeong glanced over at Choi Yook. Letting out a short chuckle, the man looked down at him with a slightly relaxed expression.

“My view isn’t much different, but I didn’t expect you to rationalize it like that,” Choi Yook said. “Seeing how unbothered you are, I take it you’re usually a safe driver?”

“Of course! I’m going three years accident-free,” Mu-yeong replied proudly. “I’ve been hit while on foot, but I’ve never caused a crash behind the wheel.”

Mu-yeong spoke with satisfaction, recalling his diligent past. However, Choi Yook’s attention snagged on an entirely different detail.

“You got hit by a car while walking?” Choi Yook asked.

“Bicycles and electric kickboards were more frequent, actually,” Mu-yeong clarified cheerfully. “And even those haven’t happened in quite a while.”

Because he had developed the deeply ingrained habit of constantly checking his surroundings. Choi Yook’s eyes narrowed into slits.