Chapter 8

Rumble. Pour.

Whirrr—bzzzt.

Overnight, a torrential downpour left the air heavy with dampness, and the circulator in the president’s office had been whirring without pause. It was the only room in the entire building fitted with a ventilation fan. In Seoul, artificial intelligence would have regulated the airflow automatically; here, they had only this crude imitation, and even that worked only when someone flipped the switch by hand.

On the day he agreed to lease the premises, Park Gil-pyeong had carted away roughly two boxes of belongings on his three-wheeled vehicle. Thanks to that, the safes covering two full walls were completely vacant despite being in pristine working order. Paranoid as he was, there was no chance he would leave a single valuable behind.

Gwichang turned his gaze toward Geum Seoul, sprawled across a sofa with its leather upholstery shredded open. He had collapsed on the way back and remained unconscious for hours, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Dawn was approaching, but the storm kept the sky pitch-black.

“He’s showing symptoms of dehydration and heat exhaustion.”

When Yu Jeong-ham rolled up the cumbersome sleeves to start an IV, a soft sound of realization escaped him. The arm beneath them was slender, pale, and delicate—completely at odds with Geum Seoul’s padded silhouette. So this was the ‘fake’ Gwichang had pointed out.

● SYSTEM

Gemstone Appraisal Certificate

Appraisal No.: GSR-066192LX-J

Clarity: X-1

Grade Classification: D-10

Geum Seoul’s appraisal was a measly D-10—a grade more worthless than gravel rolling in the dirt.

“Do you think he smuggled him out this time as well, sir?”

Five minutes earlier, Yu Jeong-ham had asked the question quietly while reporting in. Gwichang had glanced once at the pale, slender fingers hanging limply over the edge of the sofa and replied, ‘What, do I look like fucking God to you?’ without offering a real answer. A ghost is basically a god, Jeong-ham had muttered under his breath, well aware that his boss had probably already calculated the possibilities.

What they knew for certain was this: after escorting Lee Hee-joong to the shack before dawn, Geum Seoul had spent the entire day inside the village. Cross-checking the sightings from operatives combing the area confirmed that he had never been outside the perimeter for even half an hour. He had either been running errands around the building or working in the laundry area.

Even so, the suspicion remained. Geum Seoul could have mapped out an escape route in advance, or deliberately named the wrong hiding place to send them off course. If they were going to catch Lee Hee-joong’s trail by any means necessary, they first had to make Geum Seoul talk.

Whirrr.

Huff, huff.

Beneath the drumming rain and the cheap circulator’s hum, Gwichang caught a sound at a distinctly different pitch and lifted his eyes from the monitor.

It came from Geum Seoul. For someone who had collapsed from exhaustion, he appeared to be sleeping remarkably well.

Gwichang rose without a sound and leaned against the edge of the desk. Up close, the boy’s features came into sharper focus. Awake, he moved in hurried, hunched steps, as though forever braced for danger; asleep, his face was peaceful, his breathing almost childlike. On the desk lay the little snack pouch he had dropped in the grass when one of the operatives scooped him up.

Fucking pathetic.

Three layers on his torso alone. Beneath the loose, rumpled neckline of that bizarre T-shirt, bundled fabric peeked through—apparently there to conceal the padding. Earlier, when Gwichang had brushed his bangs aside to check his pupils, long lashes and a smooth, rounded forehead had emerged, along with neat, carefully shaped brows. The bridge of the nose, beginning between his eyes, had felt strangely unnatural. He was clearly going to desperate lengths to survive. Gwichang let his gaze travel down the slender line of his jaw to the hollow above his sternocleidomastoid and collarbone.

A recessive omega. That was Gwichang’s conclusion. No matter how thoroughly a scent was suppressed, this trace was extraordinarily faint—almost indistinguishable from an ordinary beta’s. Several omega scents drifted from the second floor of the building; in a place this poor, where managing one’s presentation was difficult, the circumstances were easy enough to imagine.

Basic suppressants could, in theory, be obtained free from public health clinics. Reaching one from this godforsaken town, however, was another matter. And there were persistent rumors that gemstone omegas produced their finest crystals when they stayed off medication, which may have played a part as well.

Rustle.

The worn sofa rustled, its peeling vinyl exposing brown backing and yellow foam. Geum Seoul’s brow tightened faintly as his eyelids fluttered open. The sound broke Gwichang’s train of thought. His gaze settled on the boy’s plump lips; he fully expected the first words out of that mouth to be something like, ‘I’m sorry.’

“…”

Blink… flick.

Geum Seoul stared blankly at the ceiling, as though waiting for his vision to settle, then abruptly pushed himself upright. He studied the puncture mark on the back of his hand and tilted his head in confusion. Gwichang said nothing. He simply watched, curious to see what the boy would do first.

Geum Seoul dragged his gaze from his hand, smoothed his disheveled bangs into place, and looked around. Only then did their eyes meet. His eyes widened into perfect circles, revealing pale, vivid hazel-gray irises. Pure panic flashed across his face. His mouth opened—and then—

Geum Seoul jolted upright with a sharp gasp. ‘Gasp!’

Taking in the windowless office and the circulator rattling furiously in the corner, Geum Seoul sprang to his feet. His knees buckled for an instant, but he caught himself and straightened.

“Is it raining right now?!” Seoul blurted in sudden alarm.

That was his first question. There was none of the dread or trembling from before—only startled urgency. Gwichang’s eyes narrowed. Suspecting some ridiculous scheme, he gave the boy an almost amiable answer. ‘Yeah.’ And then—

Dash.

Geum Seoul bolted out like an arrow.

…Is that little rat actually making a run for it? Left standing alone in the office, Gwichang gave a scoffing laugh and rose. The instant he stepped through the doorway, Yu Jeong-ham and the operatives resting on the first floor—stranded there because of the downpour—snapped to attention. They looked ready to chase after Geum Seoul, but stopped when Gwichang raised a hand. The boy wasn’t heading for an exit at all. He was charging straight up the stairs to the second floor.

Whoosh. Crash.

The building’s walls held only square openings where windows should have been; the glass was long gone. Heavy rain lashed into the corridor wherever cheap canvas or plastic sheeting failed to block it, and even the sheltered stretches were streaked with water running down the walls.

It was Gwichang’s first time on the second floor. Until now, he had sent only his men and had never intended to come up himself. Even so, he took the stairs two at a time, following Geum Seoul’s presence through the roar of the rain.

A long corridor greeted him first. The doors lining both sides were cracked open by a handspan or thrown wide, proving Park Gil-pyeong’s claim that he didn’t confine them was genuine.

Each door had been painted a different color—red, green, pink, blue. Gwichang could more or less guess the intention. But there was nothing cheerful about them now. Peeling paint exposed older layers beneath, while black mildew ate into the walls and turned the corridor strangely eerie.

There were occasional sounds of people stirring inside the rooms. Gwichang did not glance left or right; he kept an even pace and looked straight ahead. At the far end of the hall, he spotted Geum Seoul climbing through the largest window opening. For all the bulk of his padded torso, the slight upward curve of his backside looked startlingly small.

For a moment, Gwichang wondered whether the boy was attempting some bizarre escape route. It took only seconds to realize otherwise.

Crash. Roar.

In the predawn darkness, amid white flashes of lightning and rolling thunder, the first thing Geum Seoul did after waking from a dead faint brought on by heatstroke and exhaustion was bring in the laundry.

“…”

Hands still in his pockets, Gwichang cocked his head. He had expected cunning. What he was looking at instead was sheer absurdity.

Seoul wrung his hands in despair. “Oh no, what am I going to do…?”

Within seconds, the driving rain had soaked Geum Seoul to the skin. His shaggy hair dripped, and all three layers of clothing clung to him in heavy folds. He seemed not to notice the weight. Frantically gathering the sodden garments, he hugged the dripping bundle against his chest.

Beep—boop.

Every step produced a wet squelch. Only then did Gwichang notice just how ruined the boy’s shoes were: canvas worn thin, the fore-soles peeled away, the inner cushioning half exposed and swollen with rainwater. Worse, this was not a proper roof beneath his feet but a patchwork of corrugated slate and scrap metal. One bad step could send him crashing into the alley below. Still, Geum Seoul clutched the clothes with his sleeve-covered hands and stretched for the very last pair of trousers.

“Pheeew…”

Only after gathering everything did Geum Seoul retreat toward the window, looking as though he had just climbed out of a river. With both arms full and his soaked bangs plastered across his eyes, he hesitated, then turned around to climb back through backward. He threw one leg over the frame and stretched his toes toward the floor. They dangled in empty air, a handspan short.

Ridiculous. Gwichang scoffed under his breath. The kid was undeniably an idiot—waking from a heatstroke collapse only to panic over laundry, then clinging to the bundle so stubbornly that he let the rough frame scrape his thighs rather than risk dropping it into muddy water.

Grab.

Seoul gasped, startled by the sudden lift. “Ah!”

Geum Seoul flinched when hands caught him from behind. Gwichang lifted him beneath the armpits as easily as one might hoist a stray kitten and set him on the floor, releasing him at once. Still hugging the wet laundry, the boy bowed deeply from the waist. Then he stooped to snatch up a fallen sock and said with timid sincerity,

“You didn’t have to help me, but thank you.”

“Yeah. Spare me the bullshit,” Gwichang drawled, waving him off.

He had not helped in order to be thanked. Watching someone persist in such baffling, pathetic behavior had simply irritated him beyond endurance. Now that he had touched the soaking-wet creature, his own palms were slick with water. Gwichang frowned.