Chapter Text
'God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.
You’d kill for some mercy.
The thought makes you laugh. It’s an entirely ironic and inappropriate way to solve your problems, the latest of which is Byun Woo-jin’s most recent threat to pay him back by Monday or it’s your eyeballs next time he finds you. At least that’s a problem that can be solved quite easily, once you get the money wired to your account tomorrow. The other issues you carry, not so much.
The next subway is coming in a minute but you think you’ll let it pass, because the thought of returning to the tiny little place you call home isn’t particularly appealing, and you don’t want to spill your dinner all over the subway floor if the ride gets bumpy.
Speaking of which, you peel back the lid and the savory, plasticky steam hits your nose. Some condensation from the lid drips onto your thumb and you shake it off, before reaching into the front pocket of your backpack. Your fingers graze over a cold ring of metal and you push it to the side in favor of fishing out the chopsticks. For a long moment you hold them in your hand, these shitty single-use ones you’d gotten at the convenience store along with the ramyeon and the hot water, the ones that make every bite taste weird and woody. Bloody. Blood in the water.
Fuck. You’re so exhausted you’re not even thinking straight. Thoughts rerouted and jumbled beyond comprehension.
The distant metal-on-metal roar of the subway screeches through the platform and the wind rushes in with it. For a moment it sounds just like the shipping container opening. The thunder. The storm. The frightened body bleeding out in the rain.
Your throat aches, and you hastily stick the chopsticks into the ramyeon and take a bite of the noodles. It’s immediately too hot but it’s hard to be patient when you haven’t eaten since the morning. Harder to be patient when you'd try anything to avoid thinking about anything except the food in your lap.
The subway flashes in from the left. You stare at the cars rushing in and chew slower, feeling like you’re almost in a trance as each car zips by your field of view.
At last, the subway screeches to a stop and the doors open. People quickly begin filtering off the car and dispersing towards the exits, all late-night travelers with the same harried look in their eyes that you probably have.
The doors close and the subway pulls ahead, leaving the platform. You look back down at your soup. A little cube of dehydrated carrot floats to the top.
In the ensuing silence, the first thing you hear is the calm, even click of shoes on the tiled platform, coming in your direction. You take another bite of instant noodles, ducking your head to slurp them into your mouth. It burns your tongue again and you suck in an openmouthed breath to try to cool the food in your mouth.
The footsteps come closer until they stop directly in front of you. You see polished leather shoes. Dark grey slacks. Some kind of businessman.
“Miss. Do you have a minute?”
Wordlessly, you look up at the man, hoping you can communicate with your eyes, if not your full mouth, that you’re really not having it.
The man has kind eyes and a kinder smile and perfectly coiffed hair. He’s handsome, in a glossy, refined sort of way, the kind of face that should be on the cover of a men’s magazine at a grocery store that’s decidedly out of your budget. Something about him looks vaguely familiar, but then again, in this city you’ve passed by hundreds of businessmen like him at some point or another.
As you stare at him, his smile grows even warmer, like you’re an old friend he just happened to bump into. He nods once and places his briefcase right by your side with a dull thud, and you blink, bewildered, as he sits down beside you with a relieved little sigh, like he’s the one having a long day, coming home from whatever cushy corporate job he obviously has.
Your eyes narrow. “I’m busy right now,” you muster out, and scoot away. There’s no other bench in the station, and the next subway is arriving in 10 minutes.
The man looks at you, then at the ramyeon on your lap. “You’re eating instant noodles at 11 p.m. on a subway platform, Miss. I'm sure you have time to spare.” His tone is entirely amicable, like he’s doing you a favor by politely pointing out a mistake you made.
Before you’re able to retort, he murmurs a polite, “Ah, excuse me,” and reaches for the briefcase between the two of you, so you glower at him and viciously stir your chopsticks through your ramyeon.
“Besides,” he adds, as he pops the latches open, “you should eat slower. You’re going to burn your mouth.”
You freeze, about to take the next bite that would most certainly be too hot again. Just to spite him though, you stuff it into your mouth, and yeah, that burns. You try to breathe in through your mouth discreetly and the man has the audacity to laugh. It’s a warm and pleasant sound.
Fucker.
“Miss, I’d like to play a game with you.” He pushes the briefcase open and turns it to face you.
Your grip goes slack on the chopsticks.
Money.
Three stacks of bills set into black foam, two with fifty-thousand won bills at the top and one with a ten-thousand won bill. By your immediate guess there has to be at least seven million won in the briefcase.
To the left, two square insets hold a thick red envelope and a thick blue envelope.
No, not envelopes.
“Ddakji,” you say, flatly. “The game you’re talking about— ddakji?”
“That's correct!” he says, remarkably chipper.
You look at the briefcase of money and you’re so suspicious and so curious, and you know he can see it. You wet your lips as he takes out the two ddakji. “What happens if I win?”
The man smiles. “I’ll give you one hundred thousand won. No strings attached.”
Your fingers twitch, tapping the chopsticks on the side of the bowl. It’s an incredibly tempting opportunity. No strings attached, except the one string that you’ve found— and you should tug on it, hard. See what comes loose.
“And, uh.” You swish your chopsticks through the noodles. “What if you win?”
“You’ll pay me back, Miss,” he replies brightly. “One hundred thousand won.”
“I don’t have that kind of money on me,” you hedge, even as you put your ramyeon to the side.
His eyes track your movements and he looks supremely pleased. “Well, you’ve put me in a generous mood. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
In your line of work, you hadn’t gotten this far by staying only on the safe side of things. And you have to— you need to see the money. You need to find out if there’s more where it came from. If there’s a trail to chase after.
“Okay. I'll play.”
“Wonderful!” He holds out the two ddakji, red and blue, one in each hand. “Choose your color, please.”
You take the red ddakji and stand up. He follows suit and places the blue one on the floor, before gesturing to you with an expectant nod.
You throw.
Your red ddakji hits his blue one. It’s not enough force.
“Aww.” He pouts like he actually feels bad for you, as he reaches down and picks up his ddakji. The second he pulls his arm back to throw, you know you’re screwed.
His ddakji slams powerfully down on yours, flipping it. It’s a perfect hit. Your stomach sinks.
What did he mean by generous mood ? You sigh, prepared to face the music, and look up at him. “Listen, dude—”
It comes out of nowhere.
Your head whips to the side. A sharp inhale cuts from your throat—and in your shock you can’t hold back the whine that escapes you. He just slapped you. You cover your stinging cheek.
“What the fuck?” you spit, rubbing at your face.
“I’ll take off one hundred thousand won for every slap.” He smiles amicably, but there’s a ruthless sort of edge to his expression that wasn’t there before— or maybe it just seems that way now that things have gotten physical. “Would you like to play another round, Miss?”
“Are you insane? What the hell was that?” You’re floored. “You want me to— you want to do this again?”
He wouldn’t even be making money, if you don’t pay him back after losing. He’s probably getting off on this, the sick bastard. Playing money games with unfortunate individuals in the subway. Hitting them when they can’t pay up. He’s a fucking maniac.
In your stunned silence, his eyes have gone dark. “Play another round with me.”
Your mouth goes dry at the deceptively soft tone of his voice. Your throat clicks when you swallow, and then the word is out of your mouth before you can even think. “Why?”
“I’m sure it’ll be worth your while.” He leaves it at that, a mysterious twitch to his lips like there’s some joke you’re not in on, and drops his ddakji to the floor.
You take half a step back, hesitating. You don’t want to get slapped again, and you absolutely will if you continue, because he’s so obviously good at this. But something about this situation makes you want to take it further. It’s part of your job, isn’t it? To seek out danger. To find out why, and how— and really, it’s what you deserve. Nothing more than that.
You throw again.
Again, your ddakji doesn’t make an impact. His does.
He’s grinning when he slaps you this time, an impossibly sunny smile that makes your whole body light up in insult. You think you can feel his fucking calluses on your cheekbone, but now that you know it’s coming you can swallow the pain better.
If these past two years were a penance for your mistakes, for everything that was your fault—then this is, too. Your penance for the shipping container.
One more round.
Your penance for the frightened body.
One more round.
Your penance for the bullet the body bleedingoutintherainhostagedown—
He exhales heavily as you hunch over, and you hear him take a step closer. “Are you alright, Miss?” It's possibly the stupidest question anyone could ask at this point, but he sounds so kind that you almost believe his concern isn't feigned.
Your eyes have grown wet. You cup your stinging cheek, screwing your eyes shut like it could make the pain go away. This slap hurt like a motherfucker, an arc stinging across your cheekbone, layered perfectly upon the previous hits.
The subway comes as you’re blinking away your tears, and the wetness cools rapidly on your cheeks with the wind from the tunnel. The wind. The storm.
Something touches your head, and at first you think it’s the breeze lifting your hair, but you realize far too slowly that it’s his hand stroking your hair, heavy and soothing. Like you’re a wounded little pet.
Alarmed, you immediately swat his arm away and stand up straight. For the briefest moment you see his face— and there’s nothing there. Nothing. His stare is completely, utterly empty.
Like the flick of a switch, his expression warms and he raises his hands, looking like a picture of innocence.
“Just one more game,” he remarks encouragingly, and again it feels like you’re an old friend that he’s cheering on. “I’m sure your luck will change this time, Miss.”
But you’re not an old friend. You don’t know him. This situation is so absurdly strange.
He’s charming and pleasant and friendly, and yet something is making you feel like a piece of meat being dangled over a violent animal. Maybe it’s the way that he’s been regarding you with a thinly veiled interest this entire time. Maybe it was that glimpse of his cold gaze. Maybe you’re just tired.
You lick the inside of your mouth and taste blood. Oh well.
Then you reach down and pick up your ddakji. You take in a heavy breath.
“Don’t follow all the way through on the swing,” he interrupts cheerily. “Best of luck!”
You grit your jaw. You’re reluctant to follow his advice but you don’t have anything better to do. The punishment is just another slap, and you— you can bear that. You’ve had to bear a lot of things.
You raise your arm and then snap it forward, cutting your swing just short as you throw your card down.
Your ddakji hits his perfectly in the center. Both bounce up. His ddakji flips and lands cleanly on the ground.
“Oh my god,” the groan comes from deep within your chest along with all the tension bottled up inside. You cover your eyes, pressing your fingers down until you’re seeing stars. You’re so fucking tired that it takes you a second to realize he’s clapping.
“Congratulations!” He’s smiling that warm, sunny smile again, applauding you like he’s a gameshow host and you’re his most favorite contestant.
You startle as he takes your hand with a strong grip on your wrist, but it’s only to give you a bill with his other hand, the promised one hundred thousand won. He smiles as he smooths his hand over yours so gently.
“Well done, Miss.” He pats your hand. Twice.
Your hand twitches in his grip. The game and the slapping were one thing—well, even the blank stare that you caught was cause for concern. But the tone of his voice just now, that’s setting off alarm bells more than anything else. The clear and obvious praise. The satisfaction. You had followed his instructions for the last round and he’s proud of you.
“Uh, okay.” You pull your hand back, fully weirded out at this point.
A wide grin. “I have an additional opportunity, if you’re interested.”
Choosing to play it cool, you let out a tired laugh. “Really. Should I be?”
Then he says your name.
Your full name.
And then the high school, and the year of university before dropping out to help your ailing parents, and the list of three dead-end jobs, culminating with being laid off two years ago.
And the debt. 190 million won owed to loan sharks. 220 owed to banks.
You don’t have to fake the shock you’re feeling. Anger burns in your bruised cheek and confusion twists your chest, because while it’s a perfect story that would get any loan shark salivating, no one has ever covered the entire picture like this.
What organization is he a part of?
“Ever since, you’ve been finding little odd jobs to make a living. It must be difficult, Miss.”
“How do you know all of this?” You hunch in on yourself and turn to look at your backpack. How fast can you retrieve it from the front pocket? “Who are you?”
“I’m simply a recruiter. A salesman, of sorts.”
“What are you selling?”
“Success.” His mouth turns up at the corners. “And a long and fruitful life.”
Does he have any idea how culty that sounds? You already have enough reasons to be suspicious. You make a noncommittal noise and step back, enough to reach your backpack and pull it towards you. You fiddle with the front zipper, acting nervous. “So, what’s the opportunity?”
He reaches into his suit pocket and retrieves a white business card, holding it pinched between his index and middle finger. “Here’s my personal number.”
You reach for it and he flicks his hand back, keeping the card just out of your grasp. There’s a playful look in his eyes. “Call me any time. Day or night.”
Then he holds the card back within reach. You scowl before grabbing it, choosing to ignore whatever that last comment was as you inspect the business card. It’s blank except for a phone number embossed in black.
You raise a dubious eyebrow and look up at him. “This doesn’t have your name.”
“No, it doesn’t.” He grins teasingly and steps back. “I'll be seeing you, Miss.”
He leaves and you get a chance to see his tall figure at a distance, his stride, his broad fucking shoulders and perfectly tailored suit.
You should thank the cyber forensics department. Whatever background check he ran on you cleared their system perfectly. Nothing he had recounted was real.
A heavy sigh escapes you, but you don’t feel all that relieved. Silently, you unzip the front pocket of your backpack and grab what you need, before slinging it over your shoulders and running after him. He’s at the end of the platform, nearing the stairs.
“Sir, wait, one more thing.”
He stops and turns to look at you, again with that handsome smile.
In a single move you grab his wrist and click the cuffs on. He stiffens instantly, and you take advantage of his shock to turn him around and cuff his other wrist.
“You're under arrest on suspicion of racketeering and extortion.”
Time of arrest: Saturday 23:57
Office: Seoul Dobong Police Station
Time of documentation: Sunday 04:38
Submitted as personal inventory:
- One black briefcase, brand unknown
- One paper ddakji, red
- One paper ddakji, blue
- One incomplete strap of ₩50,000 bills (total: ₩3,400,000)
- One complete strap of ₩50,000 bills (total: ₩5,000,000)
- One incomplete strap of ₩10,000 bills (total: ₩700,000)
- One black leather wallet, brand Salvatore Ferragamo, containing: four credit cards and bills in the amount of ₩327,000
- One wristwatch, brand Louis Vuitton, meteorite watchface
- One set of cufflinks, brand Chopard, silver and black
- Three keys, two with unknown use, one Ferrari vehicle key fob
- One smartphone, brand Samsung, black case
- One brown business-sized card
- Front: a triangle, a square, and a circle symbol
- Back: a phone number leading to a disconnected line.
- One white business-sized card
- Front: a phone number leading to the smartphone
- Back: blank