Chapter 14 #2
Wooil stares at me for a long moment, then lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
He pushes his reading glasses up onto his forehead.
“Let me get this straight. You’re bonded to a guy who, from what I can piece together, owns half of Gangnam’s underworld and is apparently funding your entire existence without you having to lift a finger.
And you’re coming to me for a side hustle? ”
“I need to keep on my feet,” I insist, the frustration leaking into my voice. “I can’t just sit around waiting for him to text. I’ll lose my mind. Or what’s left of it.”
“Uh huh.” Wooil picks up the cloth and starts polishing the counter now, avoiding my eyes.
“So when are we gonna get to meet this legendary big pusher, anyway? Me and the guys are starting to think you made him up. That you’ve just been getting your ass kicked by a particularly aggressive piece of gym equipment. ”
The image is so ridiculous I almost smile. “Trust me, you don’t want to meet him. The guy’s a complete fucking psycho.”
Wooil’s lips quirk into a smirk. “Sounds perfect for you, then.”
I shrug, because he’s not wrong. “I enjoy the sadistic side. He’s.
.. thorough. I’ll give him that.” I pause, picking at a chip in the glass counter.
“I’m just not sure I’ve got a hook in anywhere else, you know?
The emotional side is locked up tighter than a bank vault.
I mean, he lets me walk around, so that’s something. Progress, I guess.”
“Does it have to be complicated?” Wooil asks, his tone turning uncharacteristically serious.
He leans on the counter, his fox tattoo peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeve.
“He seems fond of you, in his own messed-up way. The money, the... attention.” He gestures vaguely at my neck.
“And let’s be real, Yujeong, you don’t exactly know how to operate in a relationship normally.
This whole thing seems like an even match to me. You’re both disasters.”
“I suppose,” I grumble, because he’s right about that, too.
My relationship history is a graveyard of broken expectations and people who couldn’t handle what I am.
Suha can handle it. He more than handles it; he demands it.
“I just wish he’d show some initiative sometimes.
Instead of just calling me over like I’m a delivery service.
Maybe express some kind of desire that isn’t just about fucking me into next week or—”
The sound is not loud at first. It’s a sharp tink, like a pebble hitting glass.
Then the world erupts.
The entire front window of the shop shatters inward in a roaring cascade. A thousand glittering shards explode into the space, catching the afternoon light as they fly. The noise is unbelievable—a deafening, violent crash that swallows my words and every other sound in the universe.
Instinct takes over. I don’t think. I lunge across the counter, grabbing a fistful of Wooil’s vest and yanking him down with me.
We hit the floor behind the relative cover of the solid wood counter as glass rains down around us.
It sounds like hail, sharp and relentless, pelting the floor, the shelves, the countertop.
Something heavy and warm slams into my back—a display case tipping over, maybe.
For a second, there’s just the ringing in my ears and the settling ping of falling glass. Dust and the smell of shattered brick and cordite fill the air, thick and choking.
The silence after the glass stops falling is thick and full of dust. My ears ring, a high-pitched whine drowning out everything else.
I’m sprawled half on top of Wooil behind the counter, my arm thrown over his head.
Tiny, glittering fragments of the front window are scattered in my hair, across my shoulders, catching the light like morbid confetti.
“What the fuck,” Wooil wheezes beneath me, his voice thin with shock. “What the actual fuck was that?”
I don’t get a chance to answer. Boots crunch on glass. A lot of boots. They move with a purpose that’s nothing like the sloppy, desperate charge of Taewoo’s loan sharks. These steps are synchronized, spreading out, covering the space.
I push myself up slowly, glass tinkling from my clothes. Wooil scrambles up beside me, his face pale, his glasses askew. We peer over the edge of the counter together.
The shop is full of them. At least eight men, all built like refrigerators in dark, tailored suits that don’t hide the bulk of shoulder holsters.
They’ve fanned out, two covering the shattered doorway, the others moving with calm authority to block the path to the back room, the stairs, every possible exit.
Their faces are blank, professional. Not a hint of emotion.
They don’t look like they’re here to rob the place.
They look like they’re here to secure a perimeter.
“Oh, shit,” Wooil whispers, his hand clutching at my sleeve. “Yujeong, who are these guys?”
Before I can even form a lie, two of them stride forward.
They don’t run. They don’t shout. They just come, their movements terrifyingly direct.
One grabs me by the bicep, his grip like a steel cable.
The other hauls Wooil up by the back of his vest. Wooil lets out a sharp, undignified yelp, his feet scrambling for purchase on the glass-littered floor.
“Hey! Let go! This is private property!” Wooil shrieks, his voice cracking. He’s frantic, twisting and trying to bat at the hand holding him. It’s like watching a kitten swat at a bulldozer. The man doesn’t even blink.
They drag us out from behind the counter, our shoes scraping through the carnage.
The beautiful, weird clutter of Wooil’s shop is now a disaster zone.
A taxidermied owl lies on its side, glass eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
A shelf of vintage porcelain dolls has been decimated, leaving a field of tiny, broken faces and lace skirts.
The men force us to our knees in the middle of the floor, right in the spotlight of the gaping hole where the window used to be. The late afternoon sun streams in, illuminating every terrified line on Wooil’s face. Glass digs into my knees through my jeans.
Then, a new set of footsteps. Slow, deliberate, crunching carefully through the debris. Expensive leather shoes, polished to a mirror shine, stop just in front of us.
I look up.
Suha stands there, hands in the pockets of a long, charcoal gray wool coat.
The sunlight catches the sharp angles of his face, his severe brow, his unsmiling mouth.
He looks down at us, at the wreckage of the shop, at me on my knees.
His expression isn’t angry. It’s something colder, more displeased.
The look of a man who has found a minor but irritating flaw in an otherwise perfect system.
“Did I not say,” he begins, his voice perfectly level, “to behave yourself?”
Wooil’s head whips toward me, his eyes wide with a confusion so pure it’s almost funny. “What?” he breathes. “Yujeong, what is he talking about?”
I sigh, the sound heavy in the quiet shop. My shoulders slump. “I was giving myself a break. Damn. I would’ve called you later.” The excuse sounds pathetic even to my own ears.
Wooil’s brain visibly catches up. His gaze flicks from Suha’s imposing figure back to my resigned face. His mouth drops open. “Is this your...” he trails off, unable to even say it.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I mutter.
I glare up at Suha, tilting my head toward the destroyed storefront. “Though this is a bit overkill, don’t you think? You couldn’t just ring the doorbell?”
Wooil is trembling beside me, a fine, constant shake that makes his glasses tremble on his nose. “How did he even find you here?” he hisses, the question barely audible.
I blink. A cold, sinking feeling pools in my gut, followed immediately by a wave of sheer, stupid realization. “Oh,” I say, the word flat. “Shit. I forgot about the geotag.”
Wooil freezes. The trembling stops. He turns his head toward me. “Geotag?” he repeats, his voice climbing an octave. “What do you mean, geotag?”
Suha doesn’t give me time to explain. He snaps his fingers, a sharp, dry sound. Two of his henchmen immediately step forward and grab me under the arms, hauling me to my feet. My knees protest, stinging from the glass.
As they pull me back, Suha strides toward Wooil’s counter. He pulls a thick, brick-like stack of bills from his inside coat pocket. It’s bound with a paper band. He slaps it down on the wooden surface with a solid thwack that makes Wooil flinch.
“Here,” Suha says, not looking at him. “For the windows.” His tone is that of a man settling a trivial bill. Then he turns, his dark eyes pinning Wooil to the spot. “And to encourage you not to cover for this one anymore.” He jerks his thumb toward me.
He produces a sleek, matte black business card from another pocket and flicks it onto the counter next to the money. It lands with a soft whisper. “Next time he tries to hide out here,” Suha instructs, his voice leaving no room for argument, “give me a call.”
Wooil stares at the cash, at the card, then up at Suha’s impassive face. He nods, the movement quick and jerky. “Yes, sir,” he squeaks out. “Absolutely. Of course.”
I roll my eyes. “Traitor,” I call over my shoulder as the men start maneuvering me toward the door.
Wooil’s fear evaporates for a second, replaced by pure, unadulterated fury directed at me. He glares, his boyish face sharp with anger. “I told you not to bring your mess here!” he shouts, his voice finally finding its strength. “I told you playing games with him was stupid! This is what you get!”
Suha lets out a short, humorless laugh. He strides back across the broken glass, his shoes making definitive cracks with each step. He doesn’t look at Wooil again. His focus is entirely on me.