Chapter 15 #4
He just strides through the ruined doorway, stepping over a groaning thug without a glance, as if he’s crossing the threshold of his own office.
The harsh warehouse lights carve his face into sharp planes of shadow and pale skin.
He’s wearing black, head to toe, a long coat over his usual steam-pressed suit.
He looks immaculate, untouched by the dust and violence swirling around him.
His eyes find me first.
They sweep over me, lying broken and bleeding on the concrete, my hand leaking a dark pool onto the gray floor.
I see his gaze catch on the fresh cut, track up to my swollen face, my bound limbs.
Something flickers in those dark depths, something hot and black and furious.
For a heartbeat, his expression isn’t calm at all; it’s a silent, contained inferno.
Then it’s gone. Smoothed over. His face becomes a mask of frightening, absolute calm. He turns his head, and his gaze lands on the older man standing over me.
Suha’s lips quirk, just at one corner. It looks like he’s baring his teeth instead of smiling.
“Uncle,” he says. His voice is clear, cutting through the dying commotion. It’s pleasant, almost casual. “How nice to see you again.”
The boss—Kyungho—takes a half-step back.
The blood drains from his face so completely he looks like a wax figure.
His eyes dart from Suha to his own men, who are now either unconscious or being efficiently restrained by Suha’s henchmen.
He looks back at Suha, and a nervous, sickly smile twitches on his lips.
“Suha,” he says, and his voice is too high, too tight. “What a surprise.” He gestures weakly at the scene, at his own defeated men. “What... what brings you here?”
Suha doesn’t answer right away. He takes a few slow steps forward, his expensive shoes making no sound on the concrete.
He stops a few feet away, looking down at his uncle with an expression of mild interest. “You have something,” he says, each word dropping into the sudden quiet like a stone, “that belongs to me.”
His uncle blinks. For a second, genuine confusion wars with the panic on his face. Then his eyes widen. He whirls, staring down at me with dawning, horrified comprehension.
I grin up at him. My teeth feel gritty with blood. I have to cough, a wet, rattling sound that sends a fresh wave of pain through my side, but I force the words out anyway, my voice a triumphant whisper. “I tried to tell you.”
Suha gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Two of his men detach themselves from the periphery and move toward me.
They don’t look at Kyungho. They might as well be moving through empty space.
One of them—the slender guy with glasses who hacked my phone—produces a small, sharp tool and slices through the plastic zip ties on my wrists with a quick snick.
The sudden release sends a flood of prickling fire down my arms. The other cuts the ties at my ankles.
My limbs feel like they’re made of wet clay.
I try to push myself up, and my left hand—the cut one—gives way instantly, a jolt of agony shooting up to my elbow.
I gasp, my vision spotting. A strong hand closes around my upper arm, not gently, but firmly, hauling me upright.
It’s the glasses guy. His grip is steady, keeping me from face-planting back onto the floor.
I stagger, my legs trembling. Every part of me is shouting. My ribs are a cage of hot knives. My face is a throbbing, swollen mess. The cut on my hand is a line of pure, screaming focus. The cage and the piercings are distant, secondary aches beneath the fresher, more immediate damage.
I shuffle forward, one stumbling step, then another.
I pass Suha’s uncle. Kyungho is just standing there, frozen, his face still that awful, pale color.
I make myself look at him as I limp by. I put every ounce of smug, bloody satisfaction I can muster into that look.
I let him see the crazy, unhinged glee in my one good eye.
You picked the wrong fucking pet to kick.
I don’t make it far. The wall of the warehouse is only about ten feet away, and I lean against it heavily, the cool, rough concrete a solid anchor against the spinning in my head.
I clutch my injured hand against my stomach, the other arm wrapped around my ribs, trying to hold myself together.
I’m breathing in short, shallow sips, each one a careful negotiation with the pain in my side.
I watch, from my spot against the wall, taking out my pack of cigarettes, carefully pulling one free, and lighting it.
I put it between my lips and inhale indulgently as Suha finally turns his full attention back to his uncle.
Suha doesn’t look at me again. He turns his head slowly, his gaze sweeping over the subdued scene—his own men standing watchful and still, his uncle’s thugs either unconscious or kneeling with their hands on their heads. His expression is unreadable, a smooth surface over deep, dark water.
He shrugs out of his long black coat, fluidly and unhurriedly. He holds it out to one side without looking, and the slender guy with glasses steps forward silently and takes it, folding it over his arm.
Then Suha begins to roll up his sleeves.
He does it meticulously, first one crisp white cuff, then the other, folding the fabric back in neat, precise turns.
The exposed skin of his forearms is pale and corded with muscle, the tendons standing out as he works.
The silence in the warehouse is thick enough to taste, broken only by the wet, ragged sound of my own breathing and the low moan of one of Taewoo’s men.
“As it happens,” Suha says, almost pleasantly, as he finishes with the second sleeve. He looks up at his uncle. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Uncle.”
He takes a step forward. His shoes click softly on the concrete. “Imagine my own surprise,” he continues, taking another step, “to see you here.”
Kyungho takes a stumbling step back, his hands coming up in a placating gesture. The color hasn’t returned to his face. He looks like a ghost of the smug, calculating man who was holding a knife to my hand minutes ago.
“Suha, listen,” he starts, his voice cracking. “This is... this is a misunderstanding. A terrible coincidence. This... this delinquent,” he gestures wildly toward me, “he owed me money. A business matter, that’s all. I had no idea he was... involved with you. How could I?”
Suha doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t seem to hear the words at all. A slow, terrifying smile spreads across his face. It’s not a happy smile. It’s the grin of a predator that’s finally cornered its prey after a long, frustrating hunt. It’s all teeth and cold, dark amusement.
“No idea?” Suha echoes softly. He’s close now, only a few feet separating them.
“You, who has your fingers in every petty loan operation south of the river? You, who has been trying to pick off my lieutenants one by one? You had no idea that the alpha you were torturing for pocket change was bonded to me?” He shakes his head, the smile never wavering.
“You’re getting sloppy in your old age, Uncle.
Or you’re just stupider than I thought.”
Kyungho’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. His eyes dart around the warehouse, looking for an escape that isn’t there. He finds none. Only the implacable faces of Suha’s men, and me, leaning against the wall, watching.
“It was just business!” Kyungho finally blurts out, desperation sharpening his tone. “The boy was a debtor! He was disrespectful! I was teaching him a lesson, that’s all! For the family’s reputation!”
“The family’s reputation,” Suha repeats, and he actually laughs.
It’s a short, dry sound that holds no warmth.
“You tried to have me shot. You’ve been skimming from my operations.
You’ve been whispering in the ears of men who owe me loyalty, trying to turn them.
And you want to talk to me about the family’s reputation?
” He takes the final step, closing the distance.
“You lost the right to speak for this family when you decided my chair looked more comfortable than yours.”
Kyungho makes a last, frantic attempt. He swings a wild, panicked punch.
It’s pathetic. Suha doesn’t even bother to block it properly. He simply leans back, letting the fist whistle past his chin, and then his own hand shoots out. He doesn’t make a fist. He just slaps Kyungho, open-handed, across the face.
The crack is shockingly loud in the quiet space. Kyungho’s head snaps to the side, a fine spray of blood and spit flying from his lips. He stumbles, crying out.
That’s all the opening Suha needs.
He moves then, and it’s not the controlled, almost lazy advance from before.
It’s a sudden explosion of focused violence.
He drives his knee up into Kyungho’s stomach, doubling the older man over with a choked gasp.
As Kyungho folds, Suha brings his elbow down hard on the back of his neck, driving him face-first onto the concrete.
Kyungho lands with a sickening thud. He tries to push himself up, groaning, but Suha is on him. He grabs a handful of his uncle’s silver-streaked hair and yanks his head up, then slams it back down onto the floor. Once. Twice. The sound is wet and final.
Then the fists start.
Suha doesn’t rage. He doesn’t roar. He works in a grim, terrible silence.
He pins Kyungho with a knee between his shoulder blades, immobilizing him, and then he begins to beat him.
His fists rise and fall with a rhythm that is neither fast nor slow, just inevitable.
They connect with bone—the crunch of a cheekbone giving way, the duller crack of ribs.
Blood begins to fleck Suha’s white sleeves, bright red against the pristine cotton.
It spatters across the gray concrete, forming dark, spreading pools.
Kyungho’s cries are muffled, gurgling things.
He tries to struggle at first, his legs kicking weakly, but Suha’s weight is too much.
The fight bleeds out of him quickly, replaced by sheer, animal agony.
The only sounds are the wet impact of fists on flesh, the crackle of breaking cartilage, and Kyungho’s increasingly faint whimpers.
I watch, my own pain distant and secondary.
There’s a strange, hollow feeling in my chest, watching Suha do this.
Not horror. This is the man I bonded myself to.
This is the violence that lives under his skin, the fury he keeps on such a tight leash.
Seeing it unleashed is terrifying and, in a fucked-up way I won’t ever admit out loud, perversely beautiful.
It’s the truth of him, raw and ugly and magnificent.
Finally, Suha stops. He’s breathing a little harder now, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He stands up, leaving his uncle a broken, weeping heap on the floor. Kyungho is barely conscious, his face a swollen, bloody mask, one eye completely shut.
Doyun, Suha’s right hand, steps forward, holding something out. A gun. A sleek, black semi-automatic. Suha takes it without a word, his grip firm and sure. He checks the magazine with a practiced flick of his wrist, then chambers a round. The metallic snick-clack is intensely loud.
He turns back to his uncle, leveling the gun at the center of his forehead. Kyungho’s one good eye rolls wildly, focusing on the barrel. A wet, pleading sound escapes his ruined mouth. Words are beyond him now.
My own breath catches in my throat. This is it. The end of the line for the old fox.
Movement catches the edge of my vision.
Near a stack of crates, a figure stirs. Taewoo.
The loan shark must have been playing dead, or maybe he’d just been knocked senseless and was coming to.
He pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, shaking his head.
His eyes, bleary and unfocused, land on Suha’s back.
Suha is completely absorbed, his attention fixed on his uncle, the gun steady in his hand.
I see the moment the idea forms in Taewoo’s panicked, stupid brain. He sees an opening. A distraction. A chance, maybe, to save his boss, or just to lash out. He scrabbles on the floor, his fingers closing around a length of broken pipe that had fallen during the initial breach.
He gets to his feet, unsteady but determined, and he starts to shuffle forward, the pipe raised like a club. He’s going to try to brain Suha from behind.
A slow, tired smile touches my lips. My cigarette is still between my lips, forgotten during the beating. I don’t even take it out.
As Taewoo draws back the pipe, gathering himself for a swing, I push off from the wall. My body screams in protest—my ribs, my hand, my legs—but the movement is pure instinct, fueled by a surge of adrenaline. I take two quick, limping steps and launch myself forward.
My boot connects with the side of Taewoo’s jaw just as he starts his swing.
The impact travels all the way up my leg, a solid, jarring thud that feels incredibly satisfying.
There’s a loud, wet pop that might have been his jaw dislocating.
Taewoo’s eyes go wide and blank with shock.
The pipe drops from his nerveless fingers, clattering to the concrete.
He doesn’t make a sound. He just folds, collapsing in a boneless heap, out cold before he hits the ground.
I land awkwardly, my bad hand instinctively going out to break my fall. White-hot agony lances up my arm, and I curse, sucking air through my teeth. I straighten up slowly, cradling the hand against my chest again.
Suha has turned. He hadn’t even flinched at the sound. He just looks from Taewoo’s unconscious form to me, one dark eyebrow lifting slightly. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a question in his eyes.
I shrug with my good shoulder. The motion pulls at my ribs, and I wince. “He was annoying me,” I rasp, my voice rough from screaming and lack of air.
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touches Suha’s mouth. It’s gone in a heartbeat. He gives me a slow, deliberate nod. An acknowledgment. Then he turns back to his uncle.
Kyungho is watching this little exchange with his one good eye, and whatever hope might have flickered there when Taewoo moved dies completely. He understands now. There is no rescue coming. No distraction. He is utterly alone.
“Please,” he gurgles, blood bubbling on his lips. “Suha... nephew... family...”
Suha looks down at him, his head tilted. The cold smile is back. “An eye for an eye, Uncle,” he says softly, almost kindly.
He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t draw it out for drama.
He simply pulls the trigger.