23. Monroe
I keep my eyes on Jin until I can’t see him anymore.
As the train rolls forward, his figure begins to shrink on the platform, his black leather jacket stark against the faded concrete and weathered signage behind him. He doesn’t wave or smile, his face composed, yet his piercing dark gaze tells a different story—he’s barely holding it together.
This is extremely difficult for him. Maybe more for him than it is for me.
I press my fingertips to the warm glass as if I can feel his touch until the platform disappears behind a curve in the tracks and he finally slips out of view.
He’s gone.
I slowly pull back into my seat and drop my hands to my lap. It aches to breathe, both my lungs and throat constricted.
Over the last twenty-four hours, I’d prepared myself for this moment—or thought I had. I told myself Jin was right; this was the correct choice. We had to separate for now in order to give him time to eliminate the threats after us.
Jin couldn’t do that with me here. He’d be too distracted and preoccupied with ensuring my safety. He’s a captain in the Baekho Pa—it already looks suspicious how absent he’s been from his duties over the past week.
Sooner or later, someone would catch on if they hadn’t already.
We still don’t know who started that fire at his apartment.
Yet no matter how many times I tell myself this is the right thing to do, I still ache for him. My gaze drops to the inside of my left wrist where the mark he’d made so many weeks ago is still freshly inked on my skin.
It had once brought me so much distress. Now, separated from Jin, it feels like one of the only mementos I have of him.
I reach into my duffel and pull out a book to distract myself—a thick historical romance novel Jin picked up for me the last time he made a supply run.
It’s funny that over the past couple of weeks he’s become a personal book shopper for me, searching for my next reads even without me asking.
He seems to enjoy surprising me with a new book he’s picked up while out.
Always something he senses I’d like. Always something I do.
I crack the thick book open and let the pages transport me… or do their best.
When I’m on my third reread of the first page, I start to question if I can be settled enough to sit and read at all.
My gaze keeps wandering to the window. The scenery drifts by in slow motion. The narrow coastline gives way to soft hills and lush forests. Clusters of battered houses cling to the ridgelines like moss. Laundry flaps from cords strung from balconies and across lawns.
Farther inland, the landscape evolves, sharpening to tall slopes, narrow roads, and bridges.
We pass a river that catches in the afternoon light and makes the water look like a long silver ribbon.
I lean closer to the window to watch a lone farmer bent over a plot of tilled earth, his hat pulled low as he works.
The countryside is vivid and scenic in that unfiltered way I’ve come to appreciate about Korea.
But it only makes my mind drift more to Jin, wondering if he’s already back into the swing of things with the Baekho Pa.
My attention eventually shifts to the rest of the train car. Everyone sits quietly, allowing for the click of the train wheels and hum of its engine to be the only sound. Both are rhythmic and soothing enough that if I were in a calmer mood, I’d probably nod off.
I recognize the mother and her sleepy baby two rows ahead of me.
The baby dozes in her mother’s arms, drool shining on her chubby little chin.
The older man with his suitcase tied up in what looks like nylon rope sits in the same row as I do, except on the opposite side of the compartment.
He sips from a thermos and stares out the window.
My gaze drifts toward the back and instant unease unfurls inside my stomach.
There’s a man sitting a few rows behind me with tight, dark clothes that reveal a meaty neck and arms inked with tattoos. I can’t make out the designs from where I’m sitting, but I’ve seen those types of tattoos before—Jin and his men have similar ones.
Most men in the Korean mafia and gang world do.
Jin once told me it’s part of the culture; in most of these gangs they earn their tattoos over the years, wearing them like badges of honor.
His head is shaved close to the scalp and a tiny silver hoop earring glints from where it dangles on his ear.
He’s staring at me.
Not in casual, passing glances. Not like a man absentmindedly zoning out with his gaze set on something he doesn’t really register.
It’s a fixed stare. It’s intentional and heavy, and when my gaze meets his, he doesn’t look away. He wants me to know he’s watching me.
I blink and snap my head forward, looking away. My heart skips a couple beats as I wonder if I’m imagining it. I could’ve glanced back at the wrong time and he’s possibly one of those men that doesn’t understand prolonged eye contact from strangers can make some women uncomfortable.
But even as I come up with these excuses, tension coils inside my body. It’s the same kind of premonition I’d had that night Jin broke into my apartment. I’d simply sensed something was… off.
For a minute or two, I return to my book. The printed words all blur together as I fail to absorb any of them. Unable to resist, I chance a glance back.
He’s still staring. He hasn’t taken his gaze off me even for a second.
I clap shut the book and slowly rise to my feet.
I make my way to the front of the car, pausing at the sliding door to check over my shoulder. He’s risen to his feet. He starts toward me. I rush through the sliding door and wrench it back into place.
Quickly crossing through the gangway, I spot the train attendant at the luggage rack, making sure all the pieces fit snugly in the racks. He’s around his forties, hair graying at the temples, his uniform crisp.
“Sir,” I mutter in relief, stepping toward him. “Excuse me, sir? I think someone’s following me. That man back there—he’s been watching me and now he’s started following me.”
His eyes widen, brows creasing in concern. “Come with me, miss,” he says in Hangugeo. “There’s a first-class compartment farther ahead with plenty of empty seats. Fewer passengers today. You’ll have space to breathe and that man won’t be able to get in.”
I nod in gratitude and follow him into the next few compartments.
“Here we are,” he says, sliding the door open and gesturing me inside.
The first-class compartment is sleek and modern compared to the rest of the train. There are fewer seats, but they’re wider and made up of a leather I can tell must feel amazing to sit in. The windows are large, curtains tied neatly at the sides. Even the floors feel smoother and more polished.
It’s definitely an upgrade from economy class.
But it’s empty. Completely empty.
The little hairs on the back of my neck rise. I whip around to face the attendant and notice a small detail I hadn’t before—the edges of a tattoo creeping from beneath the collar of his uniform. It’s a deep crimson spiral of some kind.
He grins at the recognition that dawns on my face.
The compartment door slides open and the man in the dark clothes steps through. He twists the lock on the door, the click resounding in a space that suddenly feels way too compact.
Panic surges through me like a lightning strike.
The attendant lunges at me first.
I react on instinct, swinging the only weapon I have on me—the thick historical book Jin bought. The book slams against his skull with a loud thud and sends him crashing to the ground in a dizzy heap.
The man in dark clothes is unfazed. He merely starts toward me next, stepping over the attendant’s limp body.
“Calm down, little rabbit,” he taunts cruelly. “We just want to skin you alive.”
I leap onto a seat, dodging the sweep of his arms. He straightens up to snatch hold of me a second time, but I’ve gone for the luggage rack overhead. It’s stocked with what looks like extra cargo from some of the other compartments.
Wrenching it open, I let the heavy pieces of luggage rain down on him. Things like a metal case for instruments, some rolling suitcases, a couple duffel bags, and a trunk that descend on him like an avalanche.
He’s out cold, buried under their toppling weight.
The attendant groans from a few rows away as he staggers to his feet. I leap to a different row of seats as we begin a game of tag. He scrambles over the wide, leather seats with outstretched arms, desperate to wrap them around me.
I move to jump to the other side, but he grabs hold of my leg first and yanks hard.
I smack into the ground stomach first. The air in my lungs is knocked out of me. The whole train car rattles like the earth has been flipped upside down. I haven’t even begun to recover when the attendant climbs over me, desperately trying to pin my wrists.
I thrash beneath him and vaguely remember what Jin had told me just last night—that I need to fight dirty in situations like these. That I’m at a disadvantage, so I need to level the playing field any way I can.
“GETOFFME!” I scream, then spit into his face. My nails go for his eyes, digging into his eye sockets ’til he’s screaming in agony and backing off at once.
Shoving him off me, I roll free and stumble toward the exit.
The compartment door slides open before I can reach it.
Two more men enter. Both broad and brawny, clearly the enforcer type like the first man in dark clothes. The same crimson tattoo snakes up their necks. The one on the left taps a metal baton against his palm. The other simply grins.
My heart sinks. There’s nowhere left to run.
I was lucky enough to fight off two men. But four?
I stagger a step back, pulse thundering in my ears, and the walls of the compartment start to close in. The bleak reality of the situation settles over me.
The man grinning steps forward and raises his fist.
His tattooed knuckles are the last thing I see before a burst of white light and then… everything snaps to black.