Chapter 6 Jin
Monroe gasps and grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin.
“No, no, no,” she hisses at the television screen. “So-yi, stay behind the plant! Do not move. Do not even breathe.”
On screen, the actress playing Park So-yi—a clumsy office worker with an unfortunate habit of stumbling into awkward situations—is crouched behind an oversized potted fern in the corner of an upscale restaurant.
She’s stumbled upon her boss, the cold and arrogant CEO Ryu Tae-woong, having dinner with his arranged fiancée. Her eyes are wide with panic, her hand clamped over her mouth.
The K-drama is called Oops, Baby!, and it’s exactly the kind of frothy romantic comedy Monroe gravitates toward when it’s her turn to choose what we watch. When it’s my turn, I select shows that are darker and grittier.
She complains the entire time but watches anyway.
I suppose we balance each other out in that regard.
“She should reveal herself,” I say.
Monroe’s head whips toward me, her expression incredulous.
“Are you crazy? She’s already a mess over the pregnancy she’s hiding.
Now you want her to face him when she’s a terrible liar?
Did you see her in episode three? She couldn’t even lie about eating his lunch from the break room fridge—or that time she accidentally set that small fire in his office! ”
“Which is precisely why she should be practical and tell the truth now. Explain it was a mistake. She didn’t mean to interrupt their dinner.”
“Jin,” she says with a sigh of exasperation. “His fiancée is evil. Like, genuinely evil. Like, Cinderella stepmother evil. She’s been trying to get So-yi fired since episode one. If So-yi reveals herself now, that woman is about to destroy her.”
“She did sleep with her boss—the evil woman’s fiancé.”
“Mistakes happen! They had wine. A lot of wine. And he kissed her first, if you recall,” she huffs. “Plus, it’s an arranged marriage! He’s not really in love with her! He loves So-yi. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
I raise a brow but don’t argue further. There’s no winning against Monroe when she’s emotionally invested in fictional characters.
The truth is, I might complain about these romantic comedies, but I’ve come to enjoy them—not for the predictable plots or over-the-top misunderstandings, but for the way Monroe reacts.
Her antics during the episodes are in themselves a form of entertainment. She leans forward during tense moments, mutters advice at characters who can’t hear her, and clutches my arm like the outcome of a fabricated love triangle has real-life stakes.
It’s endearing; she’s endearing.
But I discovered this about her a long time ago. Back when I was still convinced I could hurt her.
We’re sprawled across the couch together, her body tucked against mine, the remnants of our takeout dinner scattered on the coffee table.
Containers of japchae and gimbap half-eaten and growing cold.
The apartment smells of sesame oil and the sweetness from the pickled radish she insisted on ordering extra of.
These evenings have become routine lately. Lazy nights in, just the two of us, watching television and eating takeout like an old married couple.
We’re not married yet, but it feels like practice. As if we’re settling into the shape of the life we’re building together.
I find I don’t mind it at all.
The drama cuts to a commercial break, and Monroe sighs, releasing her death grip on my arm.
“I can’t believe you think she should just come clean about the pregnancy,” she mutters. “You have no sense of drama.”
“I have plenty of sense. That’s the problem.”
“You could never be a character on one of these dramas, Jin.”
“Do you mean to compliment me, Tokki-ya?” I tease back, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Though I suppose you’d know something about keeping pregnancies a secret.”
Monroe’s jaw drops. “Excuse me? I told you right away! Like, within a few hours!”
“After hiding in the bathroom for twenty minutes.”
“I was processing!”
“Are you a computer? What is there to process?” I retort to her offended gasp. Then I lean in and press a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then finally the corner of her mouth. “I could tell you were hiding something anyway. You’re a terrible liar, Tokki-ya. Just like So-yi.”
She huffs again but doesn’t pull away. “Maybe the writers based the character on me. Except, you know, she’s Korean and I’m obviously… not.”
A rare laugh slips out of me. Monroe grins, clearly pleased with herself.
“Bathroom break,” she announces, pushing herself up from the couch. “I drank way too much tea. Don’t let them come back from commercial without me.”
“I make no promises.”
She swats my shoulder as she passes, and I watch her disappear down the hallway until my phone buzzes from the coffee table.
I pick it up and glance at the screen to find a message from Nam Joo-wan.
Several of the lieutenants want to attend the underground boxing match in Yeongdo-gu tomorrow night. Some of the hubaes will be joining. Plan is to speak with the commissioner about striking a deal for the betting market. Your approval?
I stare at the message longer than usual, weighing my options.
This is the kind of thing Jae-hyun used to handle personally. He loved events like this—the gambling, the drinking, the chance to rub shoulders with the shadier elements of Busan’s underworld.
It was one of the few areas where he actually showed his face rather than delegating.
As Baekho-je, I should probably do the same. Establish my presence. Remind people that the Baekho Pa has new leadership and that leadership is engaged and visible.
But it means another evening away from Monroe. Another dinner missed.
I hesitate for a moment longer, then type my response.
I’ll be in attendance as well.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Understood, Jin-tae.
I set the phone down as Monroe returns, settling back into her spot against my side. The commercial break ends, and Park So-yi is still cowering behind the plant, her face a mask of panic.
“Did I miss anything?” Monroe asks.
“No. The clumsy mother-to-be is still hiding.”
She nods, satisfied, and turns her attention back to the screen. But my expression must give me away more than I anticipate, because after a few seconds, she glances up at me.
“Everything okay? You seem distracted.”
I clear my throat. “There’s a meeting I need to attend tomorrow evening. I’ll be missing dinner again.”
The flicker of disappointment that crosses her face is brief, but I catch it. She tries to mask it with a nod and diverting her gaze, but we know each other too well.
It upsets her that I’m so often saddled with work after hours.
“That’s okay. Business is business, right?”
“The night after, we’ll finish this.” I wrap my arm tightly around her shoulders and press her up even more against my side. “I want to see if So-yi ever escapes from behind that fern.”
Monroe laughs, though it sounds duller than usual. “Sounds good. I won’t watch any more without you.”
I kiss the top of her head, doing my best to ignore the guilt settling in my stomach like a heavy stone.
The underground boxing arena in Yeongdo-gu is a cramped and dimly lit warehouse that’s been transformed for the illegal matches.
Exposed pipes line the ceiling, sweat and condensation dripping from them onto the concrete floor below. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and sour from the soju being consumed. Both smells pair badly with the tang of fresh blood being spilled.
In the center of the room is a makeshift ring where two men beat each other senseless.
The first is a hulking brute called Gwan the Hammer. He sports a shaved, tattooed head and cauliflower ears, and he has some of the deadliest fists in all of South Korea.
His opponent is leaner and quicker, with a face that might have been handsome before it was rearranged by years of taking punches. They call him Viper.
Right now, Viper is losing.
Gwan lands a vicious right hook that snaps Viper’s head back, blood and saliva spraying from his split lips.
The crowd roars, drinks sloshing as men surge to their feet, screaming for more violence. More blood to be spilled.
Meanwhile, scantily clad working girls saunter through the crowd in search of wealthy men to be their sponsors for the night.
It’s a reminder why I’ve always hated events like this and mostly avoided them.
I sit among my men, the only one who has declined a cigar and barely touched his soju.
To my left, Nam Joo-wan is drunk. Not just tipsy but properly, sloppily drunk, his once-slicked hair falling into his face as he shouts at the fighters. Beside him, the pot-bellied Lieutenant Hwang Do-gil is in similar condition, his cheeks flushed red and his words slurring together.
This is why they loved Kim Jae-hyun.
The former Baekho-je indulged in every vice imaginable—drinking, smoking, gambling, prostitution, and porn.
His lieutenants adored him because he was one of them. A man of excess and appetite, never above wallowing in the same filth as his subordinates.
I am not that kind of leader.
I watch the match coldly detached, cataloging the fighters’ weaknesses out of habit. As a skilled fighter myself, that is about the only interesting aspect of these matches.
Gwan is powerful but clumsy and slow. Viper is quick but he lacks strength and muscle.
Neither would last five minutes against a trained killer. Against a strategic and varied fighter like me.
Nam Joo-wan nudges me with his elbow, accidentally sloshing soju onto his lap.
“Jin-tae,” he says, gesturing across the arena with his glass. “The commissioner. He’s just shown up. There, in the box.”
I follow his gaze to an elevated platform on the far side of the room. An older man sits there, bald and heavyset, watching the fight with the bored expression of someone who’s seen it all before. Two bodyguards flank him, their eyes scanning the crowd.
“I’ll speak with him,” I say, rising from my seat.
Joo-wan moves to stand. “We’re good acquaintances. I’ll come with—”
“No. You stay here.” I glance at Park Min-gyu, who’s been sitting quietly on my right, sober and alert. “Min-gyu. You’re coming with me.”
Joo-wan’s expression sours, but he sinks back into his chair without protest. I don’t miss the look he exchanges with Do-gil as I walk away.
The conversation with the commissioner is brief and productive.
He’s a practical man, more interested in profit than posturing, and we reach an agreement fairly quickly.
Favorable terms for both sides, with the Baekho offering new clientele for their betting markets and the commissioner willing to compensate us generously.
By the time the match ends—Gwan the Hammer victorious and Viper carried out on a stretcher—I’m ready to leave.
We exit the arena to even chillier temperatures than when the night began.
My men spill out onto the narrow side street where our vehicles are parked, their laughter too loud, their gaits sloppy and unsteady.
The lieutenants are still drunk, leaning on each other for support.
Only Min-gyu and a handful of the younger hubaes seem fully alert. They’ll be the drivers for the night.
Except I’ve driven in my own car, the Genesis G80 Sport I’ve had for a few years now.
Most men would splurge on a brand-new vehicle after a promotion as big as mine. But I’m not most men. I’m much more practical and have never cared about being flashy.
I’m reaching for the door of my car when rumbling engines disrupt the scene.
They come on fast, two vehicles pulling up on either end of the side street, boxing us in. Black sedans with tinted windows, tires screeching with purpose.
“Get down!” I shout, but the warning comes a split second too late.
The windows roll down and gunfire erupts.
Bullets hail through the night, riddling our cars with holes, shattering shop windows, and sparking off concrete. My men scatter, diving for cover behind vehicles and dumpsters and anything else solid enough to stop a bullet.
I hit the ground and roll behind the engine block of my Genesis, the only part sturdy enough to provide real protection. Gunfire roars in my ears, making them ache.
Beside me, Min-gyu howls in pain and goes down, clutching his arm. Blood seeps between his fingers, dark and slick.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the shooting stops.
The silence that follows is almost louder. We’re left with ringing ears and racing heartbeats. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wail on approach.
One of the men leans out of the sedan’s window, his face half obscured by shadow.
“The Black Shell sends his regards, Baekho-je Seo Jin-tae! It’s been so long since you’ve seen each other. But never worry—you’ll meet again soon.”
The vehicles peel away, tires screeching against asphalt, disappearing around the corner before any of us can return fire.
I push myself to my feet, glass crunching under my shoes. Around me, my men are groaning and cursing and checking themselves for wounds. Joo-wan and Do-gil look pale and shaken, their drunkenness faded and replaced by adrenaline and fear.
“What the fuck was that?” Do-gil sputters. “Who the fuck—”
I hardly pay mind to any of their confused ramblings.
I stand in the middle of the street, staring after the vanished vehicles, tension cording its way through my entire body ’til I’ve curled my hands into fists.
The Black Shell.
The name means nothing to me. I’ve never heard it before or encountered anyone who uses it. Yet the message from the shooters claimed it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.
What does that mean? Who the fuck is this person, and why do they speak as though we have history?
The sirens grow louder. My men rush into their cars so we can disappear before the police arrive and start asking questions.
But even as I turn to my sports car and get behind the wheel, one thought remains at the forefront of my mind.
Whoever the Black Shell is, he just made himself a very dangerous enemy.