BLIND DELIVERY

The message arrived eleven minutes before Han Yujun’s final lecture ended.

Minho: Don’t kill me.

Yujun stared at his phone beneath the edge of the faux-wood desk. In his world, that was never a promising start.

Yujun: What did you do?

The reply took several agonizing seconds, the typing bubbles flickering like a bad fluorescent bulb.

Minho: I’m sick.

Yujun: Congratulations.

Minho: I have a fever.

Yujun sighed quietly and glanced up at the professor, who was currently detailing luxury hotel supply-chain operations with the grave intensity of a man discussing national defense. Yujun’s notes had stopped halfway down the page, abandoned right next to a glaring digital notification from the university portal regarding his outstanding tuition balance of 9 Million Won.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the scratchy sting of sleep deprivation behind his eyelids.

Yujun: Did you go to the clinic?

Minho: Not yet.

Yujun: Why?

Minho: Because I was hoping it would disappear if I ignored it.

Yujun’s mouth twitched despite himself. That was classic Minho—treating a medical emergency like an unwanted software update.

Another message popped up immediately.

Minho: Can you cover my Velo-Express shift tonight? Just tonight. I’ll pay you back, I swear.

Yujun stopped smiling.

His evening was already meticulously budgeted. A grueling four-hour shift carrying heavy plates at a Gangnam seafood restaurant, a group assignment he was currently carrying on his back, and two dense chapters of financial management he hadn’t touched. He’d been awake since 5:00 AM, and the cheap convenience store coffee he’d consumed hours ago had done little besides give his fingers a slight, caffeine-induced tremor.

He typed out a firm, rational refusal.

He deleted it.

He typed another one, softer this time.

Yujun: How high is the fever?

Minho: I don’t know. My thermometer says 39.1.

Yujun straightened in his chair, his posture snapping rigid. You complete idiot.

The words remained unsent. He looked at the wall clock—seven minutes left of the lecture. He swiped open the courier company’s scheduling app and pulled up Minho’s designated premium route. It was a late-night collection followed by a single, direct drop-off in Gwanghwamun. Because it was classified as a high-tier rush delivery, the payout was considerably higher than what Yujun earned busting tables for a whole week.

Better pay meant fewer hours spent staring at his bank account in a cold sweat. It meant keeping the bursar’s office off his back for another month. He hated how quickly that grim mathematical reality settled the question.

Yujun: Go to the hospital right now. Send me the route details.

Minho: You’re actually doing it?

Yujun: I’m doing it because you’re apparently determined to die over a part-time job. I don't want to look for a new roommate.

Minho: You’re a saint.

Yujun: I’m blocking your number the second you recover.

He slid the phone into his pocket just as the professor dismissed the class. Around him, the auditorium erupted into a chaotic symphony of scraping chairs, zipping backpacks, and chatter about dinner plans. Yujun packed his worn notebook, slung his heavy canvas bag over his shoulder, and walked out into the cool air.

His muscles ached before the real work had even begun.

By the time Yujun reached the cramped, drafty apartment he shared with Minho, the autumn rain had set in, slicking the Seoul streets in a reflective coat of black oil.

He found his roommate curled into a tight ball beneath a fleece blanket, looking thoroughly miserable and deeply offended by his own biology.

“You look terrible,” Yujun noted, dropping his wet umbrella into the entryway sink.

Minho cracked open a single, glassy eye. “I was hoping you’d say I looked handsome.”

“Not even a delirium-inducing fever could make me lie to you that badly.” Yujun walked over, setting a fresh bottle of electrolyte water on the bedside table and picking up the thermometer. The reading hadn't budged. Frowning, Yujun used his phone to summon a taxi to haul Minho to the nearest emergency clinic, ensuring his friend had his insurance card and wallet shoved into his coat before ushering him out the door.

The digital courier manifest pinged the second the taxi tail lights vanished into the rain.

Collection Point: Gwanghwamun Sector 4.

Cargo: Sealed Corporate Asset.

Protocol: Hand-to-Hand Verification Required.

The completion window left absolutely no margin for a casual pace. Yujun pulled his hood tightly over his head, hopped onto his delivery bicycle, and began pedaling hard against the downpour.

At the designated collection point—a shadowed alcove beneath the narrow awning of a sleek corporate tower—a man in a sharp, dark business coat stood pacing nervously. He kept shifting his weight, eyes darting over Yujun’s shoulder to scan the street before finally settling on his face.

“Han Yujun?” the man asked, his voice strained under a layer of tight professionalism.

“Yes. Covering for Minho.”

The man hesitated, then reached into his briefcase and pulled out a compact, matte-black Pelican 1020 Micro Case. It was smaller than Yujun had anticipated, but it carried an unexpected weight. Reinforced with polycarbonate corners and sealed tightly with a glowing, biometric thumb-lock, it bore no company logos—only a high-priority shipping label.

Yujun reached for the handle, but the client’s grip remained firm. He didn't let go.

“Once you accept this token, you do not stop,” the man whispered, his eyes wide and erratic. “You go straight to the recipient. No convenience stores. No rest breaks.”

Yujun met his gaze with a steady, unbothered expression. “That’s generally how deliveries work, sir.”

“I am dead serious, kid.”

“So am I. Can I have the case now? The clock is running.”

The man slowly released his grip. Yujun scanned the barcode into his app, clicked it into his reinforced courier bag, and zipped the heavy canvas shut.

“Wait,” the man called out, his voice dropping an octave into pure panic.

Yujun paused, one foot already on his bike pedal. “Yes?”

“If anyone asks… if anyone follows you, you are carrying architectural documents. Blueprints. Nothing else.”

Yujun stared at him through the falling rain. “Then why didn’t you write 'blueprints' on the electronic bill of lading?”

The man didn't answer. A sleek, black sedan pulled up smoothly at the curb fifty yards away, its high beams cutting through the wet fog, blinding them both for a split second. The client went pale, instantly stepping away from Yujun and retreating into the dark glass doors of the office building.

“Go. Now,” the man hissed through the closing doors.

Yujun muttered a curse under his breath. He had worked enough low-wage jobs to recognize when a wealthy person was successfully making their life-threatening problem his own. A rational person would drop the bag, cancel the order, and ride home.

But his phone screen lit up with the pending payout confirmation, followed immediately by an ominous system alert:

DELIVERY INSTRUCTIONS UPDATED. NEW DESTINATION DETOUR: GWANGHWAMUN SERVICE LANE B.

The destination had been shifted into a narrow, unlit service alley behind a block of commercial printing shops. Yujun tried to call the dispatch office to verify the change, but the line went entirely dead.

“Perfect,” he muttered. “Absolutely perfect.”

With less than twenty minutes left on the delivery timer, he adjusted the heavy strap across his chest and steered his bicycle away from the brightly lit main avenue, plunging straight into the labyrinth of Seoul's older, darker back alleys.

The service lane was a suffocating corridor of cracked brick, damp concrete, and overflowing industrial waste bins. Above him, a solitary high-pressure sodium streetlamp buzzed violently, its sickly yellow light flickering erratically before dying out completely, plunging the far end of the alley into total darkness.

Yujun squeezed his brakes, his tires hissing quietly against the wet asphalt. He stopped.

A figure stepped out from behind a parked delivery van, blocking his path forward.

Yujun instinctively glanced over his shoulder. A second man had emerged from the shadows behind him, cutting off his only exit back to the main road. They wore heavy, dark jackets and moved with a cold, synchronized confidence that did not belong to common street muggers.

The man in front stepped forward, his eyes locking onto the secure canvas bag slung over Yujun’s chest.

“You’re the courier,” the man stated. It wasn't a question.

Yujun’s hand slowly gripped his handlebar, his knuckles turning white. “Who’s asking?”

“Give us the case.”

Yujun took a deep breath. He was running on two hours of sleep. He had a mountain of hotel management homework waiting for him, a sick best friend in the ER, and an overdue tuition bill. He was cold, soaked to the bone, and thoroughly out of patience.

He really, really did not have time for a mugging.

“Listen,” Yujun said, his voice dropping into a dangerously level, calm tone. “I don’t know what’s in the case, and frankly, I don’t care. If you have a dispute with the client, take it up with corporate logistics. Let me pass.”

The lead thug didn't reply. He simply reached into his jacket, his expression hardening into stone. “Last chance, kid.”

Yujun didn't hesitate. He unbuckled the heavy courier bag and let it slide smoothly down his arm, letting it drop safely onto the dry asphalt right behind his foot.

The man lunged forward, throwing a heavy, blinding right hook.

Yujun’s eyes tracked the movement instantly. He pivoted on his heel, slipping inside the man's guard as the fist whistled past his ear, crashing violently into the brick wall behind him.

The fight had begun.