Puppet
The Ghost of Incheon
The humidity of a Seoul summer hit Han Si-woo the moment he stepped out of Incheon International Airport, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating weight of the flashing cameras.
Six years. It had been six years since his father’s men had dragged a semi-conscious, drug-addled Si-woo onto a one-way flight to Los Angeles to bury the biggest political scandal of the decade. He had been a liability then. A mistake to be erased so Assemblyman Han could secure his path to the presidency.
Now, Assemblyman Han was dead—a sudden stroke cutting his ambitions short—and Si-woo was dragged back, not as a son, but as a prop for a funeral that doubled as a political rally.
The Funeral Hall (Jangryesikjang)
The VIP parlor of the Seoul National University Hospital was a sea of black suits, white chrysanthemums, and fake tears. High-ranking politicians, corporate chaebols, and media moguls bowed before the altar of the man Si-woo utterly despised.
Si-woo stood to the side, his tie loosened, his eyes bloodshot from the flight and a deep, simmering resentment. He didn't bow. He didn't cry. He looked like an alien in his own birthplace, his posture entirely too relaxed, entirely too American for the rigid Confucian hierarchy around him.
Then, the crowd parted.
"You haven't changed a bit, Young Master Si-woo."
The voice was smooth, low, and entirely devoid of warmth.
It was Kang Sung-jae.
The Shadow in the Light
Sung-jae stepped forward, looking immaculate in a tailored black suit, a traditional white armband signifying his role as a chief mourner—a right he had earned by being the dead politician's indispensable shadow. To the public, Sung-jae was the brilliant, fiercely loyal chief of staff who had engineered Assemblyman Han's rise. To Si-woo, he was the clean-up crew. The man who had likely signed the NDA papers and ordered the security guards to throw Si-woo on that plane to America.
Si-woo sneered, stepping closer until he was inches from Sung-jae’s face. The reporters' cameras clicked furiously in the background.
"Still playing the loyal dog even when the master is in a coffin, Sung-jae?" Si-woo whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "Tell me, did you kill him yourself to take his seat, or are you just mad your meal ticket expired?"
Sung-jae didn’t blink. His expression remained a mask of flawless, terrifying calm. He didn't look like a man who had lost his master; he looked like a man whose chess pieces were finally exactly where he wanted them.
"Your father’s political legacy needs to be preserved, and your presence is required to do that," Sung-jae said quietly, bowing formally to Si-woo, though his eyes held a cold, unyielding iron. "Welcome home, Si-woo. The circus is about to begin."
Si-woo’s jaw clenched. He hated him. He hated the way Sung-jae breathed, the way he effortlessly controlled the room, and the arrogant certainty in his eyes that Si-woo was nothing but a nuisance to be managed. Sung-jae was just another parasite feeding off his father's corrupt empire, and Si-woo vowed right then to burn it all to the ground, starting with the man standing in front of him.
The VIP Guest
The tension in the room was a physical weight, heavy and suffocating. The air smelled of burning incense, white lilies, and expensive cologne. Si-woo watched as Sung-jae seamlessly turned his back, dismissing him entirely, to greet the next wave of mourners.
The heavy oak doors of the parlor swung open, and a ripple of hushed whispers swept through the room. Assemblyman Hwang, the floor leader of the ruling party—and a man who had spent the last decade locked in a bitter, cutthroat power struggle with Si-woo's father—stepped inside. Hwang’s face was a masterpiece of manufactured grief. He wiped a non-existent tear with a crisp white handkerchief.
To the media, this was a beautiful display of bipartisan respect. To anyone who knew the truth, it was a vulture coming to confirm the kill.
Hwang walked up to the altar, offered a slow, deep bow, and turned to offer his condolences to the family. He bypassed the extended relatives and headed straight for Si-woo.
"Tragic. A true loss for our great nation," Hwang said, his voice carrying the perfect tremolo of sorrow as he extended a hand. "Your father was a giant, Si-woo. I hope you find the strength to carry his torch."
Si-woo looked at Hwang’s outstretched hand. He looked at the cameras, their lenses zoomed in, hungry for the money shot of the prodigal son making peace with the ruling party elite.
A dark, chaotic urge bubbled up in Si-woo's chest. He remembered the illicit slush funds, the backroom deals, and the very men who had forced him into exile to protect their own skins. He leaned in, ignoring the outstretched hand, and grabbed the microphone resting on the small podium meant for the eulogy.
The Eruption
"Carry his torch?" Si-woo’s voice boomed through the speakers, echoing off the marble walls. The murmurs died instantly. The silence that followed was deafening.
Si-woo gripped the mic, his lips curling into a cynical smirk. He looked directly at Assemblyman Hwang. "Why would I carry his torch, Assemblyman? You and my father spent the last ten years trying to burn each other alive with it. Didn't you just file a defamation suit against him last Tuesday? Or did his stroke magically cure your outrage?"
A collective gasp echoed from the older politicians. The flashes of the cameras went into overdrive, blindingly bright.
Hwang’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. "Young man, the grief is clouding your mind—"
"I’m not grieving," Si-woo interrupted loudly, stepping away from the podium and addressing the sea of shocked faces. "The man in that box was a monster. He sold out this district, he crushed anyone who got in his way, and half of you in this room helped him do it. So let’s drop the act. You’re not here to mourn him. You’re here to make sure he’s actually dead so you can divide up his territory."
Before Si-woo could utter another word, a vice-like grip clamped onto his upper arm. It was a grip so agonizingly tight it hit a pressure point, forcing Si-woo to drop the microphone. It hit the carpeted floor with a loud, electronic squeal.
The Cleanup
It was Sung-jae. He had moved with a speed that defied the heavy, formal suit he wore.
"The jet lag and emotional toll have overwhelmed the Chairman's son," Sung-jae announced to the room, his voice projecting calm authority over the rising chaos. He offered a deep, ninety-degree bow to Assemblyman Hwang. "I deeply apologize on behalf of the family, Assemblyman. Please forgive his disrespect."
"Let go of me, you bastard," Si-woo hissed through clenched teeth, trying to wrench his arm free.
Sung-jae’s face remained a mask of polite contrition to the crowd, but his fingers dug deeper into Si-woo's arm, bruising the muscle. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Si-woo’s ear.
"If you speak another word, I will have security sedate you and drag you out through the basement," Sung-jae whispered, his tone as cold as an open grave. "Smile, bow, and walk with me to the back room. Now."
Si-woo glared at him, a fiery hatred burning in his eyes, but the sheer, terrifying conviction in Sung-jae’s voice gave him pause. With a rough shove, Sung-jae guided the stumbling Si-woo away from the flashing cameras and the outraged whispers, disappearing behind the heavy velvet curtains of the private family lounge.
The moment the curtains closed, cutting them off from the public, Si-woo swung a reckless, angry punch straight at Sung-jae's jaw.
The Private Lounge
Sung-jae didn't even flinch.
With a sickeningly fluid motion, he raised his left forearm, deflecting Si-woo’s clumsy, rage-fueled hook before it even came close to connecting. In the same breath, Sung-jae’s right hand clamped around Si-woo’s wrist, twisting it sharply downward.
Before Si-woo could register the pain, he was spun around and slammed hard against the mahogany door they had just walked through. The breath rushed out of his lungs in a choked gasp. Sung-jae pinned him there, using the flat of his forearm pressed firmly against the back of Si-woo's neck, trapping him like a rebellious child.
"Are you finished?" Sung-jae asked. He wasn't breathing heavily. His voice was as flat and undisturbed as a stagnant pond.
"I'm going to kill you," Si-woo choked out, struggling against the iron grip, his cheek squashed against the polished wood of the door. "You think you can handle me, you suit-wearing lapdog? I'll ruin you. I'll tell the media exactly where my father hid the offshore accounts you set up for him!"
Sung-jae leaned his weight in just a fraction of an inch—just enough to remind Si-woo who held all the physical power in the room.
"Go ahead," Sung-jae murmured softly. "Run to the press. Tell them about the accounts. Tell them about the slush funds. And while you're at it, explain to them how those same funds paid off the district attorney six years ago when you were caught with enough cocaine in your system to put you in a concrete cell for a decade."
Si-woo froze. The fight drained out of his limbs, replaced by a sudden, icy panic.
"You thought that went away because of your charm?" Sung-jae continued, stepping back and releasing Si-woo with a look of mild disgust. He adjusted his pristine cuffs, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. "There is a paper trail, Si-woo. One that I hold. If this family's legacy burns, I will personally ensure you are strapped to the center of the pyre."
Si-woo turned around, rubbing his bruised wrist, his chest heaving. He stared at the man in front of him. It wasn't just hatred he felt now; it was a creeping, suffocating realization of his own helplessness. Sung-jae wasn't just his father's mechanic. He was the warden.
"Why?" Si-woo spat, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and exhaustion. "He's dead. The old man is dead! You don't need to protect him anymore. Take the money and vanish. Why drag me back into this hell?"
Sung-jae walked over to the small, heavily stocked liquor cabinet in the corner of the VIP lounge. He poured a small measure of amber whiskey into a crystal glass and set it on the table.
"Because the wolves are already at the door," Sung-jae replied, not looking at him. "Assemblyman Hwang didn't come to mourn; he came to see if the Han faction was weak enough to devour. Tomorrow morning, there will be an emergency party assembly to discuss who inherits your father's district."
Sung-jae finally turned, his dark eyes locking onto Si-woo's.
"And they are going to nominate you."
The Puppet
Si-woo stared at him, the silence stretching until it felt brittle enough to snap. Then, he let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Me? You're out of your mind. I'm a disgrace. The party elders despise me."
"They despise you, but they recognize your name," Sung-jae stated matter-of-factly. "You are the grieving son. A tragic figure returning to honor his father's sudden passing. You will run for the vacant assembly seat, and you will win on a wave of sympathy votes."
"I don't know the first thing about Korean politics! I don't even know the proper honorifics anymore!"
"You don't need to," Sung-jae said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register. "You just need to smile for the cameras, read the speeches I write for you, and sit where I tell you to sit. You will be the face. I will be the hands."
Si-woo looked at the glass of whiskey on the table, then up at Sung-jae. The picture was finally clear. His father's empire wasn't crumbling; it was just changing management. Sung-jae was going to use him as a hollow, pretty puppet to maintain control over the political faction.
"And if I refuse?" Si-woo asked bitterly. "If I walk out of that door and get on the next flight back to LA?"
"Then I release the file on your little incident six years ago. The LA flight won't matter, because your passport will be flagged before you even reach the check-in counter," Sung-jae said smoothly. He walked toward the heavy velvet curtains, pausing just before stepping back out into the mourning hall.
"Drink the whiskey, Si-woo. Fix your tie. I will give you ten minutes to compose yourself before you come back out and apologize to Assemblyman Hwang for your 'grief-stricken outburst'."
Sung-jae didn't wait for an answer. He slipped through the curtains, leaving Si-woo alone in the quiet room.
Si-woo stared at the amber liquid in the glass. His hands were shaking. He had spent six years trying to escape his father's shadow, only to realize he had been dragged straight into the jaws of the monster his father had created.
I'll play your game, Sung-jae, Si-woo thought, a dark, venomous resolve settling into his bones. I'll smile, and I'll nod, and the second you turn your back, I will cut your strings and watch you bleed.
The Bitter Draught
Si-woo stood alone in the suffocating quiet of the VIP lounge for a long time. The muffled, heavy silence felt like the walls were slowly closing in on him. He stared at the crystal glass on the table, the amber liquid catching the dim light.
He had to do it. He had to walk out there, bow his head like a beaten dog, and grovel before Assemblyman Hwang—a corrupt, ancient relic who had likely celebrated his father's stroke with a bottle of champagne. To Si-woo, apologizing to that smug, wrinkled old man felt infinitely more humiliating than getting fucked over in a back alley. It was a complete surrender of his pride, a public neutering in front of the very press that was waiting to tear him apart.
With a trembling hand, Si-woo picked up the glass and downed the whiskey in one brutal gulp.
The alcohol burned a path down his throat, pooling hot and heavy in his stomach. It didn't bring courage, but it brought a momentary, reckless numbness. He slammed the glass back onto the table, aggressively yanked his tie into a tight, perfect knot, and ran a hand through his disheveled hair.
Just a few words, he told himself. Bow. Apologize. Survive the day. Then figure out how to destroy Sung-jae.
Taking a deep, jagged breath, Si-woo pushed his way through the heavy velvet curtains and stepped back out into the blinding reality of the mourning hall.
The Defused Bomb
He braced himself for the sneers. He readied his muscles for the humiliating ninety-degree bow. He scanned the room, his eyes darting through the sea of black suits to locate Assemblyman Hwang.
But the atmosphere had entirely shifted.
The tense, scandal-hungry buzz of the reporters had dissolved into polite, subdued murmurs. And there, near the entrance of the parlor, was Assemblyman Hwang. He wasn't glaring at the family altar. He wasn't waiting for Si-woo to come crawling on his knees.
Instead, Hwang was actually chuckling—a low, satisfied sound—as Sung-jae meticulously adjusted the black mourning ribbon pinned to the old politician's lapel.
"You are too generous with your words, Chief Secretary Kang," Hwang was saying, his voice entirely devoid of the venom from ten minutes ago. "Assemblyman Han was a rival, yes, but a patriot. I will ensure the party respects the mourning period before any... transition of power is discussed."
"Your grace is a testament to your leadership, Assemblyman," Sung-jae replied seamlessly, bowing with the exact, calculated angle of deep respect. "The Chairman always knew you were the only man with the vision to guide the faction if he were to fall. We will speak privately next week regarding the committee assignments."
Hwang’s eyes gleamed with raw, undisguised greed at the mention of the committee assignments. He patted Sung-jae firmly on the shoulder. "Good man. Rest well today. We have much work to do."
As Hwang turned to leave, his eyes briefly met Si-woo's across the room. Si-woo stiffened, ready for the demand for an apology. But Hwang merely offered a brief, solemn nod of acknowledgment—the kind reserved for a harmless, grieving child—before turning on his heel and walking out the heavy double doors, his entourage trailing behind him like a flock of well-dressed crows.
The Realization
Si-woo stood frozen by the curtains. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He didn't need to apologize.
A massive, overwhelming wave of relief washed over him, making his knees feel weak. He hadn't been forced to swallow his pride in front of the flashing cameras. He hadn't been publicly broken.
But as the relief faded, a cold, unsettling realization crept into its place. He looked at Sung-jae, who was now calmly directing the funeral staff to clear away a row of wilted wreaths.
Sung-jae hadn't just threatened Si-woo in the back room to force him into line; he had actively gone out and neutralized the threat entirely. In the span of ten minutes, the "Shadow" had taken a furious, insulted rival who was out for blood, and somehow fed him exactly the right promises, the right bribes, or the right leverage to send him walking out the door with a smile.
Si-woo realized with a sinking stomach that Sung-jae hadn't needed him to apologize to fix the situation. Sung-jae had ordered him to do it just to see if he could break him.
From across the room, Sung-jae turned his head. His dark, impenetrable eyes locked onto Si-woo. There was no smirk, no arrogant display of victory. Sung-jae merely offered a slow, almost imperceptible tilt of his head toward the family receiving line, silently commanding his new puppet to take his place.
The Mourning Line
For the next four hours, Si-woo existed in a state of dissociative exhaustion.
The traditional Korean funeral was not a quiet, somber affair; it was an endurance test. Hundreds of guests flooded into the dining area adjacent to the altar, consuming bowls of spicy beef soup (yukgaejang) and bottles of soju. The noise level was a constant, droning hum of political maneuvering disguised as shared grief.
Si-woo stood at the head of the room next to the altar, forced into the role of the dutiful, grieving son. He bowed. He shook hands. He bowed again. His lower back screamed in protest, and the cloying scent of white chrysanthemums and burning incense made him nauseous.
But worse than the physical toll was the ghost hovering just over his right shoulder.
Sung-jae never left his side. He didn't stand in front of Si-woo, nor did he stand beside him as an equal. He stood exactly half a step behind—the perfect, traditional placement for an aide. Yet, he orchestrated every single interaction.
"Bow to forty-five degrees," Sung-jae would murmur, his breath barely brushing Si-woo’s ear as a gray-haired man approached. "That is the Chairman of the Financial Services Commission. He controls the permits for the redevelopment project your father backed."
A few minutes later, another whisper: "Fifteen degrees. A junior assemblyman from the opposition. Smile, but do not offer your hand first."
Si-woo felt like a ventriloquist's dummy. He hated the way Sung-jae's low voice effortlessly navigated the treacherous labyrinth of Seoul's elite. He hated that he actually needed those whispers. Without Sung-jae, Si-woo wouldn't know a powerful chaebol chairman from a mid-level party lackey. In America, power was loud and flashy. Here, the most dangerous men in the room looked like tired grandfathers in off-the-rack suits.
The Viper
As the clock struck midnight, the crowd began to thin, leaving only the hardcore political operatives who treated funerals like networking events.
Si-woo rolled his shoulders, desperate for a break, when a young man detached himself from a group of drinking politicians and walked toward the altar. He was roughly Si-woo's age, dressed in an impeccably tailored navy suit that broke the sea of traditional black. His hair was styled with effortless precision, and he wore a smile that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes.
"Stand up straight," Sung-jae warned, his voice dropping an octave, tightening with something that sounded almost like tension. "Baek Min-ho. Son of the former Prime Minister. He’s running for a seat in the neighboring district."
Baek Min-ho approached, offered a textbook-perfect bow to the portrait of Si-woo's father, and then turned to Si-woo.
"Si-woo-hyung," Min-ho said warmly, using the honorific for an older brother, though his tone mocked the intimacy. "It’s been an eternity. Six years? I was shocked to hear you came back. We all thought the air in Los Angeles was much better for your... health."
It was a blatant, unapologetic dig at the drug scandal. The implication hung heavily in the air. We know why you left. We know what you are.
Si-woo’s jaw tightened. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sudden, violent spike of adrenaline. He took a half-step forward, his American instincts taking over. He wanted to wipe the smug, polished smile off Min-ho’s face.
"The air in LA is fine," Si-woo shot back in English, his accent thick and aggressively Californian, purposely disrespecting the formal setting. "But I heard the smell of bullshit in Seoul was getting out of hand, so I came back to check."
Min-ho’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. His English was likely decent, but the blunt, vulgar slang clearly caught him off guard in a room where insults were usually wrapped in layers of poetic honorifics.
Before Min-ho could recover and issue a culturally devastating retort, a hand flattened against the small of Si-woo’s back. It wasn't a gentle touch; it was a rigid, immovable iron bar pinning him in place.
"Assemblyman Baek," Sung-jae stepped smoothly into the space between them, his tone dripping with weaponized politeness. "How kind of you to offer your condolences so late into the night. Your dedication to networking is truly tireless."
Min-ho’s eyes darted to Sung-jae, his expression hardening. "Chief Secretary Kang. I see you’re still cleaning up the Han family messes. Are you going to hold his hand during the by-election too?"
"The young master has spent years studying abroad to broaden his perspective for this exact moment," Sung-jae replied seamlessly, not rising to the bait. "Unlike some, he hasn't spent his twenties riding his father's coattails into safe districts. I’m sure your father, the former Prime Minister, is very proud of your... independent achievements."
It was a surgical strike. Sung-jae had just reminded Min-ho—and anyone listening—that Min-ho was nothing but a nepotism baby who hadn't earned a single vote on his own merit.
Min-ho flushed deeply, his polite mask cracking. He stared at Sung-jae with raw malice, then shot a look of pure disdain at Si-woo. "Enjoy the funeral, Si-woo. Because the moment you step into the assembly, you’re dead meat."
He turned on his heel and stalked away.
The Leash
Si-woo exhaled a sharp breath, his heart racing. He had won the exchange, or rather, Sung-jae had won it for him. And that realization tasted like ash in his mouth.
He shrugged off Sung-jae’s hand violently. "Don't touch me," he hissed in a low whisper, turning to glare at the taller man. "And don't fight my battles. I could have handled that arrogant prick."
"By speaking English like a street thug in front of the press?" Sung-jae asked softly, his eyes scanning the room to ensure no one was watching their dispute. "You are not in a frat house in California, Si-woo. If you had insulted him in front of the elders, you would have lost three crucial endorsements by dawn. He was baiting you, and you lunged at it like a starving dog."
Si-woo felt a flush of humiliation burn the back of his neck. He wanted to scream at him, to fire him on the spot, but he knew he couldn't. Sung-jae held the keys to his father's empire, the blackmail on his past, and, frustratingly, the entire map to surviving the present.
"My shift is done," Si-woo muttered, stepping away from the altar. "Find another prop for the rest of the night. I'm going to smoke."
He didn't wait for permission. He turned and marched toward the back exit, desperate for the humid night air, unaware of the quiet, watchful gaze Sung-jae kept fixed on his retreating back—a gaze entirely devoid of the cold machinery he showed the world.
The Alleys of Seoul
The heavy metal exit door slammed shut behind Si-woo, cutting off the suffocating hum of the funeral hall. The sudden transition to the humid, sticky air of the Seoul night felt like hitting a physical wall.
He walked down the concrete steps into the hospital’s rear loading alley, the distant neon signs of the city bleeding a sickly orange light into the shadows. Pulling a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his pocket, he clamped a cigarette between his teeth and flicked his lighter. It took three tries before the flame caught.
He inhaled deeply, letting the harsh smoke fill his lungs. He leaned his head back against the cool brick wall, closing his eyes.
I am not doing this, he thought, the nicotine doing nothing to quell the frantic beating of his heart. I am not becoming my father. I am not spending the rest of my life as a meat puppet for a sociopath in a tailored suit.
But the trap was perfect. Sung-jae had the LA file—the police report, the blood test results, the bribes that made it all go away. If Si-woo ran, he’d be intercepted at the airport and thrown in a cell. His father's enemies would make sure the media covered every second of his downfall.
There has to be a way to cut the leash. If the file doesn't exist, the threat doesn't exist. If the leverage is gone, I can just walk away.
The Digital Ghost
"Tell him I want double the rate. I don't care if he's a junior assemblyman, I just scrubbed a DUI off the National Police Agency's active server. To them, he was never even in the car."
The voice came from the deeper shadows near the dumpsters.
Si-woo opened his eyes, squinting through the gloom. Leaning against a stack of discarded shipping pallets was a guy who looked completely out of place. He wasn't wearing a black suit. He had on an oversized black hoodie, ripped jeans, and a pair of scuffed sneakers. He was hunched over a burner phone, taking a drag from a cheap electronic vape that glowed bright blue in the dark.
"Yeah, I burned the server logs too," the guy muttered into the phone, scratching his messy, bleached-blonde hair. "A paper trail is only as good as the digital ledger it's tied to. You wipe the hard drive, the paper becomes a rumor. Just get me the crypto by midnight."
He hung up, slipping the phone into his pocket.
Si-woo froze, the cigarette hovering halfway to his mouth. Wipe the hard drive, the paper becomes a rumor.
His mind raced. Sung-jae might have the physical files, but in modern Korea, a criminal record only mattered if it could be verified through the central justice database. If someone could slip into the system and completely erase the original arrest data from six years ago, Sung-jae's "proof" would suddenly look like a forged, desperate smear campaign. Si-woo could deny everything, book a flight to LA, and vanish before Sung-jae could authenticate the documents.
It was a reckless, insane idea. It was also his only way out.
Si-woo pushed off the brick wall and took a slow step toward the kid.
"Hey," Si-woo called out, his voice low.
The hacker flinched, his head snapping up. His eyes darted toward the exit, ready to bolt, but he relaxed marginally when he saw Si-woo wasn't wearing a security uniform. He took in Si-woo's loosened tie and exhausted demeanor.
"Private phone call, suit," the hacker said, his tone defensive. "Mind your own business."
"I heard what you said. About the police servers," Si-woo said, taking another step closer, pulling a thick clip of cash—his father’s emergency funeral funds—from his inner jacket pocket. He fanned it out just enough for the streetlights to catch the green of the fifty-thousand won notes. "Could you do a cold case? Say, a sealed narcotics arrest from 2020? Completely wipe the ledger?"
The hacker’s eyes dropped to the cash. He hesitated, his street-smart caution warring with obvious greed. He took a drag of his vape, exhaling a cloud of synthetic strawberry smoke.
"Depends," the hacker murmured, stepping slightly out of the shadows. "Sealed files have heavier encryption. You got the badge numbers of the arresting officers? Or the exact precinct?"
"I can get them," Si-woo said, his pulse hammering with a surge of genuine, desperate hope. "I need it gone. Completely scrubbed. If you can do it, I'll pay you triple whatever that assemblyman just gave you."
The hacker licked his lips. "Give me your—"
The Interruption
CLANG.
The heavy metal door to the alley swung open with a screech of rusted hinges. The sudden flood of harsh fluorescent light spilled into the alleyway, illuminating the space between Si-woo and the hacker.
The temperature in the alley seemed to plummet by ten degrees.
Kang Sung-jae stood in the doorway. His silhouette was sharp and immaculate against the harsh light. He didn't say a word, but his dark, piercing eyes instantly analyzed the scene: Si-woo standing too far from the door, the roll of cash hastily being shoved back into a pocket, and the kid in the hoodie freezing like a deer in headlights.
The hacker visibly paled. Anyone who operated in the political underworld of Seoul knew the face of the Han faction's Chief Secretary. To cross Kang Sung-jae was to sign your own death warrant.
"Shit," the kid breathed out. He didn't even wait for a dismissal. He spun on his heel and sprinted down the alley, his sneakers slapping loudly against the wet asphalt until he disappeared around the corner into the bustling neon streets.
Si-woo clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists. Dammit. Ten more seconds. I just needed ten more seconds to get his number.
Sung-jae stepped out into the alley, letting the heavy door click shut behind him. The oppressive gloom returned, but the suffocating tension remained. Sung-jae walked slowly toward Si-woo, his footsteps completely silent on the concrete.
"Making friends with the local wildlife?" Sung-jae asked, his voice a smooth, dangerous purr.
"I was just having a smoke," Si-woo shot back, bringing the cigarette back to his lips to hide the slight tremor in his hand. "Is it a crime to talk to someone who isn't wearing a $5,000 suit?"
Sung-jae stopped a few feet away. He didn't look toward the alley where the kid had run. He kept his unblinking gaze locked entirely on Si-woo.
"In your current position, every conversation is a liability," Sung-jae stated, his tone flat. "You are running for office, Si-woo. You do not talk to strangers in dark alleys. You do not handle cash where cameras might see you."
"There are no cameras back here," Si-woo sneered.
"There is always someone watching," Sung-jae corrected softly, stepping into Si-woo's personal space. He reached out and, with two elegant fingers, plucked the half-smoked cigarette from Si-woo's lips. He dropped it onto the wet asphalt and crushed it beneath the polished leather of his Oxford shoe.
"Break time is over," Sung-jae said, gesturing toward the door. "The regional party chairman has arrived. He wants to meet the son who will carry on the Han legacy. Wash your hands, fix your hair, and get inside."
Si-woo stared at the crushed cigarette, boiling with rage, but beneath the anger, a tiny, jagged spark of hope remained. He didn't have the hacker's name, but he had an idea. He had a way out.
He brushed past Sung-jae, making sure to knock his shoulder aggressively against the older man's chest as he headed for the door. Sung-jae didn't budge an inch, merely watching Si-woo re-enter the building with eyes that saw entirely too much.
