"Yohan, you're here," Gunjoo said as Yohan stepped into his office.
"Please, sit." He turned to the only other person in the room, one of his underlings. "Get us some beer."
The man slipped out quickly, leaving the two alone. Gunjoo leaned back in his chair, grinning.
"I hope you don't mind me calling you Yohan. The whole Mister thing felt too stiff. We're more like friends now, right?"
Yohan raised a brow. 'Friends? Since when?'
"Don't look at me like that," Gunjoo chuckled. "I've talked to you more than my own mother this week."
"So gangsters still call their mothers?" Yohan asked flatly.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I? I call my Mami every week." He adjusted a framed photo on his desk so Yohan could see it—a younger Gunjoo with a tiny, smiling old woman.
Under different circumstances, Yohan might've laughed. But his head was already too clouded with other thoughts.
"So," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Is this why you called me here? To show me a picture of your Mami?"
