Morning came thin and gray, like a promise half-kept. I dressed slowly, fingers clumsy with nerves, the folder tucked under my arm like contraband. The city felt different now; too many faces, too many ears. Every passerby looked like someone who might carry gossip in pockets they didn't even know were full.
My first stop was a small backroom café in a district where the lights are cheap and the chairs wobble. Lee Han-su was already there, nursing a black coffee like it mattered. He looked older than the last time I'd seen him — the years had leeched color from his cheeks and sharpened his jaw. The fund collapse hadn't been a rumor to him; it had been a blade.
He looked up when I sat. No pleasantries. No pretense. He folded his hands like a man ready to bargain.
"You came," he said.
"I did," I said. I slid the folder across the table. His fingers hovered, then dipped, the way someone touches a wound to see if it still hurts.
"You said you had numbers," he said, voice dry. "I like numbers that change the shape of a room."
"I have more than numbers," I said. "I have a timeline. I have names. I have a way to make the board ask the right questions."
He smiled then — small, hungry. "Tell me what you want."
"Public attention," I said. "Not a lawsuit. Not a confrontation that gets buried. Panic. A public whisper that gets printed in the right column. If the shareholders smell doubt, they'll act faster than loyalty."
Han-su considered the folder like a man reading the margin of a will. "You want me to tip a journalist," he said finally. "Make noise."
"Exactly." My voice was quiet, iron underneath. "Make them look. Not like an orchestrated hit, but like independent whispers that converge into a headache for Kang."
He tapped the folder once, thoughtful. "And what's your angle? Why come to me?"
"Because you'll listen. Because you were hurt badly, and that anger can be currency." I watched his face. It flickered — memory, pride, bitterness — and then he nodded. "Give me a week. I'll whisper. If I smell smoke, I'll feed it."
We traded specifics in low voices. I gave him a lead — one of Kang's recent account moves that looked neat on paper but had suspicious transfers. He scribbled it down, eyes glinting.
One down. One to go.
The next call was to Cho Min-gyu, who ran a temp agency and kept every contract like a ledger of favors owed. He met me in a cramped office where the air tasted like cheap polish and older regrets.
"You remember how the vendor list changed?" I asked before we'd even sat. He did. He slammed his palm on the desk, a small volcano of old indignation.
"They replaced my guys with Kang's cronies," he spat. "Clients left, invoices bounced. I used my credit to keep men paid. I nearly lost the warehouse." He breathed ragged. "If he'd done that to me in public I would've sued. Now? I'd like him to answer for those men."
"Come to the meeting tonight," I said. "I need someone who's willing to go public with a story — not necessarily a full expose, but an account that sounds credible because you lived it."
He laughed, sudden and raw. "Public? You think the board listens to temp managers?"
"You think the board listens when a respected broker mentions deferred liabilities and a temp manager produces client lists? They do when those whispers are backed by an auditor who's already looking," I said. "Be there."
He hesitated, the old fear skittering like a rat. "What if he smells it? What if Taejun finds a way to ruin me again?"
"You won't be alone," I said. "We'll move carefully. Tonight, small steps: plant, prod, disappear." I watched him for the sign that he'd bite. He tapped the edge of his phone, then nodded. "Alright. I'll come."
Park Eun-soo was a junior in the audits division — not powerful, but with access and a memory like a dog's.
Eun-soo arrived with an apologetic air, like a man who felt lucky to be invited and guilty to ask for mercy. We sat in a stale conference room and I placed a photocopy of a ledger in front of him. His fingers trembled as he flipped it.
"This is… messy," he said, too quietly. "This could get me fired."
"It could also make the board ask questions they can't ignore," I said. "They'll pull at a loose thread in the audit, and if there's a knot, it will show."
He looked up at me, eyes raw. "If I do this, people will look at me. They'll ask why I didn't flag it sooner."
"You flagged it for me now," I said. "And sometimes life demands taking a risk."
His breath left him. "I have a sister. She's about to have a baby. If I lose this job—"
"You won't," I said. "Be careful. Quiet. Bring your findings to the coffee stand near the auditors' office tomorrow. No email. No records."
He swallowed the room tight around us. Finally he nodded. "I'll be there. But if this goes wrong—"
"It won't," I said, though I didn't really know. "We move slow. We disappear if we need to. But we start."
We left the meeting with hands slightly colder than before. Each man I'd touched carried his own need and his own hunger. To set a domino, you first set each tile in place.
By late evening my phone buzzed with a text: the same anonymous line as last night.
"He's watching more closely than usual."
The plan wasn't elegant. It was slow, dirty work. It required people with grudges and nerves and the willingness to risk everything they had left. It required patience.
As I turned the folder face down and stood to leave, my phone buzzed again. A different number this time. A single line:
"Do not trust Han-su. He'll sell you first if it saves him."
My throat went cold. Men like Han-su keep their teeth sharp. The room seemed smaller. The map of names I had drawn in my head began to blur with the possibility of betrayal.
Outside, a taxi hissed past, carrying strangers to other nights. Inside, the paper in my hand felt suddenly fragile and dangerous, and the city felt like a live thing, watching.
I folded the folder closed and breathed, slow and hollow. The first domino had been nudged. The next move would tell whether we were setting a trap or stepping into one of our own making.
The next evening, I sat alone in the small apartment Minji had rented for our "meetings." It was barely furnished — two mismatched chairs, a cheap table, and a single bulb that buzzed every few seconds. The kind of place no one would look twice at.
Outside, the city's pulse softened into a low hum. I could hear rain in the alley, the slow kind that never really stops — like the world's trying to wash something it can't.
I had the folder open again, but I wasn't really looking at it. My mind kept drifting to what Minji said at the park:
"He's not untouchable, Seojoon. He's just a man who believes everyone else will stay quiet."
I'd stayed quiet for too long.
When the door creaked open, I didn't look up. I knew that scent — faint perfume, rainwater, and something bitter underneath.
"Sorry," Minji murmured, shutting the door behind her. "Taejun left late. I had to make sure he didn't follow."
Her voice trembled — not out of fear, but exhaustion. She looked smaller, shoulders curved inward.
"He still hurts you," I said quietly.
She hesitated, then nodded. "Some nights he drinks, and everything becomes my fault. Other nights, he just... stares. Like he's trying to figure out how much I know."
Her voice cracked. "I'm so tired of pretending I don't see the monster he's become."
I looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, I didn't see the woman who'd once stood between me and Taejun. I saw someone just as trapped.
"You don't have to pretend anymore," I said softly. "We'll end this. Not just for us — for Jihwa too."
She froze, eyes flicking up. "You think he'll forgive us? After everything?"
I shook my head. "He doesn't have to forgive me. I just want him to be free from Taejun's shadow."
She smiled then — weak, almost broken — and sat across from me. "Then let's make him fall."
For hours, we whispered. Names, dates, the people who could be swayed. Minji knew more than I expected — board members who were bribed, fake transactions hidden under charity donations, private deals he made with city officials.
"He's been bleeding the company dry for years," she said, flipping through documents. "But the problem is, he's good at hiding his trail. You'll need someone from the inside."
"I have someone," I said. "But I'm not sure if I can trust him anymore."
She glanced up. "Han-su?"
My silence was enough.
Minji sighed, leaning back. "Then keep your distance. Men like him always sell the highest bidder. Let him believe he's leading this. When he gets too comfortable, that's when we strike."
Her words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
I looked down at the papers again — the numbers, the fake invoices, the names of shell companies — all roads that led back to Kang Taejun. For a second, I felt it: that old anger, cold and clean.
He had taken everything from me once. My son. My life. My peace.
This time, I would take everything from him.
Minji stood, smoothing her skirt. "I'll contact the reporter through an old friend. When the story breaks, he won't have anywhere to hide."
She paused at the door, hand on the knob. "Just… promise me one thing, Seojoon."
"What?"
"If this goes wrong — if he finds out — don't come for me. Let him think it was me alone. You still have Jihwa. Don't let him take that too. My son? He adores way too much to lay a hand on."
The words cut deeper than I expected.
"Minji—"
But she was already gone, swallowed by the rain outside.
I sat in the silence she left behind, the bulb flickering like it was struggling to stay alive. My phone buzzed once more on the table — a message from an unknown number:
"He knows."
No sender. No signature.
My blood turned to ice.
For the first time since this plan began, I realized something — Taejun was always one step ahead. He'd always been watching.
And maybe, just maybe… he already knew who was pulling the strings.
The rain outside turned harder, drumming against the glass like a warning.
The game had started.
But I wasn't sure anymore who the prey really was.