"I'm very grateful you accepted our offer, Mr. Han Joon-seong."
Han Do-yun's voice carried the trained warmth of a professional. He sat across from Han Joon-seong at a small table in Verdant, the same café with the cascading green vines and the copper-haired waitress he had visited before. The morning light fell through the window, soft, catching the rim of Han Joon-seong's coffee cup as he lifted it for a slow sip. He said nothing.
The silence stretched. Han Do-yun's smile never wavered.
Around them, the café hummed with its usual quiet energy. A few other patrons occupied the scattered tables — a student bent over a laptop, two women sharing a pastry, an older man reading a newspaper. But no one could quite stop themselves from glancing at the two young men by the window. They looked like they had stepped out of a magazine — sharp features, shapely bodies, flawless skin, and an almost gravitational pull on the eye. Yet the glances lingered for reasons beyond simple admiration. Something about the air around them felt off. Cold enough to make the back of the neck prickle. A woman near the counter leaned toward her companion and murmured something, her eyes darting away the moment Han Joon-seong's gaze passed near her. The unspoken consensus was that these two men were dangerous.
Han Do-yun kept his smile in place, but beneath it, a quiet thread of irritation had begun to coil. He was not accustomed to being ignored. He was an executive of the Juhwang-pa, a man whose name opened doors and whose displeasure closed them. People fought to have a chance to sit at a table with him. But this man — crawling out of some sewer — had not only attacked him, leaving him knocked out for a minute, but now dared stare at him with the emotional warmth of a brick wall.
*Look at him,* Han Do-yun thought, keeping his expression perfectly pleasant. *Sitting there like a statue. No courtesy, not even a nod. I invited him to a restaurant, I offered him the honor to work for us and call him "Mr. Han Joon-seong" like he's some kind of honored guest — and he can't be bothered to fake a smile.* Han Do-yun could handle enemies. He knew what to do with people who hated him. But this flat, indifferent coldness was something else. He would remember this.
Han Joon-seong set his coffee down with a soft clink. "So," he said, his voice flat and businesslike. "How is this going to work? I've never done this kind of work before."
Han Do-yun's smile widened, as if the question itself were a victory. "Ah. It's not very complicated, I assure you." He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and slid it across the table. "Your job is simple. Find this man and collect the money he owes us."
Han Joon-seong picked up the phone. The screen displayed a photograph of a heavy-set man in his forties, built like a barrel, with a shaved head and a thick neck that merged directly into his shoulders. His bare chest and arms were covered in a dense patchwork of gang tattoos: dragons, tigers, geometric patterns, and a few other symbols Ervin didn't recognize. He wore only a pair of loose shorts, standing somewhere sunlit, squinting at the camera. Above his lip, a thin, carefully trimmed pencil mustache gave his otherwise brutish face an almost comical note of vanity.
He looked, Ervin thought, exactly like a villain. Literally looked like a man who had probably never done an honest day's work in his life.
"He certainly looks the part," Han Joon-seong said, his tone dry.
Han Do-yun nodded, still smiling. "Yes. He does."
Han Joon-seong handed the phone back. "Where do I find him?"
Han Do-yun leaned forward and tapped a location on a map that had been pulled up beneath the photo. "Here," he said. "Nampo-dong."
The word hit Ervin like a small electric pulse. He had been drifting near the ceiling, his imaginary hands folded behind his imaginary head, watching the scene with only partial interest. But that name — Nampo-dong — pulled his attention downward. He called the system window into view, and there it was, still sitting in his task list:
[Street Policing — End the Contraband Market in Nampo-dong. Reward — 200 Points]
*So they are connected.* The realization was not surprising, exactly, but it confirmed a pattern he had begun to suspect. The first task had sent him to rescue Lee Hye-jin. The second had nudged him toward reconciliation with Han Do-yun. And now the third was pointing him directly at a man who owed Han Do-yun money. The system, for whatever reason, wanted him entangled with the criminal underworld of Busan. It was steering him toward the gangs.
He did not know why. But if walking this path would help him climb, then he would climb it.
Han Joon-seong studied the map for a moment, then looked up. "Before I go anywhere. This man, he borrowed money from you. What did he borrow it for?"
Han Do-yun's eyebrows lifted slightly, and for the first time there was a flicker of something genuine in his expression. Approval, perhaps — or not. "An excellent question," he said. "For a beginner, that is exactly the right kind of question to ask." He leaned back and folded his hands on the table. "This man is running a contraband operation in Nampo-dong. He took out a loan from us to purchase his initial stock, and now he has decided that repayment is... optional."
Han Joon-seong waited.
"He is smuggling counterfeit luxury goods," Han Do-yun continued. "High-end watches and handbags, mostly, manufactured in China and brought in through the port. The demand is consistent — people want to look wealthy without paying the price — and the profit margins are substantial. He set up a small distribution network in Nampo-dong, selling to local shops and individuals. The business has been running for several months. He should have more than enough money to pay us back. He simply chooses not to."
Han Joon-seong absorbed this, his face unchanged. "So he's not just a debtor. He's a competitor of sorts."
"In a very small way," Han Do-yun said, waving a hand. "Beneath our notice, really. But debts must be collected. Reputation is everything in our line of work. If one man stops paying, others start to wonder if they can stop paying too." He smiled again, all polished charm. "And that, Mr. Han Joon-seong, is where you come in."
Han Joon-seong nodded, internalizing the information — or rather, waiting for Ervin to do so. The job was simple on paper, but the reality was never that clean. He set his coffee down, and his next question came with a more serious undertone.
"One more thing," he said. "What's my safety net?"
Han Do-yun tilted his head, the perfect smile still in place. "Safety net?"
"If I'm walking into a criminal's base of operations, I assume he has some kind of protection. Weapons." Han Joon-seong's expression didn't change. "If he pulls a gun on me and shoots me, what then? Does your organization have any backup plan, or am I just supposed to figure that out on my own?"
Han Do-yun stared at him for a beat. Then, unexpectedly, his polished composure cracked. A short, stifled laugh escaped him — *pff* — and then he was chuckling, low and genuine, a hand rising to cover his mouth. His shoulders shook with it. It was the first real sound Han Do-yun had made in his presence.
Han Joon-seong raised an eyebrow and waited. He didn't interrupt.
After a moment, Han Do-yun collected himself. He wiped a bead of moisture from the corner of his eye with a finger, still smiling, and exhaled. "Forgive me," he said, his voice warm with residual amusement. "It's been a long time since I've heard that particular concern. I let myself get carried away." He straightened in his chair and folded his hands on the table again. "You don't need to worry about firearms, Mr. Han Joon-seong. There are no guns in Korea."
Han Joon-seong's eyebrow stayed up. "What do you mean, there are no guns?"
"I mean exactly what I said. Ever since 'that man' came to power a decade ago, firearms have been completely banned from conflicts between gangs. No one is stupid enough to try importing them into the country." Han Do-yun shrugged, as if he were explaining a minor traffic regulation.
Han Joon-seong sat back. The words landed somewhere between absurd and incomprehensible. 'That man' had banned guns, of all things, from gang conflicts? As if a single person could wave a hand and make guns disappear from an entire nation's underworld. The phrase echoed in his mind, but it still sounded as nonsensical as when he had first heard it.
"That's a very cryptic way of putting it," he said. "You're going to have to be clearer. What does that mean — 'that man'? Banned? How does one person ban firearms from gang wars? I need more information than 'it simply isn't done.'"
Han Do-yun spread his hands. "Frankly, I can't give you much more than that. It's common knowledge in our circles — a few years ago, everything changed. Guns disappeared. Now, if gangs want to fight for power or influence, they have to do it with the arms and legs God gave them." He offered an apologetic tilt of the head. "Beyond that, I don't have any grand explanation for you. I just know how things are. You won't be shot, Mr. Han Joon-seong. Just make sure you don't get beaten to a pulp."
Han Joon-seong absorbed this. What a mystery — was he truly needed? Maybe Han Do-yun was trying to get him killed. But no, Intuition told him that if Han Do-yun wanted him dead, he could do it without sending him elsewhere; that made no sense. So Han Do-yun wanted to keep Han Joon-seong alive. The explanation was too thin — but if Do-yun was telling the truth, then the immediate danger was significantly lower than he had expected.
"All right," he said after a pause. "Then why don't you handle this yourself, if the risk is so manageable?"
Han Do-yun's smile resettled into its usual polished shape. "I'm an executive of the Juhwang-pa. I have other matters to attend to." He said it without open arrogance, as a simple statement of fact. "Administration doesn't run itself."
Han Joon-seong looked at him for a long moment. So the man actually had responsibilities. He wasn't just a well-dressed thug who spent his days intimidating university students; he apparently did paperwork, managed logistics, kept the machinery of his criminal organization turning. Ervin filed that away as surprisingly useful information.
Han Joon-seong nodded once. "Understood." He rose from his chair, his coffee only half finished. "Thank you for the coffee. I'll go take care of this now."
He turned and walked out of Verdant without another word, the door chiming softly behind him.
Han Do-yun remained seated, his hands still folded on the table. He stared at the empty chair across from him for a moment, then at the two coffee cups — his own, and the one Han Joon-seong had left behind.
"...I didn't even say I'd pay," Han Do-yun muttered under his breath. He let out a quiet, incredulous laugh and picked up the check.