Inside, Dong-seung walked directly to the counter, where a young employee was engrossed in his phone.
"I'd like to speak to the manager, please," Dong-seung said.
The employee didn't look up. "Sorry, Sir. The manager is currently busy," he said with a dismissive tone, his thumbs still tapping on the screen.
A spike of pure annoyance shot through Dong-seung. South Korea was famous for its impeccable customer service, and this kid had just trampled all over it. A simple greeting or a polite explanation would have sufficed. Now, it felt like watching something disgusting right before eating at a restaurant—the entire experience was tainted.
He opened his mouth to reprimand the boy, but stopped himself. He remembered his own time as a part-timer, dealing with rude, aggressive customers. His perspective had shifted, however, when a boy no older than thirteen had personally apologized for a scene and even given him a small gift. There was a line.
A new, quiet resolve settled over him. I'll stay here until the manager comes out. The only door to the back office was behind the counter. If no one emerged, he'd either make a scene or simply leave. He was, after all, still a lazy person at heart. But now, he was a lazy person with a quest, and this rude employee had just become the first, unwitting obstacle on his path to "Improve Seoul."
Outside, Agent Park noted, "He's just standing at the counter. Not browsing. This is a targeted visit." The assumption in the van solidified, painting a picture far more sinister than the nostalgic reality.
Twenty minutes passed.
"Is his mental illness acting up again?" Park said, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Inside, Dong-seung had had enough. It was time for a performance. Karen mode, activated.
"Hey, you imbecile!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the store's quiet hum.
The cashier finally looked up, his expression still lifeless.
"I own a huge business, and you just cost this company a huge sale!" Dong-seung declared, practically jumping with manufactured outrage. He flexed his silver Amex card, making sure it caught the light. "Do you see this? I am a very respected person! You'll lose your job over this!"
The commotion had its intended effect. From behind the door came a sudden grunt, followed by the sound of a chair scraping back. The door swung open to reveal a middle-aged manager with a greasy, ingratiating smile.
"Hello, esteemed customer! My apologies for the wait. How can we be of service?" he said, his eyes immediately darting to the Amex card in Dong-seung's hand. "We can, of course, if we verify your credibility."
Dong-seung presented his card and ID with a flourish.
The manager's smile widened into a sly grin. "It seems you need some help with buying toys? I presume for your children, or perhaps for a charity?"
This old, greasy bastard finally took the hook, Dong-seung thought. I'll pulverize his ego if he does something stupid. These old suckers were always the same—lazy, overpaid, and allergic to genuine work. Why not just hire a secretary?
"Yes, it's for a charity," Dong-seung confirmed, his tone haughty. "I require a large quantity of toys."
"You are in luck, sir. We have a substantial inventory with... various price ranges," the manager said, gesturing toward the aisles of brightly colored plastic.
This snake is already trying to steer me toward the cheapest stuff, Dong-seung mused. Hah! I'll show you something you'll remember for the rest of your life. He followed the manager, a plan crystallizing in his mind.
Meanwhile, in the van, Agent Park's partner was engrossed in a game of Clash Royale on his phone. "So the guy makes a scene. You think the kink theory holds? Maybe it's linked to a lack of emotional intelligence?"
"We can't hear a thing they're saying," Park replied, frustration edging his voice. "We'll have to request witness statements and CCTV from the company later. For now, we just watch."
Inside, the manager's greasy smile was back. "May I ask for your name, esteemed customer?"
"It's Dong-seung. I own a tech startup," he said, the lie smooth and effortless. He hadn't technically lied; if he'd said he was freelancing, his whole performance would have collapsed. But this boomer wouldn't know the difference anyway.
The manager's eyes glinted with avarice. "Very interesting, Mr. Dong-seung. Now, what about these toys?" He gestured to the shelves packed with everything from race cars to elaborate dolls. The Google reviews weren't lying this time, Dong-seung noted.
"They look adequate. But you've only shown me the cheapest toys," he said, delivering a sharp side-eye.
The manager looked visibly shaken. "Sir—We offer a wide range of to—"
Dong-seung interjected, his voice dripping with feigned moral outrage. "Do I look like a greedy person to you? Do you hate children? This is unacceptable." He crossed his arms, the picture of offended virtue.
And in a way, it was true. Now that he had wealth, he could genuinely provide for the orphans. He remembered reading a study—how children's cognitive and social development was profoundly improved by early social contact and the presence of toys for creative play. There was even that infamous, dark experiment where newborns, deprived of human interaction and tactile stimulation, had simply failed to thrive. Toys weren't frivolous; they were tools for building a functional human being.
A heavy silence hung in the air.
Dong-seung let it linger, then delivered his masterstroke. He sighed, feigning disappointment. "I had planned to strategically invest forty million won into your enterprise. But this display of unprofessionalism… it seems that won't be necessary." A small, cruel grin played on his lips.
The manager's face fell. "Ahh! No, Sir— Mr. Dong-seung, I apologize for my rudeness!" he sputtered, flailing his arms. "I'll offer you… a ten percent discount!"
"No," Dong-seung said, his voice firm and cold. "Thirty percent."
The manager was mortified. "Th—thirty percent... Yes," he whispered, finally staggering to his feet.
Hah! I beat your ass, Dong-seung thought triumphantly. I'll extort you till you die. But his work wasn't done. He had to correct the youngster's behavior, too.
"Also," he added, his tone shifting to one of command, "discipline that employee. He was on his phone, which is unprofessional. But do not fire him."
He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a threatening whisper. "If you do, I will personally call the press and ruin your reputation. He gets a warning. That's all."
The manager just nodded, his face a contorted mask switching rapidly between a servile smile and pure, unadulterated anger.
Four hours had passed.
To the NIS agents' utter bewilderment, Dong-seung had not left. He had, in fact, put in a staggering amount of effort. He applied the ruthless efficiency he'd learned from his business degree, optimizing for a trifecta of quantity, quality, and variety. He reasoned that some children were picky, others destructive, and others quiet—he needed a portfolio of toys.
Part of him was genuinely motivated by a buried sense of gratitude, a flicker of wanting to do a good deed. But the main driver, the thought that made him grin, was the system. He wanted to test if the quality and scale of his "Improve Seoul" action would yield a better reward. My magic spell, he thought with giddy anticipation. Hehe.
"This is very good," he said finally, inspecting the manager's detailed notes. They moved back to the front, where the manager gave the cashier a stiff, carefully worded reprimand, his eyes constantly flicking to Dong-seung to ensure he was performing the disciplinary act to specification.
If this were a manhua, he thought with a private smirk, the owner would have slapped the cashier and then apologized with a dramatic, "How dare you offend Mr. Dong-seung! You have brought shame to our establishment!" He'd read those face-slapping revenge stories a trillion times. A part of him was almost disappointed it hadn't played out that way. But then again, who doesn't enjoy watching an arrogant asshole get his comeuppance?
Satisfied, the manager scurried into his back office and returned, presenting Dong-seung with a business card.
Dong-seung took it. The name was spelled in Comic Sans MS. Ah, yes. This font is a meme. But his eyes dropped to the job title, and his internal monologue screeched to a halt. It didn't say 'Manager.' It said Business Owner.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Dong-seung's face. The pieces clicked into place with the satisfying snap of a perfect business model.
This guy was the owner. Not some hired manager... the actual source.
The implications were glorious. He could now spawn-trap him indefinitely. He could grind his "Improve Seoul" quest by funneling a steady stream of toys to orphanages, using this man and his poorly designed business card as a permanent, renewable resource. He would complete the quest, earn karma, and maybe, just maybe, unlock that magic spell—all while financially pressuring a man who used Comic Sans professionally.
It was, he decided, the most efficient plan he'd ever conceived.
The owner personally escorted him outside, bowing obsequiously as they reached the car. I will probably, just maybe, visit that store again to see if he fired the kid, Dong-seung mused. He didn't particularly care, but the itch of curiosity was strong.
A man passing by nodded at the owner. "Ah, you are the owner of the store?"
"Yes, a pleasure!" the owner beamed.
"Oh? I bought some toys for my children here once. Good selection."
Dong-seung noted the interaction absently before the owner quickly darted back inside.
But in the surveillance van, the agents now had a critical breakthrough.
"Did you catch that?" Agent Park said, lowering his binoculars. "He's not the manager. He's the owner."
Agent Kim looked up from his tablet, his game forgotten. "The owner? The owner just spent four hours personally catering to a single customer. He was bowing. That's not normal."
Their perspective shifted instantly. This wasn't a disgruntled customer or a random kink. This was a business transaction of immense importance. Their focus sharpened on Dong-seung as he began a hyper-vigilant SDR sweep, far more thorough than before. He inspected every seat, popped the trunk, scoured the engine bay, and even crouched to look up the exhaust pipe.
Then it happened.
"WHAT IS THAT SMELL?!" he yelled, throwing his hands up in disgust.
He had found the culprit. A durian fruit, somehow hidden near the floor behind the driver's seat, was unleashing its potent, pungent odor. Maybe my ex-girlfriend placed that fruit here, he thought, his mind racing. He quickly scanned the parking lot but saw nothing.
In the van, the agents connected the dots with chilling efficiency.
"The owner, a four-hour meeting, and now a counter-surveillance sweep this intense?" Kim muttered, his voice low. "He wasn't buying toys. He was making a drop. Or receiving one."
Park nodded grimly, his DSLR capturing the scene. "The fruit is the signal. Or the container. He's not angry about the smell; he's checking if it's been tampered with. This is a professional exchange."
Noted.
Finally, holding his nose, Dong-seung got into the car and drove off. The mystery of the durian was, for him, a bizarre nuisance. For the NIS, it was the cornerstone of a new and terrifying theory: that he was probably not just a bomber, but a key node in a sophisticated and clandestine network, using a children's toy store as a front for a dead-drop operation.
It was almost time to sleep. He decided to head back and call it a day. Since the owner hadn't asked for a deposit, Dong-seung would use that to his advantage; he would only pay when he was fully satisfied with the service. But the old man had clearly seen he was serious, and for the first time in what was likely years, the boomer would have to actually rack his brain and put in some real work.
He exited the parking lot and drove straight towards his home.