Pandora Mercenary Office
Reeking of the briny stench from Incheon Port and the foul sewer rot clinging to every inch of my body, I trudged alone toward the three-story building on the outskirts of the new city. Amid the garish neon signs, this brick-clad structure stood out like a solemn relic—a sanctuary to me, and the brutal frontline of my daily grind.
The first floor bore a sign reading Pandora Restaurant, its entire facade a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass that laid bare the bustle inside. Through the sleek windows poured the greasy aroma of sizzling pork belly and thick plumes of smoke, claiming the night air of the alley. The scene beyond was bizarre: grizzled mercenaries with menace in their eyes hunched over griddles from dawn, knocking back soju shots. Darting gracefully between them with plates of meat were the office staff—waiters with reflexes that could rival any Ability User.
It looked like just another lively eatery at a glance, but in the shadowy corner tables, deals involving bounties worth millions traded hands instead of pork belly. That was everyday life here. I skipped the restaurant entrance and rode the freight elevator on the side of the building.
The doors sealed shut, and with a heavy mechanical groan, I ascended. As we passed the second floor, a faint coffee scent seeped through the cracks. I didn't need to see it to picture the scene: fresh-faced rookie mercenaries straight out of the local Ability Academy and college kids treating the cafe P as their hangout. They'd have the latest HAH mana guns or premium gear like the Atlas-G7 flaunted on the tables, chattering like they owned the world.
I wonder what faces they'd make when that pricey gear hits the mud in real combat. Not mocking them—just the jaded view of a vet who's rolled in this game for over sixty years. Their greenhorn tactics debates over lattes felt oddly out of place. If they knew the baristas serving them were handpicked by the boss herself—killers who could snap a neck with a smile—their puffed-up war stories would deflate fast.
Ding—
The elevator halted at the third floor. The doors parted to reveal stacks of wooden crates and the dusty haze of a warehouse. Any lost soul stumbling in would peg it for an abandoned storage dump and turn tail—a perfect disguise. I pushed deep into the gloom, past a massive steel shelving unit. There loomed a hefty double-security door fused seamlessly with the warehouse wall.
I stripped off my gear and stowed it neatly in the locker beside the door, then pressed my eye to the iris scanner with practiced ease.
Iris pattern match. User confirmed.
I fished the insider-only auth key from my deep pocket and slotted it into the contact port. A faint vibration hummed, followed by the click of electronic locks disengaging. The massive door slid open silently. Without hesitation, I stepped through. Behind me, the double doors mated shut with a whisper.
The fishy reek of underground waterways cut off abruptly, replaced by the refined air of premium agarwood incense and cool leather filling my lungs. The office beyond was a bastion of old-world luxury: mahogany furniture and deep-green Italian leather pieces everywhere, save for the panoramic floor-to-ceiling window framing the new city's glittering nightscape. No garish HAH logos on the walls—just authentic oil paintings from obscure classical masters, punctuated by high-end terminals that screamed this was the beating heart of Incheon's mercenary scene.
At the far end, backdropped by that vast window, a woman in a deep wine-red silk blouse set down her papers and looked up from the mahogany desk. Park Sujin. Heir to her Korean father's sharp features and her Russian mother's translucent skin, she was still called Black Baccarat in the biz well into her mid-thirties. Part of it was her tenacious bite, but mostly that ripe, deadly allure like a black rose.
To me, though, she was still the sniveling ten-year-old who'd wail and cling to my pant leg over stolen candy.
"...Director, looks like you pulled an all-nighter."
I tossed the greeting casually. Her emerald eyes flickered for a split second.
"Ajussi, that 'Director' crap again. How many times do I gotta tell you it's too stiff between us?"
Sujin rose gracefully and approached, her alluring perfume overlaying the rat-stink on my hoodie. She spotted the bloodstain on my shoulder, frowned faintly, and pulled out a handkerchief.
"Rolling in the sewer sludge again, huh? I told you hunting sewer mutants ain't worth the cash—it just wrecks you."
She dabbed at the stain while lightly scolding me. Guess she'd gotten the alert when I took the job. Seeing this niece-figure grown into the head of such a massive outfit treating me with deference was proud-making, but it also worried me how long this beauty would keep grinding in this hellhole past her prime.
"It pays, though. Enough for a few rounds of pork belly and soju, no sweat. C'mon, let's settle up—I'm starving and lightheaded."
I flashed a broad grin and flopped onto the sofa. Sujin grumbled but tapped the main terminal on her desk. Her fingers danced, pulling up the admin page for Mercenary-Mania.
"Ajussi, you got a new ID from Doo-sik ajussi, right? I updated your profile already."
"Oh yeah? Thanks. ...He didn't say anything weird, did he?"
"Heh, nothing special—just the usual worrying about you."
"That dwarf's such a busybody."
I'd been sweating a potential earful from him, but the guy kept his trap shut.
"This job was a prepaid safe deal, so one tap and it's settled. After fees, over 1.4 million won hit your account. Check it."
My phone pinged with the alert: 1,425,000 won deposited. Tension melted away in a hollow chuckle. What a long-ass day, starting with a 6,400-won lunchbox.
Sujin crossed her legs on the facing sofa, staring me down. Mid-thirties poise oozed from her blouse, but to me, she just looked flushed and off-color today—worrisome.
"Ajussi, can't you quit now? It's been years since I asked you to come under me as deputy director. With you here... I'd work with peace of mind, and you wouldn't have to crawl sewers anymore."
She fixed me with a earnest gaze. I scratched my gray hair and let out a wry laugh. The kid had always been too soft-hearted. Knowing I'd scrapped in this racket sixty-plus years, she still fretted over me like a kid by the water's edge. Admirable, really. My ripe-for-marriage niece vowing to handle her uncle's retirement? Guess I raised her right.
"Sujin-ah, this uncle gets butt-rash just sitting at a desk. And with a fine director like you, me nagging beside you would tank your rep. Ease off the work, find a good guy, and settle down. Doo-sik would beat the dirt if he saw you grinding solo like this."
Her face twisted oddly at my heartfelt advice. Lips twitching, she sighed and turned away. Kids these days—can't even take good words without that reaction. Cheeks flushing, huffing like the ten-year-old I'd force-fed veggies.
Then, from the shadows in the office corner, a hulking figure stirred. Short white hair, a deep scar slashing his face, intricate prosthetic for a right arm. Sujin's dedicated bodyguard—and the 'Jackal' I'd hauled from an Andean snow pit decades back. Nearing seventy, he was a grizzled merc vet, but before me, he always bowed deep. He looked younger, but he revered my true age and scars more than anyone.
"...Hyung-nim. If I may overstep, perhaps consider the director's heart a bit deeper. Her feelings for you aren't mere family ties. It's heartbreaking to watch from the side—that's why I speak."
Jackal's voice was profoundly respectful, grave and pleading. I fiddled with a vitamin drink bottle, staring blankly. Not mere family? Sure, she'd always stuck close since kid days. Probably lingering gratitude from when I looked after her back then. Overcoddle a kid, and they get clingy like this.
"Hey, Jackal. Getting sappy in your old age? I know Sujin's sweet on this old fart. But I handle my shit. You're past sixty—worry about your own knee cartilage. Don't slack on guarding the director."
"...Hyung-nim, that's not what I—"
"Enough. You two nagging like hens—uncle's out. Sujin-ah, tab the drinks today? Head home early tomorrow, slap on a face pack. Your color's crap."
I bolted up and headed for the door without a backward glance. Heard her yell something like "Ajussi! You're such an idiot!" from behind, but chalked it up to stress. Niece hitting puberty again at nearly forty? I tsked my tongue.
In the descending elevator to the restaurant, I patted my heavier wallet. Never learned or cared for women's complicated hearts in eighty years. All that mattered was today's payout and the sizzling five-layer pork belly soon to come. Sujin could save that devotion for her future hubby. With a bittersweet smile at the thought, I stepped into the restaurant's hazy meat smoke.