Standoff at the Cabaret
The Sangdong-pa was an organization founded by its boss, Jeong Sang-dong, back in 1990, though it only truly took on the shape of a proper outfit in 1992. More than a decade after its founding, it had grown into a respectable mid-sized syndicate.
Their main lines of business were illegal immigration, smuggling, and the retail sale of certain smuggled goods. Where most traditional organizations worked inside a somewhat legal framework, the Sangdong-pa stuck strictly to the illegal—and highly profitable—side of things. Because of that, their reputation in the underworld never climbed much higher than a pack of street thugs.
A black Grandeur slid into the parking lot of a run-down cabaret in Yeongdeungpo’s nightlife district. The moment the engine died, the men in the front seats jumped out and yanked open the rear door.
The figure who climbed out with enough force to rock the car was Cheon Yeong-hu, a mid-level boss of the Sangdong-pa and one of the few friends and confidants Jeong Sang-dong still trusted. A former amateur wrestler with cauliflower ears smashed flat from his student days, the big man looked like a gorilla stuffed into a suit; the waiters waiting to greet him barely came up to his chest.
Most of the waiters were clutching their faces or had their clothes half-torn open—hardly the look of staff ready to receive guests. The second they spotted Cheon Yeong-hu they brightened.
“You’re here, Boss!”
“It’s total chaos inside right now. But that bastard keeps asking for you.”
“Boss?”
Cheon Yeong-hu’s face twisted. His already rough features turned so ugly the waiters flinched in fear. He wasn’t the type to lead with his fists, though. Outsiders might call him a thug lieutenant, but both he and Jeong Sang-dong had a genuine managerial streak.
“Look at you idiots~. Boss? You trying to advertise that you’re a bunch of street punks?”
“N-no, that’s not what I—”
“How long are you gonna keep talking like it’s still the end of the twentieth century? I told you to fix that crap. We need to clean up our language too. Stop looking like low-level thugs. Got it? From now on call me Senior. Yeah? And the guys who call me over for this kind of garbage are waiters too. Aigoo.”
He pushed through them and headed inside. Behind him the waiters let out long sighs.
“I’m going crazy. We’re not a bunch of kids—what’s with ‘Senior’? Look at this ancient cabaret. Damn it. Isn’t there a way to transfer to a room salon? If I keep dealing with nothing but grandpas and grandmas my bones are gonna rot.”
“Shut up. He’ll hear you.”
“Boss—no, Senior—is still under forty, right?”
While they grumbled, the self-styled “Senior” climbed to the upper floor. The scene above could only be described as pure pandemonium.
Several waiters already lay quietly on the floor; cups and shattered bottles littered the ground, catching the garish lights. The man responsible stood behind a barricade of stacked tables, scanning the room. A baseball cap pulled low hid his face. He looked skinny, but anyone who had put that many waiters on the ground clearly knew how to fight.
Who the hell is this guy?
Cheon Yeong-hu suddenly remembered the club the Sangdong-pa used to run that had been wiped out by some foreigner, and he clicked his tongue. The gang did enough thug work to earn plenty of enemies, but open warfare over it never happened. That attack had made no sense. Connecting this random troublemaker to that earlier incident was only natural.
Is this the same bastard? No… doesn’t look like a foreigner.
The man in the baseball cap had seated waiters around the tables like hostages. Cheon Yeong-hu bellowed at him.
“Hey, you son of a bitch! This is way past the line. I’ve never seen a punk like you. What the hell do you think you’re doing barging into a civilian business?”
It sounded funny coming from an organized crime figure, but he had a point. Cabarets and nightclubs were mostly private capital; gangs usually only wanted a cut of the personnel rights. After the War on Crime most organizations had shrunk so much they could no longer physically protect large venues. Trashing a civilian joint like this was bound to draw that kind of complaint.
“Well. I paid the deposit clear as day, but you won’t hand over the goods. So here we are. And even if this is a civilian place, you guys hold the personnel rights, right? Makes it your territory.”
He sat down and pulled out his phone. Cheon Yeong-hu clicked his tongue again.
“This bastard’s finished. Just call the cops. Hey, manager?”
He looked at the manager. The man shook his head hard.
“Th-that’s the problem—he’s the one threatening to call the police…”
“What?”
Sure enough the youth in the baseball cap held a phone ready to dial. Cheon Yeong-hu stared at him, dumbfounded.
“You messing with me right now?”
“I just want the merchandise. Better not blow this up. Your Sangdong thug crew deals drugs too—if the cops lean on you over something this small, you’re not just screwed, you’re completely fucked.”
The words hit Cheon Yeong-hu hard enough that even his cauliflower ears flushed bright red under the dim cabaret lights.
“This bastard’s guts are hanging out of his belly! I’ll fillet you myself!”
Two hot-tempered enforcers moved first. They yanked out sashimi knives and long steel pipes and charged like they meant to kill—true to the gang’s thug reputation. The baseball-cap kid was faster.
Crack!
Twice—only twice—thick crystal glasses shattered, and both men went down bloody. He had thrown the glasses with shoulders strong enough for a pro baseball player; even seasoned enforcers could only groan and collapse. Once their faces were masked in blood, no amount of toughness let them keep fighting. Two fists out of commission in an instant.
“I gave five million won in cash as a deposit. I’m the one getting screwed here. Or should we just call the cops and talk it out? I’m still a minor, you know.”
“What did you say?!”
Cheon Yeong-hu’s jaw dropped. Even a man hardened by years of organized crime had never faced anything like this. A minor storming a cabaret, wrecking the place, then using the police as leverage would make the whole district laugh at them. Reporting it would be more than a loss of face—the Sangdong-pa was already under heavy police scrutiny. If the cops actually showed up, the kid would get juvenile detention at worst; the gang would be shredded.
They had stepped in the absolute worst pile of shit possible.
Aigoo. We’re completely fucked. So all these guys got wiped out by one high-school punk?
Cheon Yeong-hu’s insides were burning, but he shut his mouth. When a fight offered nothing but losses, changing face was his specialty.
“All right, all right. Business talk should happen inside. Kid, maybe ease up on the disturbance of business?”
“You think I took a bullet to the head and grew a bird’s nest up there? I’m still breathing because I’m holding this spot. The second I move you’ll twist my neck, right? Since I’m already fucked, why not stay fucked right here?”
The baseball-cap kid sneered. Cheon Yeong-hu had met his match. Getting out-talked by a punk he couldn’t even kill without consequences was driving his blood pressure through the roof—and he still couldn’t thrash a minor in public. He ground his teeth and forced the anger down.
“Fine, fine. Kid. We’ll talk here. So who did you give the money to?”
“Bong-su. Five million in cash went to one of your underlings and a boss like you didn’t know? Real thug organization, all right.”
For a second Cheon Yeong-hu saw the person in front of him as a fruit he wanted to pulp and drink. He swallowed the rage and asked carefully.
“That bastard pocketed it all by himself?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re the one who can’t control his subordinates, so you take responsibility. Just give me the goods and I won’t say another word. After that it’s your internal problem.”
“Fine. What kind of goods?”
“A Dragunov, a Tokarev, and an AK-47.”
“What?”
Every drop of blood drained from Cheon Yeong-hu’s face. Luckily the manager had already cleared out customers and staff; if anyone had overheard, all hell would have broken loose. Yes, the Sangdong-pa was an uncontrollable thug outfit that smuggled weapons, but those weapons stayed inside the organization—they were never sold casually. Hand one over and the buyer robbed a bank and got caught, the whole gang would evaporate.
He had assumed “goods” meant drugs and nearly let it slide. If he had known, denying any knowledge of Bong-su would have been smarter. Selling firearms—especially heavy weapons like an AK or Dragunov—to a minor!
“You want all that for a measly five million?”
“Compared to list price it’s an outrageous markup, isn’t it? Every dog on the street barks that the Sangdong-pa moves Russian and Chinese weapons. Hardly a secret.”
“A-all right. I get it. Let’s set a time. We can’t do the deal right here. It’s not like the stuff is falling out of my pocket.”
“Fine. Your territory’s too hot, so Yeouido. Hanshin Securities parking lot, tomorrow at eight. I’m gone.”
The youth vaulted onto a table and slipped through the obstacles like lightning. Waiters at the entrance tried to grab him, but he ducked their punches with a boxer’s head movement and vanished outside. Once you hit the main road in Yeongdeungpo, even the Sangdong-pa had no way to stop anyone.
“That blood-sucker punk!”
Only then did Cheon Yeong-hu explode, ranting and raving. The target of his rage was already long gone.
Vroooom!
Se-geon tore toward the gym on his RX-125. It was already deep into the night; the shops along the street had their shutters down, but the small kickboxing gym tucked into the residential area still glowed with blue fluorescent light. He parked, hung his helmet, and climbed the stairs.
“Yo, Se-geon. Finally here.”
Retired soldier Song Deok-yeon was already warming up, waiting.
“Yes.”
Se-geon pulled a baseball cap from inside his jacket and tossed it on top of the locker, then stripped. A year of training with Deok-yeon had given him a body as solid as any pro athlete’s. He still hadn’t seen real combat and owned no personal firearms—Deok-yeon had kept him out of the field out of concern for his body.
“Don’t tell me you already went out and threw down.”
“Huh? No, sir.”
Se-geon, already in trunks and stretching, played dumb. Deok-yeon shook his head hard.
“You’re still nowhere near ready, you little shit. So quit daydreaming and train properly.”
“Yes.”
Se-geon exhaled in quiet relief. Deok-yeon had only been guessing; he clearly didn’t know Se-geon had already started something.
“Hey, Se-geon.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Want to enter the Rookie King tournament? Gyu-seong’s chin’s too soft—he won’t make it.”
“Nah. What am I gonna do? I’m all broken up myself. Can’t manage that.”
Se-geon climbed into the ring. Deok-yeon, smaller in build, waited for him. Age had caught up, but the former Special Warfare Command sergeant was still a monster. The drugs he took to fight vampires left him with hand tremors on ordinary days, yet once a fight started those vanished; precise punches and kicks simply dismantled bodies. Even after a year of pure combat training, Se-geon still couldn’t handle him.
Thwack!
One high kick from Deok-yeon sat Se-geon down. He had blocked with his arm, but the guarded arm still whipped his own head.
“Ow ow ow ow ow.”
“Quit the drama, kid. I worked you for a whole year and you still haven’t got your head straight.”
“It’s not that—your high kick just hits like a truck.”
“You dumbass. Getting knocked around by a half-dead old man like me and still talking like that?”
Deok-yeon drove a knee into the ring corner. The ropes shuddered and creaked. No one would believe that power came from a “half-dead old man,” but Se-geon kept his mouth shut. The gym master, coaching nearby, slapped a big Muay Thai bag with his palm and watched them.
“Not gangsters, not cops—why the hell do you two wreck your bodies like this if you never even fight in matches? Tch.”
“That’s true enough. Hahahaha.”
Deok-yeon glanced at Se-geon. Lately the kid had been begging for a gun, talking about hunting vampires himself—his body was itching after a year of brutal training. The frustration was understandable. But Se-geon was still growing, and the drug hunters used—Psychedelic Moon—carried terrifying side effects. Deok-yeon honestly wanted to postpone its use as long as possible.
“Don’t start bitching when you still can’t even handle me. I get that your body feels itchy now that you’ve improved a little, but don’t go starting shit with random assholes. Got it?”
“You’re worrying too much. Nothing like that will happen.”
Se-geon said it lightly and began shadowboxing in the ring.