Human Butchers (2)
“The perp who messed up that detective buddy of yours will turn himself in soon. Claiming it was an accidental homicide under the influence. That's their modus operandi.”
“Even if it's ruled manslaughter, they killed an on-duty cop. That's a mandatory minimum sentence at best... Aren't those bastards scared?”
Detective Kim Gwang-il demanded in a voice thick with fury.
Kang Cheol-gu stared at the blank wall for a long moment before opening his mouth heavily.
“They don't fear the cops... more precisely, the Korean police. Most Joseonjok gangsters who come to Korea hail from China's Heilongjiang Province.”
He drew a watermelon-sized circle and two coin-sized ones on the whiteboard.
“Think of it like a corporation: Heilongjiang is the headquarters, Korea's just a branch office. Scale-wise, it's about this disproportionate.”
Everyone's eyes locked onto the board.
“The Heilongjiang outfit wields massive influence over their Korean underlings. Why? Their families back home are under the thumb of the Chinese mob.”
“So then?”
Detective Kim swallowed hard.
“They've got patterns. They'll do anything that turns a profit. But Korea's xenophobic. Especially for Joseonjok thugs—language barriers, they stand out—so nine times out of ten, the cops start sniffing around. That's when they target frontline detectives. Then one of their lackeys turns himself in, claiming it was spontaneous. Never admits orders from above. One word about that, and their families in China are toast. Once in custody, they lawyer up with top firms—paid off handsomely. And those firms? They'll do anything for a buck...”
“Fuck this shit!”
Detective Lee slammed his fist on the table and bellowed.
“So what the hell can we do? Why'd my friend die? For what?!”
His shoulders shook violently.
* * *
- Hyungnim! Big trouble!
He was en route to Uijeongbu for a witness interview. Detective Kim Gwang-il's ragged breathing crackled over the line.
“What's up?”
- Detective Lee... Urk...
A bad feeling slammed into him.
“What happened? Calm down and talk.”
- Looks like Detective Lee stormed their hideout solo. He's in surgery now. Unconscious.
Gyu-cheol, you idiot! Mistake. He'd always seemed so level-headed, emotions in check...
That day, when he'd asked what we could do, ignoring that look in his eyes wasn't the play.
He whipped the car toward the police hospital.
* * *
“How's he doing now?”
“He's in surgery. All we can do is wait.”
Detective Kim replied in a somber tone.
A while later, the surgeon emerged.
“He's out of danger, luckily. But if that blade had shifted just one centimeter... we couldn't have guaranteed survival. Keep him for observation today; he can move to a regular room tomorrow.”
The doctor peeled off his surgical gloves as he spoke.
Relief washed over him, but seeing Detective Lee's ashen face reignited the rage.
For the past decade, this loyal brother had quietly cleaned up his messes without complaint.
In the original timeline, three detectives died taking down the Dallim-dong mob—all from Yeongdeungpo precinct, none from their jurisdiction.
So why had history shifted? Was he the variable?
If forming Heavy Crime Team 3 ahead of schedule had inspired Detective Lee to act rashly, leading to this...
He tilted his head, sorting his thoughts.
The guy who'd confessed was barely 17, a kid. The second cop-killer confessor was Jing Saitong—also a teen, as he recalled.
If he nabbed Jing first... twisted this altered history back on itself... what then?
Thoughts raced, but action was swift. Straight to Dallim-dong.
* * *
A Dallim-dong lamb restaurant.
Thick smoke filled the room. The musky stench of lamb permeated everything, but no one eating there minded.
In the back private room, a middle-aged man lay bound in nothing but his underwear.
Normally, he'd cut a sturdy figure as the portly boss. But now, piss-soaked and reeking, he clutched his right hand, trembling violently.
His thumb was severed—crushed to the bone like it'd been smashed in an industrial press. No surgery could fix that.
Despite the agony, he bit back screams, fearing something worse.
“Boss Woo, you not hearing me? Why make this messy?”
A flat, emotionless voice. The man before Woo spoke.
Mid-30s, skin darker than most Koreans. Frostbite scars dotted his face. Lean build, greasy long hair clinging to his scalp.
Ma Chung-hwa. The Joseonjok enforcer who'd seized Dallim-dong's nights in a week.
From here, he'd storm Guro Digital Complex and Garibong-dong. A rising storm of a powerhouse.
His origins were murky, but he and his thirty-odd Joseonjok thugs terrified locals and merchants alike.
They absorbed rivals by kidnapping families for leverage. Posed as customers, slashed up competing joints, fled. Rivals ate the civilian fallout.
Avoided full wars: snatched bosses, buried them alive, took over. Rebels died slow, publicly. Fast, clean, brutal.
Unlike old gangs sticking to drugs or clubs, they chased any profit. Lately, organ trafficking was their cash cow. No sourcing costs, Ma said.
* * *
Ma Chung-hwa pressed the severed thumb to papers for a print. Blood served as ink.
“Looking forward to good relations. We're past chit-chat, right, Boss Woo?”
Woo could only nod frantically at the deadpan voice.
Weak.
Ma frowned at the underwear-clad boss.
These people are soft. Gut full of fat? This overly peaceful country made 'em this way...
“Hyungnim...”
Wang Yong approached, interrupting his reverie. A pretty face, contrasting Ma's rugged one—pale skin, perpetual smirk. Strangers might peg him for a smooth player with women.
They'd fled south from Harbin, Heilongjiang, dodging cops. Instinct told them they were cut from the same cloth. Fists flew, teeth bared, nails raked. Bloody fight forged brothers. Ma, two years older, became the hyungnim.
“Uh... got a problem. That punk who trashed the joint yesterday, yelling for the boss...”
“The boys handled it. You finished him... So what's the issue?”
“The stabbed guy? He's Korean cop!”
“What? Again? A week ago, we bagged one stirring shit. Same unit?”
“Checked it out—nope. Lone wolf, looks like.”
“...Hmm. Tricky. Stick to the plan. At dawn, pick a kid with no priors for confession. Remind him to keep his mouth shut. Oh! Buy him drinks first, heavy ones... and hook him up with a girl.”
Ma's face hardened. Cops sniffing too close meant tail-cutting had limits.
What's wrong? Something I don't know brewing?
His lifetime in shadows screamed warning.
* * *
Parked in the Jeep Wrangler, he eyed the "Beijing House" sign.
About two hours later, a late-teen punk stumbled out, drunk. A hooker-type clung to him, flirting hard.
He tailed slowly. They hit the motel strip—deserted, neon sky bright, ground dark.
The girl spotted him, eyes wide. One gesture, she vanished. Street-smart pro.
“Ow, where you going, babe?”
The punk slurred.
“Jing Saitong, right? Gotta unwind before the slammer... Sorry to cramp your style.”
Sobering fast, the punk's eyes bulged.
“How the fuck you know that?”
A short uppercut sank into his solar plexus. He crumpled silently; Kang supported him.
A motel couple gawked.
“Aigoo, kid... Everyone goes to the army. Ain't dying alone... What'd you drink? C'mon, inside.”
Shoved him into the Wrangler's back seat.
* * *
Dragged Jing Saitong to an abandoned tire factory in Yongbeon-dong, eyed earlier. Boss fled embezzlement; place was ghost town.
“You know who I am? Who’s behind me? Think you'll walk away?”
Regaining wits, the punk blustered anxiously. Jaw chattering the whole time.
“You're Jing Saitong. Backed by Wang Yong and Ma Chung-hwa... And to your last question... Yeah. Think I will.”
Calm reply as he grabbed a lumber scrap from the corner.
“Always wanted to say this. Saw it in a movie—looks cool.”
“Wh-what're you—”
“No questions asked. I'm not asking shit. So you? Shut it.”
Test-swung the wood. Grabbed random, but damn, good grip.
* * *
“Hyungnim Wang Yong! Disaster! Get up quick!”
Hungover head throbbed from late drinks. Piercing underling voice hauled him up.
A body-shaped thing writhed before him, shrink-wrapped head to toe in bloody plastic. Barely alive.
“Wh-what the hell?”
“Our maknae, Jing Saitong. The one confessing for the cop stabbing today!”
Unwrapped, the kid's mouth flapped like a dying goldfish.
Ear to mouth.
“R-run... aw... Ma...”
“What? Speak clearly!”
“Kept asking, but he's just repeating that. No clue what it means...”
The underling shook his head, voice quavering.