098. The Death of the Man No One Hates (11)
“Bait? What do you mean...?”
Ignoring Song Gyu-tae's question as his face hardened, Genjo kept flipping through the documents with a snickering grin.
“An elite student from the police academy would know all about CCTV blind spots and could easily predict police pursuit routes. You can't blame the Korean cops for being incompetent. But...”
Genjo tapped his finger on Jo Chan-seong's face in the photo.
“He's too soft.”
“He brutally murdered my father. Soft?”
“If it were me...” Genjo drew in a long breath. “I'd never leave the driver who witnessed the scene alive. The guy had at least twenty seconds to escape. More than enough time to finish off a knocked-out middle-aged man with zero fighting skills. And even while fleeing from the cops, he's worried about other people's safety. I don't know if you know this, President Song, but I rode motorcycles plenty back in Harajuku as a kid. I know the safest escape route when the police are chasing you? ...Wrong-way driving.”
The corner of his mouth curled up as if picturing it.
“The moment you go against traffic, the whole road grinds to a halt. Cars slamming on brakes from every direction, screams everywhere. Heh heh heh! No police car could catch you. Anyway, he had that surefire escape route but chose this alley instead? The guy's a pushover who doesn't want to hurt anyone but his target. And that weakness will be the noose around his neck.”
“Mr. Genjo, could you explain it in terms I can understand...?”
The thicker Genjo's smile grew, the colder the air in the car seemed to drop. Song Gyu-tae swallowed dryly, waiting for his answer.
“No doubt Jo Chan-seong harbors a grudge against you, President Song. But blind revenge and half-baked justice can't coexist. We're gonna dangle some bait he can't ignore.”
As Genjo's voice lowered, Song Gyu-tae's eyes widened further.
* * *
The rundown room in Pungrim-dong was thick with chill. No deposit meant no heating, and every breath fogged the air. Jo Chan-seong's brow furrowed as he recalled his fight with Kang Cheol-gu.
No matter how many times we fought, it would've been the same. I can't win.
After turning adult, he'd never gone all-out in studies or fights. He'd learned the hard way in Korea that the nail that sticks out gets hammered down—watching his father come home half-paralyzed from a protest site. Chan-seong had just kept his grades high enough for special scholarships, staying under the radar.
Even so, he was ahead of most people, but Kang Cheol-gu was an impossibly tall, solid wall.
'It's still fixable. I'll help you.'
Recalling Kang Cheol-gu's final words, he gave a feeble smile and shook his head. He could feel the sincerity in the man's intent to stop him, even by force if needed—but this was his fight alone.
He upended his backpack, and burner phones registered under homeless aliases spilled out. Checking the news on one, Chan-seong suddenly let out a ragged breath.
[Bo-eun Construction CEO Song Gyu-tae has announced the establishment of the Bo-eun Association, a foundation to 'correct history.' Just days after founder Song Dong-in's death in a terrorist attack, CEO Song blamed distorted historical views as the tragedy's root cause. He promised full compensation only to victims who volunteered for Japanese military comfort stations—a statement sparking nationwide outrage.]
It was beyond comprehension. With Song Dong-in's pro-Japan antics out in the open, the smart move would've been to lay low until things settled. This was a blatant invitation.
'He really wants to finish this.'
In the darkness, Chan-seong's eyes gleamed coldly.
* * *
“Isn't this too dangerous? You'll face public backlash, and the shareholders' meeting will erupt! Pushing a pro-Japan line right now?”
“It's just the Korean short-tempered pot that'll cool off quick. And are a few shares worth more than your life, President Song?”
Song Gyu-tae had never raised his voice to Genjo before, but this time anger seeped through.
“We can take our time and catch Jo Chan-seong. We've ID'd the perp— just leak the info to the cops discreetly...”
“Take our time? And you think you'll be safe if the police nab him?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Take a look at this.”
Whoosh!
A stack of papers covered in Japanese flew toward Song Gyu-tae.
“At first, I thought Jo Chan-seong was like me—out to kill you and your whole family. But his escape raised questions. He's desperate to avoid collateral damage, so why skip you and hit your father first?”
“...Th-this!”
Song Gyu-tae's throat bobbed as he scanned the documents.
“Yes. Records from 1943, two years before the glorious Imperial Army's so-called humiliating defeat. Your father Song Dong-in conscripted a comfort woman named Kim Sun-rye from his hometown village in Gawool, Seocheon County. Thought it might be a namesake, but the resident registry confirmed it. To Jo Chan-seong, your family is an ancestral enemy. A grudge etched in bone.”
“No way...!”
Genjo snickered as Song Gyu-tae pored over the papers repeatedly.
“You think a guy with that deep-seated hatred will leave you alone? Or if he gets caught by the cops and spills everything? Even with Korean flip-flopping, this drama would rally plenty to his side. Luring and eliminating him ASAP is your best bet.”
“...If we do it your way, can we definitely catch him?”
Song Gyu-tae's voice cracked as he looked up, but his eyes showed resolve—he'd already decided.
“I'll wrap it up clean. Forget your request; I can't stand these anachronistic ghosts myself.”
Genjo's red lips twisted into a smirk.
* * *
Lumia Hotel's special hall. The Bo-eun Association launch dwarfed the 'Fight Against Anti-Japan Tribalism' event Song Dong-in had hosted two weeks prior.
'A blatant trap.'
From the Jeep, my eyes faintly trembled as I scanned the crowd.
Jo Chan-seong had vanished like a ghost after fleeing Hope Shelter. With the manhunt for Song Dong-in's killer ongoing, I couldn't request a police database search. It might tip them off that we had him pegged as the perp.
And now this launch event. Unlike invite-only affairs, they were letting people in with just basic ID checks.
'Song Gyu-tae, you're turning defense into offense.'
Biting my lip, I stepped out of the Jeep.
“Detective Kang Cheol-gu, right? Sorry, this is a private event. No police allowed.”
The guard shook his head after checking my badge, but then—
“Oh, come on! Everyone's welcome today. Especially cops.”
A man with bleach-yellow hair and piercings flashed a wide grin, wedging between me and the guard.
“Your accent's a bit off. Japanese?”
“Haha! Yes. Sanama Genjo. Thank you for joining this event for Japan-Korea friendship.”
His handshake felt chilling, like gripping snake skin.
On the 18th-floor stage, Song Gyu-tae's face flushed red. He clenched his fist, blaming his father's wrongful death on twisted history. Supporters erupted in fervent applause.
“Gyu-cheol. Contact immigration and check recent entries from Japan for Sanama Genjo. Also hack Lumia Hotel's internal system for anything unusual.”
– No word all day, and now this? You know investigating a private company can get us in deep shit?
“Details later.”
– Sigh. Got it.
I contacted Gyu-cheol via receiver, dodging glances. Thankfully, no sign of Chan-seong under the bright lights.
* * *
Click!
The vent clip on the 18th-floor bathroom ceiling eased open, and Chan-seong's face peeked out. Trapped in a duct less than 50cm wide for 24 hours, his body was stiff as a board. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself down.
Prior recon had confirmed it: Song Gyu-tae was a two-pack-a-day smoker, but the hotel was a strict no-smoking zone. This 18th-floor bathroom—with its external window—was his only discreet spot.
As he brushed off dust and scanned around—
“Koreans really lack creativity. Hiding spots are so predictable.”
A snickering voice rang from behind, like he'd been waiting.
Chan-seong turned slowly. A man in his late twenties with dyed yellow hair stood there. Unusually red lips gleamed like a serpent's tongue.
“Jo Chan-seong, right?”
“Who are you?”
“The one who's been waiting for you. Introduce yourself. Sanama Genjo.”
The awkward Korean, the word “Jo-sen-jing,” and the name. This white-toothed bastard was Japanese.
Chan-seong's brow twitched.
“...Sent by Song Gyu-tae to wait for me?”
“Hey now, don't lump me with that fallen marquis's lackey. My family's a big name in Japan.”
“Then get lost.”
Sweat beaded on Chan-seong's forehead as he kept his tone steady. Genjo knew Song Gyu-tae but revealed no connection. He seemed endlessly carefree, yet an inexplicable killing intent tightened around Chan-seong.
“Heh heh heh! You sure you want me gone? You'll regret it later.”
“...?”
“Korean revenge is so shallow. Real vengeance? You uproot it all.”
“What're you saying?”
“Here for your father Jo Gap-seong and grandma Kim Sun-rye's revenge, right? But you don't know what happened to Kim Sun-rye after Song Dong-in shipped her to Japan. Did the old lady keep her lips sealed till death?”
Genjo's eyes narrowed as his snickering faded.
* * *
Song Gyu-tae's speech was building to a climax. Wrinkled faces humming old Imperial Army marches dotted the crowd. My nose wrinkled involuntarily—then Gyu-cheol's excited voice crackled through the receiver.
– Bro! How'd you know about Sanama Genjo?
“He popped up? What's his deal?”
– Total heavyweight. Youngest son of Maritime Self-Defense Force Vice Admiral Sanama Kuroda. Old military family, but his record screams delinquent. Dabbled in yakuza, then mercenary gigs in war zones worldwide after twenty. Bone-deep right-winger, old-school Japanese.
“Lumia Hotel check?”
– Nothing odd there, but Wiz Engineering—the building managers—said something weird two days ago. Someone claiming power of attorney pulled architectural blueprints from city hall without their request.
Chan-seong's boyish face flashed in my mind.