The Million-Dollar Fortune
One million dollars.
A sum that came out to a full 1.4 billion won in Korean currency.
The corner of Dohwan's mouth slowly curled upward.
"Alright. I'll do it."
"How?"
"I'm looking at them right now."
The Boss didn't ask what he was looking at, or how he planned to do it.
"……And you need my help with?"
"Don't hang up. There's something I need to check first."
Phone still pressed to his ear, Dohwan turned his gaze back to the luncheon table.
Finding the mastermind through physiognomy alone is impossible.
What Dohwan could read was limited to the faces right in front of him. Pinpointing the identity of someone he'd never met through physiognomy alone was beyond even him.
But that didn't mean there was no way.
I can use physiognomy to make them give up the mastermind themselves.
The question was whose mouth to open among the five.
Dohwan's eyes settled on the fourth seat — a thin, middle-aged man in glasses.
The other four were suffering from fear and anxiety, but they were holding steady. Suppressing it, letting greed override the terror, or simply enduring through sheer stubbornness.
This man was different.
The blue that had spread from between his brows to his temples wasn't merely deep — it was trembling. He was already at the breaking point of holding his anxiety down.
And his physiognomy sealed it.
Thin eyebrows and protruding ears. The face of a man easily swayed by others' words, forever reading the room.
And most critically — a narrow jaw.
A narrow jaw meant self-preservation. The kind of man who looked after his own hide faster than anyone else.
The most perfect weak link of the five.
Ironstone Partners' Risk Management Director — Mark Weber.
The risk management guy is the biggest coward of the bunch. That's comedy.
Dohwan brought the phone back to his ear.
"Can you map out Mark Weber's movements? After-work routine, places he frequents — everything."
"……So what's your plan?"
"I'm going to set a trap and wait. With this type, it's far easier to make them walk in on their own than to drag them out."
"How long will it take?"
"Once the setup's done, three days max — even if it drags."
"Only three days?"
"Yeah. And I need a spot along a route he walks every day — somewhere I can set up without trouble for at least three days."
"……You're planning to open a fortune stall?"
"That's right."
"I'll arrange everything so nothing goes wrong. It'll be ready by this evening."
Dohwan took a sip of his cooling coffee and watched Mark Weber in silence.
Men with faces like that always sought comfort the same way.
Rich and anxious — they're all the same.
Back in his Itaewon days, customers like that had found their way to Dohwan's shop too. Chaebol heirs, celebrities, stock-market gamblers who'd hit it big. People drowning in money and endless anxiety.
Those types never said "read my fortune" first. But put the right bait in front of them, and they always bit.
I just need to set the stage properly.
The corner of Dohwan's mouth slowly curled into a smile.
Mark Weber was, charitably, a cautious man. Uncharitably, he was a coward.
Then again, the position of Risk Management Director on Wall Street was one you couldn't survive without that kind of carefulness. A job that meant smelling the danger behind the numbers before anyone else, always keeping the worst-case scenario running in the back of your mind.
Mark had been doing it for over a decade.
Even a man like that had one habit.
The moment he opened his eyes in the morning, he checked the news. Only after confirming there were no headlines about SEC investigations, federal prosecutor probes, or whistleblower tips did he allow his day to begin.
An occupational hazard, if you wanted to call it that.
It had simply become a little more desperate over the past six months.
Six months ago, leaking the firm's confidential information hadn't been Mark's idea. Everything had been designed by that person. An offer impossible to refuse — and Mark, along with the other four, had been snared by the nose.
The problem was the evidence.
That person held decisive proof of each of the five's involvement. Emails, call recordings, transaction records. The moment any one of them reached the SEC, the doors of a federal prison would swing open.
The five were co-conspirators and hostages at the same time.
Still, Mark was holding on. Smiling in conference rooms, clinking wine glasses at luncheons, maintaining the appearance of a man whose life was perfectly ordinary.
From the outside, at least, it was flawless.
But keeping that flawlessness intact required one small routine to soothe the anxiety.
After work, six blocks from the office, he would sit on a bench deep inside a quiet park and stare into space for about twenty minutes. Nothing special. Just loosening his tie and sitting there with his mind empty.
Mark thought of it as his personal decompression. No different from other people having a beer after work.
That was what he told himself, anyway.
Walking toward the park as usual, Mark's eyes caught something that wasn't usually there.
At one side of the park entrance, under a streetlamp.
A sign scrawled in marker across an old cardboard box. Behind it, an Asian man in a hoodie sat on the ground.
His clothes were worn and a little dirty, but not foul-smelling. Just a somewhat shabby-looking homeless man.
What the hell is that.
Mark wrinkled his nose and looked away. But just as he started to walk on, another figure came into view — a second homeless man squatting in front of the box.
A white-haired old man with a thick beard. As the Asian man said something, the old man's blank face twisted, and he began repeating "thank you, thank you" in a cracked voice.
Homeless people reading each other's fortunes?
The corner of Mark's mouth twisted. It was genuinely pathetic. Destitute men who couldn't spare a dollar, getting emotional over a dollar's worth of nonsense — it looked like a comedy sketch.
Mark picked up his pace.
The twenty minutes on the bench were no different from usual. On the way back, he passed the stall again. The Asian man was still sitting in the same spot.
Mark didn't even glance his way.
The next evening, on the walk home.
Mark tried not to notice, but at the park entrance his eyes drifted in the same direction.
The box was there. The Asian man was there. Same place as yesterday.
But one thing was different.
The person sitting in front of the box wasn't a homeless man. A neatly dressed middle-aged woman in a coat. By every appearance, an ordinary person who'd stopped by during a walk.
What?
Mark's steps slowed by a fraction.
The woman nodded along to the Asian man's words — then suddenly covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes welling up. When she reached for her wallet, the Asian man waved her off and pushed the money away.
Yesterday a homeless guy, today a perfectly normal woman?
Mark turned his head and walked toward the bench. As always, he sat down, loosened his tie, and looked up at the sky.
About ten minutes later, he stood to leave — and saw a familiar scene near the park entrance.
This time, a man in a suit was sitting in front of the box. Dressed not so differently from Mark himself. Looked like an office worker from somewhere near Wall Street.
The man nodded along for a long while, then kept asking, face stunned — so what should I do, what should I do?
Mark's feet stopped.
What the hell is he hearing?
If it had been homeless people among themselves, he could dismiss it. But a man his own age, in a suit, was flustered and desperate in front of a fortune-teller sitting on the ground.
That was harder to ignore.
……Just who is that fortune-teller?
Mark left the park with that thought hanging over him. Back home, reaching for his sleeping pills, a meaningless idea flickered through his mind.
What if he really can see something.
Mark snorted. A truly idiotic thought.
He swallowed the pills and closed his eyes.
The walk home.
As Mark approached the park entrance, his steps slowed.
The Asian fortune-teller was there again, as expected. But today, there was no one else. Not in front of the box, not nearby. Empty.
Mark walked toward the bench as usual. And as always, he sat down, loosened his tie, and looked at the sky.
Something about it didn't feel as clean as usual. The homeless fortune-teller at the entrance kept snagging on his thoughts.
Unlike usual, he stood up a little early.
On the way out, the closer he got to the park exit, the slower his feet became. He looked around. No one passing by. No one watching him.
It's one dollar.
Mark told himself that. It was curiosity. He just wanted to know what people had been hearing from the fortune-teller.
He's just a homeless guy. If he spouts nonsense, I stand up and leave.
Zero risk.
Mark stopped in front of the homeless fortune-teller.
The Asian man lifted his head, but the hoodie was deep enough that his face stayed hidden. Somehow, that only made him feel more mysterious.
"It's one dollar, right?"
"That's right. If it doesn't feel right, you can just walk away."
Mark pulled a dollar from his wallet, set it on the box, and crouched down.
What is this guy even doing.
The sight of himself squatting in front of a homeless man was ridiculous, but no one was watching anyway.
"What kind of fortune do you read?"
Mark asked from above, still looking down. He was crouched, but the height of his gaze remained higher than the other man's.
"I just look, and I see."
"See what?"
"Everything."
Said with a certainty that bordered on the obvious. Being challenged by a mere homeless man left a sour taste.
Mark opened his mouth as if to say, go ahead then.
"Fine. Do it."
"Been sleeping well lately?"
Mark snorted.
"That's how you start? Who in New York sleeps well?"
"No. You're different. It's not that you can't sleep — you're afraid of yourself. Because something comes up the moment you close your eyes."
Mark's face went rigid.
……What?
It had to be coincidence. Proper sleepers were rare among New Yorkers. Mark convinced himself of that.
But the surprises didn't end there.
"You're under a lot of stress from work, but you can't tell anyone about it."
"……"
"You've been swallowing it alone. For quite a while."
The jolt of surprise lasted only a moment. Thinking about it coldly, it was all generic. No office worker was free of stress. Men didn't air their private struggles. It was the kind of line that would make most men nod along.
Once he thought of it that way, a sharp little thrill hit him instead — the feeling that he'd seen through the fortune-teller.
"Well, that seems roughly right. Anything more specific?"
Composure restored, Mark tossed out the question.
The Asian man was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly.
"There's a money problem."
"Money?"
Mark's eyebrows rose. A money problem for a Wall Street director? Laughable.
"Not that you don't have money. The opposite. Money came in that shouldn't have."
Mark's heart dropped.
"And you're not alone in it. Several people are tangled up together."
Mark was too stunned to speak. The scoffs were gone.
What is this. What the hell.
Too precise to write off as coincidence. But outwardly, Mark's expression didn't change. A poker face forged over ten years on Wall Street wasn't going to crack over this.
At the same time, a different calculation started running in his head.
Wait. Think coldly.
This man was homeless. Sitting on a park floor with a cardboard box, reading fortunes for a dollar.
Even if he's hitting something real — is there any chance this man is connected to the SEC or the federal prosecutors?
None. This wasn't a world where a homeless man could be linked to that. They lived in different worlds.
That calculation opened Mark's mouth again.
"……Keep going."
The Asian man didn't rush.
"There's someone above you. Someone far above. No matter how hard you thrash, you feel like you can never get free of them."
At those calmly spoken words —
Shit.
The curse rose inside him.
"That person is holding something. Something like a weakness of yours. That's why you can't get out."
Mark looked around unconsciously. No one. The park was empty.
It's fine. He's just a homeless guy. Even if I say something, what can this man do?
That thought opened his mouth.
"……Close enough."
The first admission slipped out. Mark himself was surprised. But the words had come so naturally.
"It was a situation I couldn't refuse. At first it was something small, then it got deeper, and now I can't get out."
The Asian man asked nothing. He only murmured a low "I see" as a prompt.
That response opened Mark's mouth further.
"It's not just me. There are others tangled up in it too."
As he said it, Mark's reason sent a warning.
I should stop.
But his mouth wouldn't stop.
A full six months. Words he hadn't spoken to a single person in half a year. Everything he'd forced down with a smile in front of his colleagues. Everything the sleeping pills couldn't put to rest.
And now, in front of a homeless man who didn't even know his name or title, it was all coming apart.
No — he could say it because it was a homeless man. If this had been someone from his own world, he never would have opened his mouth. Just as he never had until now.
"That person is holding the evidence. All five of us. That's why none of us can get out."
"Five people, and not one of you can break free?"
"The person above us isn't ordinary."
"Where are they from?"
The question was so natural it felt like something that had to come up in the flow of conversation.
"Out west. Denver."
The moment it left his mouth, Mark realized what he'd just said. But the Asian man's reaction was so bland that the tension actually eased.
"Denver. That's far."
"……Distance doesn't matter. He's the kind of person whose reach goes anywhere."
"Hedge fund side?"
"How did you—"
"That's how it looks."
Mark nodded. Having already said this much, that much wasn't a big problem.
"That's right. A hedge fund. Clean-looking asset manager on the outside, but what they do on the inside……"
Mark closed his mouth there.
Or he thought he had.
But when the Asian man said, calmly, "Looks like you just set down something heavy," Mark found himself nodding without realizing it — and opening his mouth again.
"His name is……"
Mark stood up about ten minutes later.
His body felt light. For the first time in six months, it was as if the stone crushing his chest had simply vanished.
"Thank you."
Mark was surprised to hear those words come out of his own mouth. Thanking a homeless man. But he meant it.
He turned, left the park, got into his car, and turned the key.
The moment his hands found the wheel, it hit him like a blow to the back of the head — his mind snapped sharp.
Wait. Did I just say too much?
The thought lasted only a second.
No. It's fine.
The other party was a dollar homeless man sitting on a park floor with a cardboard box. Someone who wouldn't know what Wall Street was, or what the SEC was. Even if he'd heard it, he wouldn't have understood what any of it meant.
And even if he had understood, a homeless man could do nothing. Even if he became a nuisance, Mark had more than enough power to crush someone like that.
Different worlds, after all.
He hadn't told a secret to a homeless man today.
He was just an emotional dumpster.
He'd simply poured his anxiety out onto a homeless man. That was how he framed it.
The park, quiet again after Mark left.
Dohwan leisurely folded up the box and pulled a flip phone from his inner pocket.
"Boss."
"Did you find him?"
"Yeah. He even gave me the name."
Silence stretched on the other end of the line.
"……What did you just say?"
"The mastermind's name, affiliation, how the evidence is structured. Almost everything."
"How on earth?"
"I read his fortune."
"……"
"I didn't ask a single question. He said all of it himself."
The Boss was silent for a long time.
"Truly beyond imagination."
Shock and admiration were mixed in that voice.
"I'll pass it to the client immediately."
"Yeah. Appreciate it."
Dohwan hung up and leaned back against the bench. The evening air brushed cool across his face.
He felt good.
A moment later, the flip phone rang again.
"What? Something else to ask?"
"The client wants to meet you."
Surprise lasted only a second. Dohwan grinned.
"Tell them I don't have cab fare."