First Customer
The top-floor conference room of Ironstone Partners.
A massive monitor displayed the tangled web of fund flows tracked from Summit Ridge Capital and Henry Caldwell.
"We've identified twelve paper companies so far. We've cut off over eighty percent of the money routes they were trying to siphon from our fund. There shouldn't be any further damage."
The investigation team head finished his report and pushed up his glasses.
A dream team of former FBI agents and Wall Street's finest forensic accountants.
This was the product of a week of sleepless nights — a defensive campaign and reverse-trace that would go down in Wall Street history.
But Vincent Greco, seated at the head of the table, looked distinctly unimpressed.
"Right. Solid defense. So when can we completely take that hypocrite Henry Caldwell's head?"
The investigation team head swallowed hard.
"……His reputation is airtight. Securing legally airtight evidence is going to take time. To pull the ledgers on those quadruple-layered offshore accounts and cross-verify everything, we'll need at least a month…… no, two months."
"Two months, huh…"
Proving a financial crime this intricately constructed within the bounds of the law in two months would actually be blisteringly fast.
But.
If it were him?
Vincent's gaze drifted to the smartphone lying on the table.
The unidentified man who, a week ago, had brushed off Vincent's million-dollar summons with a casual "I'm busy."
If that guy had been at my side, he would've brought me the decisive weakness to cut Henry Caldwell's throat overnight — no two-month wait required.
If he'd never tasted it, this thirst wouldn't exist.
But having once experienced that overwhelming efficiency, everything now felt unbearably slow and frustrating.
Vincent irritably loosened his tie.
"Good work. Keep digging. Whether it takes a month or two, find me the evidence that ends that bastard Henry Caldwell."
"Yes, sir."
"Get out."
The investigation team filed out, leaving only Vincent and his chief of staff in the empty room.
Vincent looked at his phone and spoke.
"……Any word from the intermediary?"
"Well…… he's currently handling another job. They said he won't be free for a while."
"Another job?"
Vincent's brow furrowed hard.
He keeps saying he's busy — and now he's taking other clients?
A flash of fiery rage surged up.
But then a dry, almost laughing snort slipped through Vincent's lips.
Ha. I'm pissed…… but damn it, I get it.
Vincent roughly yanked his tie loose.
A monster who finished in three days what experts couldn't crack in months.
It would be weird if a monster like that were sitting around idle.
No — the people around him would never leave him alone.
The more I think about it, the more of a waste it is.
Which only deepened his conviction that the value of that unidentified man was far higher than he'd imagined.
He had to make him his man, one way or another.
"Ha. This is driving me crazy."
Vincent looked down at the New York skyline beyond the window and wet his dry lips.
What kind of job was so important that he'd put off a million-dollar summons?
Not being able to even guess where he was right now, or who he was sitting across from, only made the frustration worse.
Just let me see his face once.
A man at the pinnacle of capitalism was fretting for the first time in his life before someone money couldn't buy.
Around the time Wall Street's giant was desperately searching for Donovan—
"……America's no joke."
Donovan propped his chin on the empty wooden desk and let out a hollow laugh.
One week since opening.
Not a single customer.
He was a veteran from folk villages to the back alleys of Itaewon — but that was Korea.
The atmosphere of Times Square was very different.
Donovan coolly accepted reality.
Well. Nothing I can do about it.
He was flustered by the lack of customers, but that didn't mean he had no options.
Once he got someone to have their face read, the game was over.
So he just needed to get them sitting in that chair.
Donovan pulled a thick marker and a scrap of paper from the drawer.
"Cole."
"Yes, Mr. Donovan."
"Let's put this up where people can see it from outside."
Cole's eyes went wide.
The characters Donovan had scrawled without hesitation: $1.
"What?! One dollar? Do you know how much the rent is here……"
"What's the point of clinging to something that isn't working? We need to get them in that chair first. Once they're sitting, I show them what I can do — then they pay whatever they think it's worth."
"Ah…… well, that's true, but."
Cole was convinced in an instant. He knew Donovan's insane skill better than anyone.
If they could get someone sitting for a dollar, they had a guaranteed win.
"The dollar is just the seat fee. What idiot would turn down a one-dollar fortune-telling in Times Square?"
Donovan grinned and stuck that one-dollar paper right in the dead center of the show window of the world's most expensive ground-floor storefront.
Exactly thirty minutes later.
Ding—.
The firmly closed glass door opened, and a clear bell chimed through the shop.
Cole shot up from his seat on reflex, and Donovan turned toward the door with an intrigued look.
At last — the long-awaited first customer.
"……Huh?"
But when Cole saw who had walked through the door, a dazed sound slipped from his mouth.
A cute little white girl, blonde hair in twin tails, looking about ten years old at most.
The kid, carrying a bag almost as big as herself, shuffled in hesitantly and carefully placed a one-dollar bill on the heavy wooden desk.
"I saw the paper outside. Is it really one dollar?"
"……It is, but."
Donovan propped his chin in his hand and looked down at the child, looking somewhat baffled.
"Kid. Do you know what this place does?"
"Yes. You're a magic teller who answers questions. Um, my cat Cheese left home last night. Where is she?"
For a first customer's question, it was excessively adorable.
Donovan let out a snort of laughter.
Baffling as it was, the situation was pretty entertaining.
"Have a seat. I'll see if I can help."
Just as Donovan leaned back comfortably in his chair and was about to casually scan the child's face—
……Huh?
The small mirror propped on one side of the table.
The face in the mirror he'd set up to check his own physiognomy looked different from usual.
Donovan's eyes widened.
From the tip of his nose that governed wealth all the way to the center of his forehead, a vivid golden aura hung thickly.
This is…… the Munjeonseongsi physiognomy?!
In physiognomy, there was only one case where fortune this pure and massive came flooding in.
It meant customers would throng the shop like mad and the business would explode.
And the benefactor who had opened the floodgates of that massive fortune was none other than the ten-year-old kid sitting right in front of him.
Donovan's gaze turned serious in an instant.
"Hold on a second."
Donovan quickly examined the child's face.
Fortunately, this was something he could help with.
It hasn't been severed.
Even if it was just a cat, if she'd permanently lost the thing she cherished most, traces of loss would remain on the Indang or around the eyes.
But the little girl's face was peaceful and clear, without a single murky omen of misfortune.
Donovan smiled and spoke.
"Don't worry — go home."
"Huh? What about Cheese?"
"She's probably meowing for food at the door right about now. Go open a can for her."
At the firm answer, the child beamed and left the shop.
Donovan adjusted his tie and looked out the window.
Is the kid going to spread the word or something?
He didn't know how things would unfold, but one thing was certain.
Physiognomy doesn't lie — customers would come flooding in.
And the next day.
"Mister! You were right!!"
With the jingling of the bell, yesterday's little girl came rushing in.
"When I got home, Cheese was really crying at the door! You're amazing, mister!"
The child excitedly placed another one-dollar bill on the desk.
"Today! Can you tell me if I can win the spelling bee at school tomorrow?!"
Donovan gave a pleased smile and delivered a perfect reading.
After the child left, Donovan settled in again, waiting for the flood of customers.
But.
……Why is nobody coming?
Until the sun set, not a single person opened the shop door.
Donovan tilted his head.
Physiognomy doesn't lie. It was clearly pointing to a huge success, yet strangely, only flies were buzzing around.
Three days, four days slipped by aimlessly.
The only customer who came to the shop was that little girl — Lily — who showed up every day after school like punching a time clock, paid her dollar, and asked about her little worries.
Then came the fateful fifth day.
Ding—! Ding—!
The door opened more roughly than usual.
Donovan looked up casually, then his eyebrows twitched slightly.
Little Lily, who came every day, stood there looking thoroughly cowed, and a massive shadow loomed behind her.
"So that's where my daughter has been going after school every day. I never figured she'd be getting shaken down by a con man right in the middle of Times Square."
A voice like a savage beast.
The white man who stepped out from behind the child wore a worn leather jacket and a rough beard.
His broad shoulders and fierce features looked for all the world like a back-alley gang enforcer or a mafia capo.
The man approached, glaring at Donovan with sharp eyes.
The moment Cole shot up from his seat in alarm—
"……"
As Donovan calmly scanned the man's face, the corner of his mouth curled up with interest.
They say a cop's face and a criminal's face are a paper's width apart. Looks like that saying is right on the money.
A protruding brow bone and a glint of killing intent in his eyes.
At a glance, it was the face of a vicious criminal who might have casually killed a few people.
But at the center of his forehead, the Gwanlokgung held a tough, upright energy of someone who drew a government paycheck — solidly embedded.
That was the classic physiognomy of a detective who beat down criminals within the bounds of the law.
But what caught Donovan's eye wasn't the man's profession.
A thick, stifling dark cloud between his brows, and his pupils are unfocused. Means he's digging in all the wrong places even with the prey right in front of him.
The tired face of a detective who'd completely misread the direction of a case and spent days and nights coming up empty.
The man came up to Donovan's desk and planted both hands on it roughly.
"You. What the hell are you? Taking a kid's snot-money and doing what exactly——"
"First of all, let's get the words right. I'm charging a dollar on the main strip and basically doing charity work. How is that a scam?"
"Ha! You think I don't know your type's game? At first you——"
Donovan snorted a laugh and cut in.
"Detective. Just because your case isn't going well doesn't mean you get to take it out on me."
At those words, the man's fiercely twisted expression went rigid.
"……What? How do you know I'm a detective?"
He looked at his daughter, wondering if she'd said something — and the child shook her head vigorously.
"I-I didn't say anything."
Donovan jerked his chin toward the empty chair across from him.
"Got a dollar?"
"What?"
"Sit down. Today I'll solve your problems instead of Lily's."