The Perfect Business Partner

Not long after Donovan had left to handle the Fixer's request, Marcus sat inside his tent, quietly watching the flames dance in the stove.

His ability is the real deal. But every job has its variables.

The client was the Fixer—New York's most exacting troubleshooter, a man notorious for being impossible to please. And the target? Someone so clean that even the Fixer himself had come up empty, not a speck of dirt to be found.

This was never going to be easy…

Still, anticipation outweighed the worry. With an ability that absurd, even the most tangled mess should unravel in an instant.

Some time later, the tent zipper slid open and one of his men poked his head in carefully.

"Uh, Boss. That Asian guy is back."

"Already?"

Marcus almost doubted his own ears. It was far too soon.

I knew his ability was something else, but…

While Marcus was still quietly impressed, the subordinate finished his report and lingered, shifting awkwardly instead of leaving.

"Something else to say?"

"Well… I think you should come see this yourself."

Marcus tilted his head and stepped out of the tent—and walked straight into a scene he never saw coming.

On the barren road beneath the bridge, a bright yellow cab sat with its hazard lights flashing. Donovan was deep in conversation with the driver, his expression dead serious.

"…What is he doing?"

The subordinate scratched the back of his head, looking embarrassed.

"Ah. He, uh… doesn't have the cab fare."

"…"

The guy was something else—in more ways than one. Marcus had never imagined anyone would have the nerve to take a taxi that far with literally nothing in his pockets.

He let out a disbelieving huff of laughter and started walking toward the cab. As he drew closer, Donovan's voice came through clear as day.

"So don't work nights this week. I'm serious—something bad will happen."

"J-just this week and I'm good?"

"Yeah. Looking at you, once you get past this week you'll be fine. So absolutely no night shifts. And skip eating out if you can help it."

Marcus had assumed they were arguing over the fare. Instead, Donovan was reading the man's fortune right there on the spot. The cab driver looked completely spellbound, nodding along with a pale, ashen face.

"Whoa. Thank you. Really, thank you. About the fare, though…"

"Hey, none of that. It added up."

Donovan cut him off firmly, then spun around as Marcus approached.

"Boss. Cab fare, if you would."

The sheer audacity of the request left Marcus speechless.

"The job? Don't tell me they threw you out."

"Wrapped it up in five minutes."

A deep smile spread across Marcus's face. He'd expected results—but this blew past even those expectations.

"…How much?"

"Seventy-eight fifty. This kind of thing usually gets expensed by the company."

At that shameless answer, the corner of Marcus's mouth curled even higher. Calling it a company expense meant Donovan already saw this tent camp as the company—and intended to keep building something with him going forward.

Marcus pulled out his wallet with genuine pleasure.

"…The company, huh. Fair enough. You're not wrong."

He cheerfully handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill and jerked his chin to keep the change. The cabbie took the money and still kept bowing toward Donovan.

"Thank you! I swear I won't work nights!"

They watched the hazard lights go dark and the taxi pull away, then Donovan and Marcus walked side by side back toward the homeless encampment.

Once they were back at the camp, Marcus wanted to bring Donovan into his tent and hear exactly how the job had gone. But the moment they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stepped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠under the bridge, Donovan did something that completely upended his expectations.

"Everyone who paid this morning and didn't get a reading—get over here! You've got ten minutes!"

Donovan dropped a cardboard box on the ground, sat down, and waved the homeless over. A single dollar. Considering the overwhelming ability he'd already demonstrated, a dollar was an absurdly trivial sum—pocket change among pocket change. Yet because he'd taken their money that morning, he called them in without a single complaint.

Unpredictable as he is… he keeps his word.

A flicker of interest crossed Marcus's eyes as he watched. The ability was overwhelming, the behavior unrestrained—and yet a strange sense of responsibility ran through his every action. The more Marcus looked, the more he saw the ideal partner.

"You—the big guy. You said you were heading to the south sector tonight, right? Don't go. There's a murky energy on your forehead. If your luck's bad, you'll get caught in a gang shootout."

"Hah! Th-thank you! Seriously, thank you!"

"You—when you meet that broker tomorrow, don't hand over the money first. There's black energy curling around the tip of your nose. Cash is leaking out of you. That broker's the type to take the money and run. Check the goods first, no exceptions."

"Good lord… I won't forget this!"

At Donovan's dry, matter-of-fact warnings, the informants went pale—then bowed over and over, pouring out genuine gratitude. Their eyes looked at him the way people look at a savior who had just spared their lives and their entire fortunes.

Watching the scene, something sparked sharp and sudden in Marcus's mind.

Wait. Is this what I think it is?

You could read it as simple responsibility—keeping even a one-dollar promise. But through an information broker's eyes, the picture looked entirely different.

Before Donovan left, Marcus had warned him to hide his face completely. The ability was too extraordinary; if his identity got out, life would get very complicated. But the people in this camp had already seen Donovan bare-faced. No matter how hard Marcus clamped down on loose talk, secrets never stayed buried forever in these back alleys—not in a place where information traded hands for a few bucks.

But if Donovan built direct trust with them like this? If they came to believe that this Asian man was the reason they dodged danger and stayed alive?

They'd never open their mouths and put him at risk. That would be cutting their own lifeline.

Word wouldn't spread easily then. The entire camp would become a voluntary shield—a perfect wall around Donovan's identity.

Marcus's gaze settled on Donovan, who was still calmly reading faces one by one.

A kid who looks barely into his early twenties… did he really set this board up on purpose?

If it was intentional, the precision was chilling.

Then again, I might be overthinking it.

In his line of work, hunting for hidden motives in every action became habit. He could just be writing a novel in his own head. Maybe the Asian kid really had no grand design—just keeping a one-dollar promise from the morning.

Marcus huffed a quiet laugh.

Either way, I don't lose.

If he'd engineered it deliberately, that devilish brain and that level of calculation were worth betting on. And if a thoughtless act had produced a result this perfect… that meant the kid had been born with the kind of luck that kept you alive in a world this dangerous.

Either way, sharing a boat with Donovan was never going to be a bad deal.

Still. Better lock down the talk just in case.

As Marcus was settling that thought, his old phone buzzed in his coat.

Vrrr. Vrrr.

The caller was the Fixer.

"Yeah. About the job—"

That was the Fixer's opening line—no greeting, nothing. A deep smile rose across Marcus's face. The Fixer was usually a machine: no emotion, pure calculation. Hearing that exacting man sound this worked up was a first.

"What happened?"

What followed was brief and devastating. The fatal compulsion hidden in a pocket. The old phone and the USB. Even the poison he'd meant to put in his own eye. Just as the Fixer's instincts had whispered, the angelic future son-in-law had been a devil set on swallowing the entire family whole.

"So that's how it went."

There was something close to reverence in the Fixer's voice through the receiver.

Marcus's heavy brows shot up.

"…The Photo Studio?"

The Photo Studio. In New York's underworld, it was the premier forgery outfit—one that hacked government databases to create identities that weren't fakes at all, but genuine clean slates. Money alone didn't get you through the door. You needed serious capital and ironclad credit before they'd even take the job.

As payment for today's work, it was wildly excessive. That told Marcus exactly how much the Fixer had taken to Donovan—and how high he'd priced the man's value.

Marcus glanced toward Donovan outside the tent. One wrong move and the man's identity could surface and put him in real danger. Until Donovan adapted to this world, Marcus needed to stay the middleman.

"Text this phone, or leave a note with me. I'll pass it along."

By the time the call ended, Donovan had finished every reading he'd owed from the morning. He stretched and wandered over.

"Ugh, my neck. Finally cleared the ones I missed this morning."

Marcus slipped the phone back into his pocket and spoke evenly.

"The Fixer deposited the fee. Come inside—we'll talk."

"Already? Figures. Clean job, no mess."

As if he'd known it would go exactly this way, Donovan nodded and stepped into the tent. Marcus watched his back for a moment, then followed him in.

Inside, the tent was still warm with the hum of the generator and a thick, cozy heat. Sitting across from Donovan, Marcus gave a short summary of what the Fixer had told him.

"…So, just like you said—every piece of evidence came out of the left inner pocket."

"Good. Glad it worked out clean."

With that non-report finished, Marcus cut straight to business.

"Job's done, so let's talk compensation. The original quote the Fixer and I agreed on was ten thousand dollars."

"Ten thousand?"

Donovan's eyes went wide. That was a serious sum—an enormous payout for roughly five minutes of looking at a face. But the surprises weren't finished.

"The Fixer sent a hundred thousand."

"…What? A hundred thousand? That's ten times—!"

This time a genuinely stunned sound escaped him. Ten thousand had become a hundred thousand. It meant Donovan's work had been worth at least ten times the original price.

"The money he sent will be paid out through one of my shell companies as a 'consulting fee.' I'll clean it so the tax side stays quiet—don't worry about that."

"Ah. Right. Taxes. Boss, your handling really is airtight."

"Too early for compliments. We're not done. Next is the identity you asked for."

Marcus continued in that low, weighty voice.

"And even that, he prepared at the highest tier. The Fixer booked you a slot at The Photo Studio."

"The Photo Studio?"

Donovan tilted his head at the sudden term.

"The Photo Studio is an outfit that infiltrates state government systems and builds a perfect blank-slate identity."

"So in other words…"

"Think of it as the place that makes top-grade identities. Expensive goes without saying—and you need rock-solid credit to even use them. Money alone doesn't get you in the door."

"Huh. Just hearing that, it sounds insanely expensive."

Marcus nodded.

"The Fixer seems to have grasped what your ability is worth. Frankly, with what you can do, this level of payment is only natural."

"Mm. I'd like to say that's not true, but…"

Donovan carried the power of Color Reading. He knew better than anyone how exceptional his gift was. Feeling like he was gilding his own face, he awkwardly changed the subject.

"Ah—so to get the ID made, I have to go to this Photo Studio?"

Marcus waved a firm hand.

"No. Keeping your identity hidden is the priority. There's no need for you to go in person. We'll take photos here and send someone."

He continued without missing a beat.

"Have you decided on a name for the paperwork? What's your real name?"

"Kang Dohwan. American-style, that'd be Dohwan Kang?"

"Dohwan… too distinctive for Americans to pronounce cleanly. Donovan would be better."

Marcus offered the alternative at once.

"Donovan Kang. Common enough, close to your real name in sound, and above all—unremarkable. Perfect."

"Donovan Kang? Not bad. Let's go with that."

Once the name was settled, Marcus reached into the inner pocket of his coat and held out an old flip phone.

"This is an untappable line you can use to reach me. Anyone from this world—the Fixer included—will contact you through me. It's a hassle, but it keeps you safe."

"Yeah. Fine by me."

"Good. Then get your photo taken later and sleep well in this tent tonight. By the time you wake up, a perfect new identity and an account with a hundred thousand dollars in it will both be ready."

Donovan looked down at the phone in his hand. There was no better business partner than this. Marcus had sent someone in his place to protect his identity, delivered a massive sum already cleaned of tax trouble, and even set up the communication network on top of it.

Suddenly, the face he'd seen that afternoon in the motel bathroom mirror came back to him. The lustrous purple aura that had clung to his Indang and the sides of his nose. Purple Qi from the East—the omen of meeting a noble benefactor and watching the road ahead open wide.

At this point, I'd call him a benefactor.

Even with Color Reading and a gift for physiognomy that sharp, the skill only shone if someone recognized it. Because Marcus had seen Donovan's ability for what it was, he'd climbed out of homelessness in a single stroke.

And the work was actually fun.

Calling him the perfect business partner wasn't an exaggeration. Donovan looked at Marcus with quiet gratitude—and then it hit him.

"Huh?"

A blank, startled sound slipped out of his mouth. Last night, all he'd seen was the scar on Marcus's jaw and a past of betrayal. But now, with gratitude and trust as the foundation, he opened the flow of Color Reading deeper—and a current he'd never noticed before came ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into sharp focus.

Donovan's eyes narrowed.

"Boss. About hunting down that traitor. The direction you're digging in right now—it's completely wrong."

"…What?"

For a moment, Marcus's eyes shook as if the ground itself had moved beneath him.