Not Spending—Investment?

Instead of explaining over the phone how he'd burned through a hundred thousand dollars in a single day, Donovan chose a different approach.

A long-winded explanation by phone? Too tedious. Too pedantic.

But if he simply showed up in person? Clean. Instant. Impossible to misunderstand.

"…"

A massive black sedan glided in beneath the overpass like a shadow. Cole stepped out from the driver's seat, opened the rear door, and Donovan climbed out with an easy, unhurried stride.

A black suit cut to fit him like a second skin. A luxury watch glowing faintly at his wrist. Sunglasses and a black silk mask that looked less like a disguise and more like a fashion statement.

Barely a day had passed, and not a single trace of the homeless man remained. Everything sat so naturally on him—so perfectly—that it almost drew a laugh.

"Ha… So that's where the hundred grand went."

A faint smile touched the Boss's mouth.

"You made an investment."

A hundred thousand dollars was no small sum. Far too much to simply spend. But as an investment? That changed everything.

The clothes and the car were only the surface. They didn't explain Donovan's ability. What they did change was the caliber of work he could take. No matter how gifted he was, a client wouldn't open their wallet—or even their mouth—for a man who still looked and smelled like a vagrant.

The Boss understood perfectly why Donovan had spent a hundred thousand dollars in a single day.

Donovan smirked.

"So I don't need to bother explaining?"

"You don't."

They were already on the same page. Conversations with the Boss were easy for exactly that reason.

The Boss looked him over once more and nodded.

"Like this, I can start putting much bigger jobs in front of you."

"Then the investment paid off. Got anything decent I can jump on right now?"

The Boss tipped his head toward his large military tent.

"Come inside first. This isn't a conversation for out here."

The tent was thick with warm air, a sharp contrast to the barren chill outside. They sat across a table from each other, and the Boss fixed Donovan with a serious look.

"What kind of job do you want?"

"Obvious. Right now, I need money."

"There's one that pays well enough to match. Extremely dangerous."

If the Boss was calling something dangerous, that was saying something. Donovan had every intention of turning it down—but curiosity made him listen.

"Finding a snitch who sold out a gang to the FBI. The whole organization is tearing itself apart over it."

Anything involving a gang was going to be dangerous by default, but if Donovan put his mind to it, he could find the rat in no time. Being able to do something and wanting to do it, however, were entirely different questions.

Not interested.

He had no desire to sink any deeper into that world. And it made no sense that the Boss—who was more obsessed with Donovan's safety than anyone—would even float a job this dangerous.

"Ordinarily I wouldn't even glance at something like this. But this time's different. The payout is two million dollars."

Two million dollars. Roughly two point eight billion won.

"…What?"

"Two million. And the faster you find the rat, the higher the bonus climbs. I don't particularly want to recommend it either—but right now, this is the single biggest payday available."

At that staggering figure, a thought flickered through Donovan's mind.

For that kind of money… maybe a little risk is worth it?

And in that exact instant—

Huh?

A Death Shadow rose across the Boss's face.

The change had appeared the moment Donovan considered accepting the job. The meaning was unmistakable.

Don't tell me…

Donovan hurriedly pulled a small hand mirror from the inner pocket of his suit. A man carrying a compact might look odd, but for him it was essential.

Because—

Ha. Exactly as I thought.

The Death Shadow was on his own face in the mirror as well. Just as the Purple Qi from the East had appeared when he'd accepted the Boss as a partner—signaling a noble benefactor and an open path ahead—his fate was rewriting itself in real time.

So Color Reading really does reflect the destiny of my choices as they happen.

That was why he needed the mirror. One look at his own face, and he could dodge the worst decisions before they locked in.

Pass. Two million dollars isn't worth walking into a Death Shadow with my eyes open.

The instant he settled on refusal in his mind, the Death Shadows blanketing both his face and the Boss's vanished as if they'd never been there.

The Boss, who'd clearly noticed the sudden shift in Donovan's expression, spoke.

"Your face just changed. Something wrong?"

There was no fooling those eyes.

Donovan closed the mirror and answered flatly.

"Yeah. If I take that job, you and I both die."

"…What?"

"I thought about taking it for half a second, and both our faces lit up with 'you're going to die' written clear as day."

The blunt talk of death threw ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Boss for a moment—then his mind sorted itself at speed.

This is about his own survival. More reliable than any piece of intel I could buy.

For an information broker, the knowledge that accepting a job meant death was priceless. Not only had they dodged immediate danger—how he used this information could turn a profit all on its own.

Ha. Just showing him a job and I get this kind of help…

The Boss let out a low, dry laugh.

"Looks like I won't be collecting a referral fee from you going forward."

"Huh?"

"You screening the jobs I bring in is perfect risk management for me. Same as the first job—your fee is waived. Permanently."

"Oh, right. First job was fee-free, wasn't it. You could've said something."

"Doesn't matter. Waiving the first fee is industry custom. And yours is waived from here on out anyway."

"Well, thanks. Works for me."

The air lightened, and the Boss shifted topics without missing a beat.

"Then let me show you something else."

He pulled out a thick file folder and set it on the table.

"A confidential leak at a Wall Street investment firm. The client put a hundred-thousand-dollar bounty on the culprit."

"…"

"Five suspects."

The Boss locked eyes with him.

"You identify the guilty ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠party among them, and I'll give you thirty thousand. If you secure hard evidence on top of that, the full hundred thousand is yours."

A deep smile spread across Donovan's face.

Evidence ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠might be out of reach—but the culprit? Guaranteed. A quick face-reading trip for thirty thousand dollars wasn't bad. No—it was perfect.

"I like it."

"Those five are at a high-end restaurant on Fifth Avenue right now, at an investors' luncheon. You can go look immediately."

"See? Yesterday's shopping spree was the right call."

Donovan offered a brief goodbye, took the file, and left the tent. A job with thirty thousand dollars already locked in—he was looking forward to it.

A high-end restaurant on Fifth Avenue.

No proper sign even hung at the entrance—the kind of place that quietly sorted its clientele by class and held its nose high while doing it.

Donovan strolled in at an easy pace, and the maître d's gaze moved over him in a swift, discreet sweep.

First, immaculate top-tier shoes. Then the suit fitted to his frame like it had been tailored that morning. The luxury watch glinting faintly at his cuff. And finally the sunglasses and silk mask—less a disguise than the eccentricity of a wealthy VIP playing at fashion.

In under a second, the scan was complete. Without a flicker of hesitation or suspicion, the maître d' bowed with perfect courtesy.

"This way, sir."

He led them to a table with a flawless view of the five targets mid-luncheon.

Cole took the elaborate menu with both hands, eyes darting, clearly panicked about what to order. Donovan stepped in for him, ordering a steak course with practiced ease, then requested only a black coffee for himself.

"You're not eating, sir?"

"I'm fine. Expensive food doesn't sit well with me."

There was no reason to remove the mask and expose his face, and no need to explain. He hadn't come here to eat. He'd come to work.

Arms folded, cooling coffee in front of him, Donovan studied the luncheon table some distance away.

Five executives from a rising Wall Street investment firm. On the surface they were clinking fine wine glasses and laughing with elegant ease—but the faces Donovan saw told a different story.

Huh?

His eyes narrowed.

What he was seeing didn't match what the Boss had described at all.

His gaze went first to the tips of their noses—the Jaebaekgung, the Wealth Palace.

A murky black energy clung thickly around the nostrils of all five men, the kind that rose when someone had reached for ill-gotten wealth.

The problem was the shape of that energy.

They're all identical?

If the weight of each man's guilt and the timing of the money differed, the density and form of the Color Reading should have varied. But the murk clinging to those five noses was different. Color, texture—perfectly matched, as if all five had shoved their faces into the same pot of ink on the same day at the same hour.

It meant they'd put their hands on the same money, from the same place.

They weren't lining their own separate pockets.

All five were accomplices.

The whole lot of them are in on it together?

It was almost absurd.

Donovan looked past the Color Reading and studied each face in turn. Prominent cheekbones. Thin, sharp lips. Classic features of arrogant, self-serving elites who refused to work under anyone and took only what was theirs. Men like that would never trust each other enough to split criminal profits amicably.

Physiognomically, they were the last people who should form ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a unit—and yet they shared the exact same black energy of the same crime.

Why?

The answer to the contradiction sat at the center of their faces: the Indang, the space between the brows.

Donovan narrowed his eyes and focused. A trembling blue energy had worked its way from their brows deep into the backs of their restless pupils.

In physiognomy, blue on the face meant extreme anxiety and terror.

All five men, the same place, nearly the same brand of fear burned into them.

Someone's got them by the throat and is dragging them along. And not just anyone—someone massive.

A backer powerful enough to crush five selfish elites under pure terror and force them onto the same boat.

No. That changes the whole picture.

Donovan's mouth curled as he pulled the flip phone the Boss had given him from his inner pocket. He dialed the single number saved on it.

The Boss picked up on the first ring.

Donovan tapped the table lightly with one finger.

"If I find the backer, does the fee go up?"

A heavy silence stretched on the other end of the line.

The call cut off unilaterally.

Cole, fork frozen halfway to his mouth with a bite of freshly cut steak, watched Donovan with a tense, uncertain face.

Less than a minute later, the flip phone on the table buzzed hard. Donovan opened it at his leisure and held it to his ear.

"Yeah. What'd they say?"