Cheonho Pharmaceutical Company (6): Slip-Up Assassination at Club Ember
“What? Is that for real?”
I was stunned after hearing Conel's explanation about this whole Cheonho Pharma mess. This mission... was actually a walk in the park.
“I see...”
Shai, standing next to me, let out a light cough—probably from the chill.
“Achoo! Didn't you say it was a terror attack that killed over a thousand? If we knew ahead of time, what would we even do?”
“...Gather intel?”
The Korea University incident flashed in my mind. Conel had said if she was dead certain about a terror attack, predicting how it'd go down wasn't tough.
“...So Cheonho Pharma's prepping for some terror attack somewhere? Another one... in Korea?”
Conel's breakdown made it clear it wasn't that straightforward. In this globalized world, shit gets linked even across the planet. Low priority meant maybe just some Korea-tied item at the site.
“...Where's the attack going down?”
What the hell had gone down? Conel's voice carried this sad undertone, and I clammed up.
She pressed on, steady as ever.
“Yakuza and gangbangers at a pharma company? Yeah, that shocked me.”
That? No civilian could dream it up.
“Outfit? Oh... that tanned blond dude earlier? Wait, those docs I got...”
Conel's words jogged my memory—the papers from CEO Choi.
Flipping it open, photo attached to a sheet. Foreign name.
“Kikuchi Ryoma... ma? Location's pinned too. Address says he's mostly at a club?”
“The guys we scrapped were Yakuza, yeah? Them?”
Conel cleared it up fast.
“Sable? Gotcha.”
Made sense for an assassin cell—loose cells, so even my gangster act didn't scream fake to him.
As I pieced it together, Blakki chimed in outta nowhere.
No... felt less like client hitman vibes, more superior-subordinate between Choi and Sable.
“Didn't seem equal. Sable felt like they were calling shots.”
“Conel, this paper? Trash it?”
I waved it for an answer—Shai snatched it mid-air.
“Been to this club. They don't know us, so let's scope it live.”
Hearing Conel sound more Korean than me, I shot back,
“Club? In this getup?”
“Ah... cold as balls too. Not rocking this. Change first.”
I stared blankly at Shai's face.
She nudged my shoulder. “What? Move it.”
...Not some palpitating “visit to Shai's pad” rom-com event. Just agents' crash pad.
“But why men's clothes?”
“Duh, places we can't hit as chicks? Gotta have guy gear.”
Shai's what kinda dumbass question look hit me as I tugged the ill-fitting threads.
Something... off. Had my own change ready, but Shai eyed it, sighed huge, yanked open the closet, tossed these over.
Street style—matched Shai's vibe.
“...Couple coords much?”
“Nah, looks natural AF. Better.”
Shai hooked her arm in mine, casual. No soft give... woman's enigma? She'd flattened those monster tits to board-flat.
My eyes lingered—bam, black glove in my face.
“Take this.”
“The hell?”
Hand gauntlets. Shai waggled 'em.
“Yakuza, yo? Slash-proof. No cuts from blades, blocks 9mm at range.”
If luck's insane, she cracked up.
I eyed 'em, mused.
“Shai, figured you'd say storm in swinging.”
“Dumbass! Last time I call cover, you bull-rush the hostiles? Pull that shit again?”
“Misunderstanding, swear...”
Shook my head at the BS, pocketed the gloves.
Right... let's roll.
Target: Club EMBER.
Pre-entry, Blakki buzzed.
“Roger.”
Radio in hand, Shai and I slipped in.
No door drama. Metal detector, pat-down, entry fee—boom, inside the roar.
Deafening. Yell or ear-whisper to hear Shai.
Weaving dancers, she said,
“Hunt the mark first. I'll sniff Japs. Spot 'em, hit the bar for drinks.”
“I—”
She was gone. Brushed off chatty randos, parked at bar. Vet moves.
Luck or curse—no one bugged me.
...Score?
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Ears ringing from bass assault.
Scanned faces amid the writhing screamers, strobe hell.
Crowd thick, lights seizure-inducing—photo match? Needle in haystack.
Time ticked; Blakki pinged.
Locked on—hunt hard.
First... men's room detour.
Club head was trashed. Pre-midnight, but some idiot wrecked it. Floor soaked, sink filth-fest.
Averted eyes from grime, hit urinal.
Mid-stream, shadow next door. Towering dude, neat suit—salaryman sharp.
...Features locked. Kikuchi Ryoma from the list.
Acted bored, chill.
He moved first. Perfect—easy shadow.
Wrapped up fake, sauntered to sink.
Left ones gross. Paused—mirror eye-lock with Kikuchi.
Wash up post-piss, duh. Lined up behind.
“Uh...?”
Screech! Slick floor betrayed me—foot flew.
Facedown tumble, arm shot out reflex.
“You, wha—”
CRACK!
“Uh... what the fuck...”
Reeled from my own move. Slip-launched hand clamped his neck, slammed him mirror-first.
Caught him off-guard—smash, crumple.
THUD!
“Gurk!”
His eyes? Total whiteout. Pro-wrestle KO vibes.
Me? Freaking—then pounding feet. Dudes barge in, clock us.
“You fuck! What'd you do?”
“Manzai crew?”
Radio time.
“Shai... shit's sideways...”
Gloves on, pronto.
Yakuza swarm my play.
“Argh!”
Screech! One slips, gift-wrapped to my feet.
Not just me, I thought—right hook to jaw.
One-two combo dropped the rest easy.
Bailed to main floor.
The crowd is a total blur. I can't tell the Yakuza from the civilians, but I don't need to. If they're rushing me, they're targets.
“...Sorry.”
All I could muster. No breath for excuses—Yakuza horde closing.