The Bride Interview
"There we go! We've arrived, bro!"
Artyom stomped the brakes, cheerful as ever. When Jihoon looked out the window, a hotel stood there boasting a stately, imposing facade that had no business sharing a street with the wreckage around it.
"Ooooh..."
Jihoon marveled inwardly. He'd already written off any hope for decent lodging, yet here was a dignified, fully intact hotel — the kind of place senior Communist Party officials and foreign dignitaries must once have stayed. In this city, it looked like the only fortress still doing its job.
"It's in way better shape than I expected. What a relief."
Satisfied, Jihoon opened the rear door of the Bukhanka and hauled his heavy suitcase out with a grunt. Just then, Artyom came around from the driver's seat to help with the luggage.
Clunk. Shff. Clunk. Shff.
Every step Artyom took produced an unnatural mechanical clank and a dragging scrape. The moment Jihoon absently glanced down at the man's lower half, his eyes went wide. Below Artyom's left knee, poking out from under his pant leg, was an old, crude metal prosthetic.
"Uh..."
Seeing Jihoon let out an involuntary gasp and visibly fumble, Artyom patted his steel leg and gave an awkward smile.
"Haha, well... as you can see, I'm in roughly the same boat. Considering a shell fragment blew the damn thing off, I'm mighty lucky it took it off clean. Doesn't get in the way of my driving one bit, so don't you worry, bro!"
Artyom hoisted the suitcase up with a shrug.
"Right, let's get you inside, bro. That pretty bride of yours is craning her neck waiting for this interview of yours!"
Jihoon nodded and was just turning toward the hotel's revolving door when—
"Wooooorgh."
Shigure the brown bear, sitting obediently in the Bukhanka's passenger seat, poked his enormous nose through the gap of the open window and let out a short, ponderous growl at Jihoon's back. At the sight of Jihoon flinching and whipping around, Artyom — luggage in hand, already a few steps ahead — burst into a hearty laugh.
"Hahaha! Don't spook so easy, bro! Sure, he's built like a mountain, but he knows how to read people, that one. In this shit-heel neighborhood where law and order's a total joke, there's no security system in the world better at keeping thieves' paws off this van — my one and only meal ticket. Even the most strung-out junkie out there doesn't have the balls to smash a window with a brown bear sitting behind it!"
Following the proudly boasting Artyom, Jihoon pushed through the revolving door and stepped inside.
The lobby, worlds apart from the bombed-out rubble outside, was dressed in marble floors and chandeliers — aged, but still magnificent — practically radiating the grandeur of the old Soviet era. The only thing missing was a single ordinary tourist.
Limping along on his prosthetic, Artyom made his way to the front desk and addressed a dour-faced middle-aged woman in Russian.
"This here's 'Mister Kim,' come all the way from Korea. He'll have the deluxe suite reserved... Ah, and you've got the girl booked for the interview with him tonight, right? She's staying in one of the rooms here right now — give her a ring on the room phone and make sure she knows to come down to the first-floor restaurant in about two hours for her interview."
Having handed out his instructions like a pro, he collected the room key and came back to Jihoon.
"Alright, bro. The girl's going to want to wash up and get dolled up before she comes down, so give it some time. You head on up, unpack, rest a bit, then come down to the first-floor restaurant in two hours and meet her. I've got the table all reserved and set up, so take your time, enjoy a meal, and get acquainted."
"Ah, right. Thanks for everything."
Jihoon accepted the key and was turning toward the elevator when—
"Er... actually, about that, bro."
Artyom coughed awkwardly and scratched the back of his head. The voice that had been booming just moments before had somehow shriveled into something small and sheepish.
"It's just... things are so rough around here lately that gas prices have gone straight-up insane, and... well, the biggest thing is, our Shigure's such a big boy he eats a shit-ton, you know? If I'm gonna sit waiting in the van and feed the guy something decent, I'm a little short on pocket change..."
The fidgeting posture, the excuse-laced rambling. It took Jihoon exactly 0.1 seconds to figure out what the man wanted. He was angling for a 'tip.'
Jihoon smirked to himself. He'd handed the matchmaking agency's director a hundred million won in one lump sum, but the subcontracting structure was all too predictable. The director in Korea skimmed his cut, the broker on the Russian mainland skimmed his, and after layer upon layer of sub-subcontracts, what actually trickled down into the hands of Artyom — a disabled veteran doing the grunt work on-site, driving a beat-up bread van — probably amounted to a few crumpled rubles. What the man desperately needed right now wasn't the cratered ruble, but 'dollars' — the stuff trading like gold on the black market.
'Well, either way, from filing the bride's paperwork and greasing the express lanes, all the way through getting Yevgenya back to the airport after the interview, I absolutely need this guy's help. Keeping the local guide's pockets nice and fat is a guaranteed win, no question.'
Besides, come to think of it, that brown bear who'd rumbled a farewell at him from the van had terrified him at first, but there was something oddly endearing about the thing.
'Hold on, though... Shigure? The bear's name is Shigure? Isn't that a straight-up Japanese name? Why would a Russian brown bear be named Shigure of all things? Shiberian Shigure, my ass.'
Snorting inwardly at the absurd naming sense, Jihoon pulled a thick long wallet from his inner jacket pocket. He spread it open and counted out ten crisp hundred-dollar bills without a moment's hesitation. Considering the local cost of living and the cratered ruble, it was a decent tip.
"Here, take this. Buy Shigure a proper feast of salmon, and put the rest toward vodka for yourself, Artyom. I'm counting on you from here on out — until the paperwork's through and we're on our way home."
Jihoon pressed the folded ten hundred-dollar bills into the man's rough palm. Artyom's eyes quite literally bulged out of his head.
"Ko-Korean!! Koreans are the best!! Thank you — thank you so fucking much, bro!!"
Bowing at a full ninety degrees, he cried out, overcome with gratitude.
"Don't you worry!! Even if it costs me my life — no, even if this remaining right leg of mine gets blown off too — I'll look after our VVIP bro here like a goddamn dog until the day you walk out of this country safe and sound with your bride!!"
"Haha, got it. See you in two hours, then."
Jihoon let out a short laugh, waved him off, and turned back toward the elevator. With a ding, the elevator arrived. He pressed his floor button and studied his haggard reflection in the mirror. Tens of hours in the air across three connecting flights had left his hair greasy and dark circles hanging heavy under his eyes.
"Two hours, though... I should head up, wash off with some hot water, and doze on the bed for a bit."
"Hah...!!"
Like a man hauled up from deep underwater, Jihoon sucked in a ragged breath and jackknifed upright in bed. He'd washed away the fatigue and grime of the flights in a hot shower, then settled onto the plush mattress with the thought that he'd just close his eyes for a second — and that had been the seed of his ruin. A body drowning in accumulated fatigue had plunged into a deep, faint-like sleep, utterly heedless of its owner's will.
Jihoon fumbled for the smartphone at his bedside and checked the time.
"Ah, shit... you have got to be kidding me! I'm late!!"
The numbers on the screen showed he'd blown straight past the promised two hours — by a full twenty minutes.
"Aargh, this is insane! I was cursing Artyom's guts out in my head for showing up late at the airport... and now I'm the one who's late!"
Cursing under his breath, Jihoon shot out of bed. Late — to their first meeting, their fated first meeting of all things. It felt like a fresh scratch across a flawless plan. There wasn't even time for hair wax; he raked his fingers roughly through it, hurried out of the room, and hammered the elevator button at the end of the corridor like a madman.
"Come on... you hunk-of-junk elevator, hurry the hell up!"
Stomping his feet in agitation while the elevator clanked its way up at a glacial pace, Jihoon waited, restless.
Ding-.
Only when the elevator began its descent with a heavy groan did the pounding of his own heartbeat finally slam into his ears.
'Hah... I'm actually shaking. What do I even say first?'
Taking a deep breath, Jihoon began running simulations in his head.
'"Hello, I'm Kim Jihoon, from Korea?" Ugh, so dorky and stiff. Or... "Forgive me for being late, my beautiful Yevgenya?" No — way too sleazy.'
Even with his mind churning, a maddening surge of dopamine — nerves and lust all tangled together — was flooding through every vessel in his body.
Ding-!
The doors slid open with a bright chime announcing the first floor. Jihoon took one huge breath, straightened his tie, darted across the lobby, and stepped into the first-floor restaurant.
With the war having cut off the flow of guests, the restaurant was silent as the grave. Only the chandeliers' soft glow illuminated the vast, empty hall as Jihoon's gaze swept swiftly toward the far end of the room — a corner seat by the window.
And there, his footsteps stopped dead, as if nailed to the marble.
"...Ah."
A small, dazed gasp slipped out between his lips before he knew it.
In a dim, empty corner of the restaurant sat a woman with dazzling blonde hair, head bowed — as if a spotlight shone down on her alone, brightening the very air around her. Seen from a distance, her back and silhouette alone were enough to choke the breath out of him. The beauty was simply overwhelming.
Golden hair spilled down over her shoulders in a soft waterfall, glittering brilliantly like poured gold under the chandelier light, and her nape — spotless, snow-white — looked so delicate and pristine it might crack at a touch. She wore an old, out-of-fashion blouse, something plain and almost homespun, pulled tight over her frame. But even that frumpy outfit couldn't hide her figure. If anything, the curve of her enormous chest, swelling taut as if ready to burst, pushed the worn blouse's buttons precariously apart — blatant, shameless proof that the 'bombshell mass' he'd savored in his dreams existed just as perfectly in reality.
'She's real... It's really Yevgenya.'
The shock of the photographs was nothing — nothing at all — compared to the electric thrill of confirming it with his own two eyes. Jihoon swallowed hard and took careful steps toward her. The soles of his luxury dress shoes clicked softly against the restaurant's marble floor, but she seemed entirely unaware of the man closing in on her.
The nearer he came, the more clearly her state came into focus. Was it fear of being stood up, him showing up a full twenty minutes past the appointed hour? Or terror at the thought of being sold off to some old, hideous man? With both hands clasped tight beneath the table, she anxiously picked at her thumbnail as though she might gnaw it raw. Her slender shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly, and the sight of her — head bowed low, timidly frozen, stealing glances at her surroundings like a small animal ready to bolt — was exactly like a pitiful, beautiful rabbit trembling before a predator.
That peerless beauty, dazzling and blessed with those enormous breasts, waiting for him alone and shaking with fear and anxiety — the absolute image of the 'weak.' From deep within Jihoon's chest, his long-suppressed urge to dominate and a sadistic lust boiled up all at once, explosive and searing. A black, sticky desire: to pin those slender, trembling shoulders down with strong hands, to ravage those anxious lips, to take the debt she carried and turn it into her leash — to drag her down, all the way, into becoming his perfect bitch in heat.
Calming the tent straining to burst against his trousers, Jihoon smoothed an easy, tender smile across his face. And then, with careful but resolute steps, he closed the distance to the table where Yevgenya sat trembling, oblivious, all by herself.