Skylight Ties
I was curious. How had he known? I trailed after Valentin, pressing him with questions. When I asked how he'd figured it out, he turned around and showed me his phone. Skylight. So he was a user of the same app. I asked when he'd realized. Once caught, it was caught—what mattered was knowing how, so it wouldn't happen again.
"Champions League."
Ah. He'd overheard me talking with Diaz. I really had been out of it that day. Sharp eyes, though.
When we came down to the dining room, plates were already laid out. There was no food yet, but once we sat, dishes began arriving one by one. Was this the famous French full course? The kind that takes over an hour just to eat? White wine came first. It was light when I tried it. Valentin sipped his casually as well.
I asked the question that had been on my mind.
"What's your ID?"
"Scotchwhisky."
Typical Valentin. Even his ID matched his style. I opened the app and sent a greeting.
A salad mixed with lettuce-like greens and meat arrived. While eating, he glanced at his phone and looked surprised.
Amateur. I don't even register people below 38. I cleared my throat. Suddenly his gaze sharpened, and it felt uncomfortable. Then oyster dishes came out—one per plate, with a lemon on top. Valentin squeezed the lemon over his oyster and ate it. Back home in the South Sea, people devoured these by the box, so why the delicate treatment?
We were face to face, yet we kept messaging through the app. Skylight really was convenient.
Didn't he know that once your face was out there, it was over? My face was already exposed, but I still had to hide my identity. He smirked and started on the fish course that arrived next. It tasted like rockfish or sea bass—nutty, with an excellent texture. Still, it wasn't filling. Was there no rice? The next dish was beef. A steak so rare it might as well have been raw. When I cut into it, blood dripped out. I wasn't sure if the etiquette here was to eat in silence or if checking phones at the table was rude, so we ate quietly. Then came light vegetables, cheese, and dessert—a pudding that was surprisingly good. Finally, espresso arrived. I was a bit flustered, but since he'd invited me, I didn't ask for an Americano. I'd heard Italians hated watering down coffee, and even though this was France, it was probably the same. Valentin downed his in one shot, so I followed suit.
"How does it taste?"
"Good, good."
Afterward, we moved to the second-floor drawing room. Once seated, they brought out something like black tea. It was decent. After a sip, Valentin lifted his phone, signaling we should continue the conversation there. Fine by me. Through Skylight, we picked up where we'd left off the night before. I still wasn't sure if his drunken honesty had been accidental or deliberate. He laid it out clearly now—though he skipped the family details, which was good, because I would have cut him off if he'd gone there.
He was currently in charge of procurement. His local organization handled small-scale supply, but they were looking for a large-scale drug supplier. I told him that raising the temperature on the app opened up the community, where plenty of regional players operated. He said he already knew. Then he dropped something that made me uneasy. Five months ago, a British family had imported a massive amount of cocaine from Central and South America and flooded Europe with it. The European mainland organizations had turned their backs because of it. That sounded exactly like what we'd sold. I remembered connecting European buyers through the community during the boom. No wonder his father had been furious—and why procurement, meaning Valentin himself, had taken the heat. Though it probably had more to do with him partying in London.
He cut straight to the point.
It was possible, but we lacked a logistics network. In other words, delivery wasn't feasible. He chuckled.
He was underestimating me.
I shrugged with a confident expression. Valentin shrugged back.
"Wait~"
He told me to hold on sweetly, then stepped out for a moment. I asked the attendant waiting behind me for another cup and enjoyed the tea time. About five minutes later, he returned.
"Pusan?"
"Busan," I corrected the pronunciation. He looked annoyed and sent a message instead.
From that day on, my status rose from "son's friend" to "key trading partner employee." As soon as I got the contact, I reached out to Secretary Ko and told him to send samples of our products along with our current inventory status. The next day, I received confirmation that the samples had been shipped and a stock list. We were in trouble. There was nothing left to export. Or maybe we could scrape something together, but I didn't know how much they'd need. I'd thought our marijuana production was set to leave surplus stock, but the mainland was devouring it like a black hole. Opium stocks were low after meeting manufacturing quotas and internal demand. Cocaine... well, the production sites were war zones, so supply was difficult. A small amount was coming in from Myanmar this month. I'd have to give him a heads-up.
In the afternoon, Valentin suggested we go out, so we arranged to meet. Even while enjoying London, he'd apparently been working—or at least catching up now that he was back home. During business hours, he was buried in work. I was studying languages. French. English had been manageable after three months of short conversations, but French was completely new. Yesterday afternoon, when he saw me studying, he'd offered to hire a tutor, but I'd refused. It felt too burdensome. After all, I'd picked up basic Spanish conversation in just a month—though it had involved getting beaten.
That afternoon we had another long lunch. I wore the clothes the attendant had prepared and followed Valentin outside, where a Mercedes was waiting. We drove an hour into the countryside. It was pastureland, but the air carried the scent of gunpowder. I was sensitive to that sort of thing.
"What is smell? Such like gunpowder."
"Yes, this is my shooting range."
So he'd built a range out on the plains. But he'd said we were going out for fun—wasn't shooting training? Valentin expertly geared up, received a gun, and got ready. An attendant handed me ear protection, so I put it on as well. Valentin waved his hand, and something whistled into the air. Clay shooting. Fancy hobby. He fired about ten rounds, then handed me the gun.
"Do you want to try?"
He was underestimating me again. When I declined, he spoke with a hint of dismissal.
"This is man's sports."
I knew that. I'd done some shooting myself. That day, whether it was clay targets, rifles, or sniper rifles, I won every round. After all, I'd trained with the Republic of Korea Special Forces. Valentin seemed to have a competitive streak, and he loved extreme sports. That afternoon, perhaps to test me, he suggested skydiving. We went, and I turned the instructor strapped to my back into a mannequin. On the way down, he asked where I'd found a professional. I just shrugged. We also went horseback riding in the mountains and fields, and I learned golf. We indulged in every luxury. Every day brought feasts and fresh air. I spent about a week eating, relaxing, and studying French in my room when Valentin came running in, excited.
"Hey GB, Your goods is very good."
Rhyming again? Our products were good. He kept babbling excitedly in French, so I pointed at his phone. Only then did he realize he was speaking French and sent a message instead. Whew. His fingers were a blur.
This industry really did love "the more, the better."