The Unexpected Offer
I realized choosing Hamo had been an outstanding decision. The volume of orders suddenly exploded. The once-quiet streets of Itaewon at night came alive, and the government’s push to brand the year as Korea’s tourism boom only added fuel to the fire. Itaewon and Myeongdong began to look like the old Seoul again, where foreigners outnumbered locals. This, I thought, was the real pleasure of building people up.
I had been giving him a hundred-gram deposit each week to keep things manageable, and he followed instructions without issue. Trust accumulated steadily. Once he proved reliable, I increased the amount to three hundred grams a month later. Still, I kept the scale in check; I knew exactly what happened to people who let things get too big. With my own pockets deeper now, I judged that even if something went wrong, I could cover it. I might have been working him hard, but the pay was better than most small-company salaries, so it seemed fair enough as a livelihood. Of course, the moment greed entered the picture, everything would end.
Once I had the producers, the middle distribution network, and the end users all connected in one smooth line, I could feel my own experience in this business growing. There were occasional delivery mishaps, quality complaints, and difficult customers, but overall the operation ran smoothly.
Then an odd message arrived.
What was this?
This was a first. A purchase request arriving through an unofficial channel. The temperature reading told me the sender was inexperienced, and the username alone was impossible to trust. Half-convinced it was a joke, I replied anyway.
I hadn’t expected that scale. Swallowing that much would give anyone indigestion if things went wrong.
?? I couldn’t make sense of the situation. Ten thousand won per gram?
The old saying about tapping even a stone bridge before crossing it came to mind. The sample arrived the next day. It wasn’t premium grade, but it was solid standard quality. I was tempted. The U.S. military contact was paying fifty thousand won per gram; this was only twenty percent of that price, and the volume was substantial. Trusting the system, I went ahead with the deal, but my suspicion made me send Hamo to collect it instead of going myself. I drilled him again from one to ten on every safety rule, precaution, and exactly how to kneel if he got caught.
Once Hamo confirmed safe receipt, I pressed the confirmation button. My temperature rose to 37.1. Typical—every time I forgot about it, the number crept up again.
Today I rented a compact car through a vehicle-sharing platform and was driving across the country. The weather was pleasant, the breeze refreshing, everything perfect—except I couldn’t find a single suitable location. What was I doing? Scouting properties. It had been on my bucket list: I wanted to set up a hideout. Not a place to live full-time, but a delivery hub. I envied the way Flashmob could simply direct shipments to a fixed point. It spoke of confidence—the kind that said he wouldn’t get caught. After a year of work I had saved a decent amount. Enough, in fact, to pay the U.S. military contact upfront. The Vietnamese contact and Blueandgreen had played major roles, and Flashmob’s contribution with the Itaewon operation and initial capital was something I would never be able to repay fully.
My hideout budget was around three hundred million won. That was where the problem began: paying in cash. For one or two million won it wasn’t an issue, but once the amount reached hundreds of millions, both the person carrying it and the person receiving it drew suspicion. Withdrawing that kind of money from Sky Bank and carrying it in cash was too risky, and routing it through financial institutions would leave traces I couldn’t afford.
First, I needed to find the property. My requirements were strict. It had to be inconspicuous—I wasn’t exactly running a legal business. Transportation had to be convenient; at minimum, courier services needed easy access. It also had to allow for DIY modifications—basic security, CCTV, tools. In the end I wandered like a pirate from the Caribbean searching for a hideout, covering thousands of miles without success, and returned home empty-handed.
On the bus ride back, the message I had been waiting for arrived—from Nakamura.
His Korean was more Korean than most Koreans’. Foreigners rarely used the word “mutal.”
These business pleasantries still felt awkward.
We exchanged small talk for about five minutes before he reached the main point.
?? He seemed to think I was some kind of international big shot like Jang Geun. When I reported the Japanese side’s request to my contact, he simply said, “Go.” I listed every risk—my face becoming known, the lack of precedent for this kind of meeting—and still he told me to go. Sorry, hyung, but I don’t even have a passport. And I don’t speak Japanese.
One week later I stood inside Gimhae International Airport. Korean bureaucracy moved fast. When I told the passport office at Hwaseong City Hall that I needed a passport, they asked if I had photos. When I said no, they gave precise directions to the photo studio across the street. I rushed over, had the pictures taken and developed in ten minutes, and submitted the application. They said registered mail would take a week, or three days if I picked it up in person. Two days later the city hall called: come collect it. Express lane granted.
I hadn’t realized Gimhae International Airport was this large. Domestic and international terminals were separate, and planes kept taking off and landing. Out of habit I scanned for CCTV cameras and felt cold sweat break out. There were too many. Airports were the worst.
I met Nakamura, dressed like an ordinary office worker from Shinjuku. He guided me to the baggage check-in counter, compared my passport photo with my face, and handled the luggage. I thought that was the end of it. Then came another inspection on the way to the departure gate. Inside, staff gestured for me to place my belongings in a tray and step through the scanner. With rough thoughts and anxious eyes I raised my hands as instructed. The machine made a whooshing sound, and a staff member told me to step out. I wished it would stop there. It didn’t. They took my passport, fingerprints, and facial scan. The cameras felt like they were glaring at me. Another check before boarding—even at the aircraft door. The flight attendant smiled while verifying my ticket, but I still felt uneasy. At least I had been assigned the front row. Exhausted from all the inspections, I collapsed into my seat like someone boarding a bus. The attendant kept offering things—did I need anything? Just let her know if I wanted to rest. It felt like surveillance. I dozed off briefly only to be woken again.
“Sir, we’re beginning our descent. Could you please return your seat to the upright position? Thank you.”
My first flight ended that way. Following Nakamura through Narita—or was it Maruta?—Airport, I was led into a space that felt like a police interrogation room. When the officials spoke to me in Japanese and I showed no comprehension, they switched to English. From the tone I gathered they were asking why I had come. I answered exactly as Nakamura had instructed: vacation. I half-expected officers to appear beside me, seize my luggage, and detain me the way they had in Pohang. The official in front of me nodded and asked another question. Hearing the word “day,” I guessed he wanted to know how many days I planned to stay and held up three fingers. He pointed to a tablet-like device and mimed pressing with spread fingers. I placed my fingerprints, then the screen prompted a photo. After another picture I was allowed through. This week alone I had taken enough photos to last ten years. They weren’t going to arrest me, right?