The Tokyo Transaction
Tokyo's streets resembled the quiet calm of Seoul's satellite cities more than Seoul itself. It had that ambiguous feel—like a bad town, yet with enough people on the streets to keep it from feeling completely deserted. We weren't passing through any major downtown areas, so there wasn't much traffic and it wasn't particularly noisy either.
Nakamura and I rode in the car that picked us up from the airport for about two hours. "Sir, there's no need to be too nervous. Just think of it as meeting someone for a casual cup of coffee."
I wanted to ask why he'd called me if it was just for coffee, but I swallowed the urge and answered with a smile, remembering this was business. "Of course. It's been a while since I've traveled, so I'm actually in a good mood."
In truth, this was my first time. The car carrying me wound into the mountains and approached what looked like a shrine. As we drew closer, I spotted a parking lot where about five men stood waiting. When they saw our vehicle, they bowed at a perfect ninety-degree angle. They were all big guys.
I tried to step out looking calm and unafraid, though my legs felt like they were shaking. "Shall we go?" I forced my trembling legs to move and followed Nakamura.
We passed through the distinctive shrine entrance and walked along a stone path. In the distance, I noticed a middle-aged woman watching me. Our eyes met. She looked to be in her fifties, with an elegant, refined air. The kimono suited her perfectly. After I'd walked another ten meters toward the building, she turned and disappeared inside.
Nakamura and I waited in a tatami room. A large man approached and whispered something in Nakamura's ear. I couldn't understand the Japanese. "Sir, the transaction has been approved. We can head back now."
What the hell? Was this some kind of joke?
That same afternoon, I landed back at Gimhae Airport and arrived home late in the evening. What had just happened? It felt like a dream.
The next morning, while I was still half-asleep trying to adjust to the time difference, Nakamura contacted me.
"Sir, have you eaten?" — Nakamura (39.4)
"Yes. Did you get home safely yesterday?" — GB (37.1)
We spent another ten minutes exchanging small talk about the weather, food, and travel.
"Sir, would it be possible to get 1 kg of premium and about 4 kg of regular grade within a week?" — Nakamura (39.4)
"Of course." — GB (37.1)
I had plenty of the candle-type product, but I was short about 1 kg of the regular grade, so I made a special request to the US Army contact. After picking up the goods in Itaewon and reporting to Nakamura that everything was ready, an enormous sum of money arrived—by far the largest amount I'd ever received.
This was why our predecessors always talked about exports. Something about "business serving the nation," wasn't it?
800,000,000 won has been deposited from Nakamura. — View Details
After safely completing the transaction, I prepared myself to return to daily life and reported everything that had happened to my brother.
"Good work."
It had been a while since I'd received praise from him. Then he enthusiastically discussed my current situation—WW's two friends, Flashmob, Hamo, and recently Nakamura, the police, and my dream of building a hideout.
"Are you an idiot?"
"What?"
I stared at my phone with a blank expression. I could almost picture him sighing on the other end. But what did he mean?
"The house you're living in right now."
A light bulb went off in my head. Ah… I really was stupid.
The hideout I'd envisioned had three requirements: it had to be inconspicuous, have convenient transportation, and allow for DIY modifications. My current house fit all of them perfectly. There were no neighboring houses nearby, and the transportation wasn't bad—though getting to Seoul required multiple transfers on public transit. As a countryside house, I could renovate it however I wanted.
While I was mentally kicking myself, my brother asked if I'd checked the basement.
Basement…? We had a basement?
I'd lived here for nearly five years and had never heard of one.
Thud! Thud!
"What are you doing?"
"Working. Doing some DIY."
First, I installed home security cameras that hadn't been there before. Technology these days was convenient—once connected to power and Wi-Fi, footage was stored through a cloud service and could be viewed anytime.
I was building my hideout.
Following my brother's instructions, I found the basement entrance. Right beneath the workshop floor where I'd been dividing and packaging product, there was a door leading underground. When I opened it, a foul, rotting smell—like fertilizer—wafted up. After descending the stairs about two meters, I discovered the source: the remains of the muscular guy, Typhoon, who'd caused trouble for me last year. The rest of the space was surprisingly clean, aside from dirt, branches, and unidentifiable trash. Once cleared, it would be perfectly usable.
At the bottom of the stairs was a hallway with rooms on both sides. The right room had a partition with a toilet and shower inside, and a simple bed outside. The left room contained a study desk with a notebook on it. Thankfully, this area hadn't flooded. I wasn't sure why the basement hadn't filled with water—maybe the drainage worked?
Next to the desk was a hole that appeared to connect to the surface, with a plastic container beneath it. The container was dirty, likely from water exposure. The notebook was filled with chemical symbols and measurements—grams of this, grams of that. It looked like a recipe. I hadn't expected the chemistry I'd learned from the Vietnamese guy to come in handy so soon. It detailed ratios, methods, and uses, though I couldn't tell what the final product was supposed to be. It involved heating, distilling, and crystallizing something. I'd have to ask the Vietnamese guy about it later.
At the end of the hallway was a door with an electronic lock. Without thinking, I entered my birthday—and it opened. Inside was a tunnel, the kind you had to crawl through hunched over, like in the movies. What was this place?
After finishing my underground exploration, I called my brother and described everything I'd seen. He gave me additional explanations.
The hideout wasn't meant for long-term living, only short-term hiding. The notebook contained his research recipes—if I was interested, I should study them. That was when I realized: the previous owner had been my brother.
He also explained the basement's additional features. The hole in the ceiling beside the desk connected to the delivery box in front of the house. If something was placed in the box, pressing a button by the duct would make the floor disappear, dropping the item through the passage into the basement. Pressing it again would restore the floor, avoiding suspicion. It reminded me of the garbage collection chutes in large apartment complexes.
Finally, the tunnel was still under construction. He hadn't found a suitable connection point, so he'd left it as is. He'd dug about thirty meters and suggested extending it further for emergency escapes. He'd never actually used it.
I considered the tunnel essential for a proper hideout, so I didn't delay. I went back up and searched for a good connection point. Other houses or warehouses nearby were too far in terms of meters. Connecting above ground would risk exposure during an emergency. While thinking of inconspicuous locations, I remembered the bamboo grove behind the house. An entrance hidden inside the bamboo forest would be ideal.
To make a concrete plan, I needed professional help. Who? The Vietnamese guy, obviously.
Did I know about the tunnels from the Vietnam War in the 1970s? The ones that supposedly circled the globe several times if you stretched them out? I contacted the Vietnamese guy first. We'd already done several hundred-million-won deals, so there was a surprising level of internal trust between us. At this volume, if either of us got caught, the police would likely link us both through their intelligence. Evidence would pile up quickly. Given the speed and investigative power of Korean police and prosecutors, once identified, we'd be as good as caught.
"Hello. Do you have time to talk?" — GB (37.1)
Surprisingly, he replied quickly. After about an hour: "Yes, what can I do for you?" — Nguyen WW (37.7)
I explained the situation and asked if he knew anything about tunnels. He said he didn't personally, but like with the shisha matter, he introduced someone else. He really was a walking network of connections. Still, I couldn't help wondering if this short conversation was going to take him two hours again. It felt deliberate.
A few hours later, a message arrived.
"Nice to meet you, Boss. You can call me Mai." — Dragonmay (36.8)
Since I was going to hire him, I asked for a brief resume.
"Hello. Nguyen mentioned you. I'd like to request some work." — GB (37.1)
"Boss, I'm good at digging tunnels. That's all I did in the military." — Dragonmay (36.8)
Hearing his military background made him sound reliable.
"Then come by in two weeks to give me an estimate." — GB (37.1)
"Thank you, Boss." — Dragonmay (36.8)
And just like that, I'd expanded my network to include a construction contractor.