Daily Life
I suddenly had to make moving plans. While using the Bongdam Hideout as my base, I realized I couldn't actually live there. Let's think this through. It needed to be close to the Bongdam Hideout, and my comings and goings shouldn't raise suspicion. A place with enough people that I wouldn't stand out would be ideal. Plenty of transients so no one paid attention to newcomers. And a high floor—safe from typhoon damage.
First, I checked Suwon. Even in Suwon, the old downtown areas with smaller complexes made it too easy to be singled out. "Have you seen a young man who looks like this coming and going?" That was the most dangerous scenario. New towns were out of the question—my budget was only around five hundred million. The export margins had been excellent, after all.
I found an apartment complex with about a thousand households near Suwon City Hall Station. The next day I visited the real estate agency that had listed the unit, only to be told it was already gone. They tried to steer me toward another "good" property instead. I filed a quick report for a fake listing and walked out. They must have thought I was an idiot. If you verify a listing one day and it's gone the next, that's obviously fake. If it was a lie, they'd have to explain it themselves. Justice still exists, right?
After getting stood up like that, I searched the apps again and found an eight-hundred-unit LH property near Ingye-dong. It looked decent. I contacted the agency right away. They asked me to come immediately and were already prepared for a site visit when I arrived. Solid posture. The moment I opened the door, our portly real estate uncle lit up. That passion for money! The gleam in his eyes that said he would extract his commission from me no matter what.
The number of units was fine, and thankfully it wasn't a corridor-style row house. I'd only have to worry about the units in front and beside mine. When I told the uncle it looked good, he asked for a deposit. The price was four hundred and fifty million. Ten percent down—forty-five million. Then a problem surfaced. I only had original cash.
I casually asked the uncle about it. In that moment I watched our real estate uncle transform into an accountant. Not the kind who audits books, but an Accountant of Money Laundry. A specialist in laundering funds.
"No problem. We get clients like that sometimes, haha."
Before I knew it, I was listening to his money-laundering lecture as if hypnotized. First, he said, set up a real estate corporation—not a brokerage firm, but one that owns and maintains property. Once you have a business registration, opening a bank account is easy. Deposit the cash into that account and use it for the transaction. It could still be traced, of course, because "our country is remarkable," he added with patriotic flair. According to the accountant-possessed uncle, while the system tracks everything electronically, the odds of catching a small-scale deal like this were very low.
The real estate uncle turned accountant was disturbingly well-versed. Well, same as us, really. We just let pickpockets go with a warning too, don't we?
He offered to handle everything for ten million. Still in a trance, I found myself handing over a copy of my ID, a power of attorney, and my seal certificate at the old district office across from the agency. Two days later, a bank account suddenly appeared on my phone: XX Bank, account 110-XXX-XXXXX, under Happy Housing 38 Co., Ltd. He said the original documents weren't needed—just send photos. "Important not to leave evidence in these matters," he added. Reliable guy.
He told me to pay the fee however was convenient—cash or transfer. I paid through the Sky Bank app. Since the commission and brokerage fee already made us accomplices, I might as well transfer everything.
I had no plans for renovations. I was only moving my body in. While packing up the Bongdam house—three post office size-ten boxes, everything else left behind to make it look occupied—I received a message from that terrifying older brother just as I was about to leave the countryside home I'd grown attached to.
"GB, how are you?" — impolice (36.7)
His temperature had risen after our last transaction. I really wanted to advise him to change that username. Using the name of one of the groups this industry hates most felt like asking for trouble. Was it bravado?
"I'm well. What can I do for you?" — GB (37.1)
"How was the product last time?" — impolice (36.7)
What was this, a customer satisfaction survey? It had been the best value—quality like that at twenty percent of the usual price. Still, sales always involved a little push and pull. Time to complain a bit.
"The product was fine, but turnover is slow. It's hard for a small operator like me to handle." — GB (37.1)
"I see. Actually, more product came in, but I don't have a buyer." — impolice (36.7)
Jackpot. I had to take it. But getting supply again in less than a month? Was he a grower? Then "manufactured" would be the right word. Suspicion started gnawing at me, yet the thought of another deal also felt burdensome.
"Same terms as last time?" — impolice (36.7)
It was an excellent opportunity. But I knew better—good fortune often brings trouble.
"Could I get a sample first?" — GB (37.1)
I needed time to think. The next day, perhaps sensing urgency on their end, they sent the sample under the same conditions as before. A problem arose. It was different from the last batch—not worse, but better. Almost premium grade.
I contacted Flashmob in a hurry. Something felt off. I was also worried about Hamo, who had picked up the previous delivery.
"Senior, are you free to talk?" — GB (37.1)
I explained everything. A sudden message, the product, how good the price was, how I'd jumped at it.
"That's serious. I didn't think you'd be this careless." — Flashmob (47.6)
I could almost hear the sigh and tongue-click through the phone.
"It's stolen goods." — Flashmob (47.6)
Flashmob explained that quality and price like that usually meant the product had a story—stolen from an organization, seized by police, or lost in a delivery gone wrong. We couldn't deal.
Could that guy really be a cop? The next message hit harder.
"Out again in a month? And the quality changed? Definitely police-seized product." — Flashmob (47.6)
"He'll get caught soon." — Flashmob (47.6)
"What did you do with the last batch?" — Flashmob (47.6)
"Do whatever you want, but if possible, manufacture it or send it overseas." — Flashmob (47.6)
"Every product has its own signature. If it circulates domestically and gets traced, it becomes a problem." — Flashmob (47.6)
He was right. Even I could tell the difference between the US Army guy's stuff and Candle's product. The packaging style was different too—not simple wrapping.
"And for the advice, do me a favor. The bank called—short on staff." — Flashmob (47.6)
Terrifying, especially after the Dokdo incident turned into PTSD, but I couldn't refuse. If not for Flashmob, I might have walked right into trouble.
I spent the whole day weighing risk against benefit. In the end, I decided to deal with impolice. The opportunity was too good to pass up, and while Flashmob's warning was probably correct, there was still a chance it wasn't. More importantly, I had options he didn't know about. I could manufacture or export. I was a true multi-player. I'd use Candle's product for domestic original demand, the US Army guy's for hashish and shisha production, and impolice's batch strictly for export. If necessary, I'd divert impolice's product to manufacturing too.
With that settled, I contacted impolice. He said the same terms, so I assumed it meant the same quantity—one kilogram like last time. Turned out the terms were different. Whether premium or regular, he'd sell at ten thousand per gram. I felt certain then—impolice wasn't a grower or expert. He hadn't even checked the quality.
Then came the real surprise.
"Thank you for dealing with me, GB. This time it's five kilograms." — impolice (36.7)
What exactly do you do for a living, Officer? One kilogram already felt risky enough—five? The danger level had just spiked. Should I still go through with it? Was the price even right?
Further deliberation proved unnecessary. impolice offered a discount first.
"Since you've been a good customer, I'll lower it. Four hundred and fifty million." — impolice (36.7)
Just like that, I spent my entire year's budget. All five hundred million I'd earned so far. Time to make more money again.