Routine Transactions
It was a bright spring day. The temperature had risen considerably by midday. It was the kind of April perfect for a picnic. After chatting with the Japanese uncle, that gourmet of mine, I often catch myself muttering to myself. Am I turning into an old man too? Once again, I had to trouble Hamo, but I received the police officer’s goods through him and completed the deposit. It was an uneasy transaction, but it went off without a hitch.
Then I met the Vietnamese uncle who gave off the exact aura I imagined a dwarf from a fantasy novel would have—though only through CCTV, of course. How could I trust someone enough to meet face-to-face? It wasn’t about looks; it was the stats, the aura that radiated capability. That was what felt dwarfish. Visually, he looked about 160 centimeters tall, with a reddish tint to his skin that made him seem healthy. More like a construction site foreman than a veteran soldier. You know the type—those thick, work-hardened muscles. The visual alone made me trust him more.
I contacted him through the Skylight app.
But our foreman didn’t follow my instructions. Instead, he looked around the house and walked straight into the inner room instead of the front one. The trust built from his visual alone came crashing down. About five minutes later, the foreman came out and entered the warehouse. Fifteen minutes after that, he contacted me.
Still, I figured I should hear him out. I thanked him and asked for details, and he explained thoroughly.
First, the location. He said he hadn’t seen a single car for five minutes. The surrounding residential and commercial buildings were at just the right distance—close enough not to raise suspicion, far enough not to compromise security. With no neighbors around, he gave it full marks as a hideout.
Second, the building layout. If entered normally, six CCTV cameras would eliminate all blind spots. He also grumbled about why the cameras were placed so visibly. He’d already spotted three, and they stood out too much with obvious blind spots that needed checking.
Third, the warehouse entrance. It was a liability for escape. If someone forced their way in, there was a high chance of a standoff in the yard. The warehouse’s position made it easy for the enemy to suppress and escape. Normally, when dealing with drug offenders, SWAT or armed police would come in, and there’d be no way to hold them off.
He was right. How was I supposed to beat those guys? With laws tightened, if a suspect resisted, restrictions on using tasers and other suppression tools had loosened considerably.
Suddenly, the trust that had plummeted shot straight back up, like a shitcoin that had just found its whale.
That was how I struck the deal with Dragonmay. I paid a 10% deposit. He asked for the deposit and balance in product, valued at market rate. I was more than happy to oblige, so I added an extra 1% out of courtesy.
Today I’m in Taebaek City—not the Aoji coal mine, but close enough. Why? I came to do the side job Blinky asked for. Man, it’s far. On the way, I passed golf courses and resorts that looked like faded relics of a bygone era. The last remnants of past glory, maybe. Back in the ’70s and ’80s, when the coal industry boomed in Jeongseon and Taebaek, even stray dogs were said to carry money in their mouths. Now, you can’t find a single young person. Even near city hall, the supposed center of town, the “young” people looked to be in their forties—probably civil servants or bank employees.
After letting them know I’d arrived at the meeting spot, I had time to kill, so I stopped by the nearby coal museum and studied the history of the mines—the grueling history.
The road up was windy as hell. It got cold all of a sudden—probably the altitude. Following the navigation, all I could see were highland cabbage fields. No, wait—wind turbines spinning in the distance. Near the address, there were no proper buildings, just a makeshift structure like a farm shed.
The reply came instantly.
Knowing how terrifying the bank guy could be, I double-checked my helmet, leather jacket, and boots to make sure nothing could identify me, then approached the shed. There was a padlock on the door. I entered the code, opened it, and stepped inside. On the table sat a brown bag that looked like something out of a 007 movie. I grabbed it, got back in the car, and left immediately.
Ten minutes later, another message arrived.
I drove for three hours—crawled, really—before finally merging onto Olympic-ro and contacting the bank guy. The Seoul-Yangyang Expressway was a nightmare.
This crazy bastard. It’s rush hour! I was still feeling Seoul’s rush hour in my bones when about an hour had passed. Suddenly, another message.
That was fast. How did he know I hadn’t gone far yet? I glanced at the bag in the passenger seat. Don’t tell me there’s a GPS in there…? I’m being tracked. I resolved then and there to cut ties and never work with him again. Just follow orders. I’m the bank guy’s avatar. I mind-controlled myself like that and arrived at Asan Hospital’s main gate twenty minutes later.
I couldn’t help but admire the bank’s creative delivery methods.
Just like that, the job was done. My temperature rose to 37.2. Reflecting on today’s work and putting myself in the bank’s position, it all made sense. I still didn’t know what was inside the bag, but it seemed trackable too. Another lesson learned. And I envied the bank’s vast infrastructure—the fact that he could use Yeouido Park or even a funeral hall as a delivery point. Even the specific location and person—Kim Yeonghee at the funeral hall—were real. Just to check, I looked at the electronic board at the entrance listing today’s funeral schedules. That’s why the reception staff didn’t suspect a thing when they took the bag. Their flawless execution earned my genuine respect.
I returned the rental car with no drop-off fee and headed home. These days, you can pick up and drop off at different locations. It’s a good world.
While keeping an eye on the construction progress and the Itaewon market deal, enjoying a leisurely moment, I received a message from our lonely gourmet teacher, Nakamura.
I found the ten minutes of small talk before getting to business a little burdensome, but I played along. The sorrow of being in sales.
Nakamura explained that early May had a string of Japanese public holidays—Constitution Memorial Day, Children’s Day, and so on—creating about five consecutive days off because the weekends lined up. Just like Korea, many Southeast Asian foreigners would be visiting, and he planned to sell to them.
Here, “cubic” meant crystals cut into one-gram squares or rectangles.
After receiving the order, I contacted the Vietnamese brother for the first time in a while. Short and to the point.