A Sudden Chill
I contacted my Vietnamese brother to request more product, handing over the 5KG I'd received from the cop while asking for the leftover samples from last time. This batch from the police connection was premium grade, so it required less raw material than the stuff we'd cooked up for Lunar New Year. The ratio came out to roughly 20:1. I used 4kg of ingredients and gave him the remaining 1kg to cover labor and miscellaneous costs. My cool-headed Vietnamese brother agreed without hesitation. "Thank you!"
I asked if he was worried about cash flow, but he assured me that even without the holiday rush, demand stayed steady and the goods moved quickly. The very next day, as soon as I received the shipment, I reached out to Nakamura and sent him a sample. It passed inspection, of course. I'd been nervous—Japanese clients are notoriously picky—but instead of complaints, I received praise. They said the QC was excellent. Maybe I should consider switching from service work to production? Compliments from such a demanding client felt surprisingly good.
We scheduled delivery for a month later. My Vietnamese brother promised he could meet the deadline, and I trusted him. By now my team was organized enough to handle shipments without routing everything through me. I still warned them to stay cautious—you never knew when someone might get picked up. Even though bypassing me increased my own risk, I insisted that all payments still go through me to keep exposure as low as possible.
A month later we delivered the hashish as planned. While keeping an eye on the usual bickering on the Skylight bulletin board and looking after my own line of contacts, I spent my days feeling quietly satisfied. Time really does fly.
Then something major happened back home: the presidential election. It didn't matter to me whether the red party or the blue party won, but once the votes were counted, a brutal cold front swept straight into my bank account. Who would have expected a cold snap in May? It was real enough where my finances were concerned.
Our public broadcaster aired a statement from a high-ranking official. "Good evening. I am the Minister of Justice. I wish I were bringing good news, but I must address a heavy matter. Despite the government's full efforts, various drug-related incidents have spread public anxiety. We will therefore establish comprehensive countermeasures against narcotics with the goal of restoring a drug-free nation where citizens can feel safe."
What the hell was that supposed to mean? The anchor added that further details would be released in an official press statement. What followed was even more alarming. Police, prosecutors, and even the military would form joint task forces to intensify enforcement. They planned to thoroughly investigate supply and distribution networks, root out every participant, and wipe them out in one sweep. High officials really do love that phrase "wipe them out in one sweep."
More concrete measures followed. First, they would block smuggling at borders—airports, ports, everywhere. Not a problem for me; I had a domestic supplier. Most other products were probably imported anyway. Second, they would overhaul the management system for medical narcotics. Third, they would expand medical and rehabilitation infrastructure.
So this was the backlash after all those celebrity busts. The anchor continued: the recidivism rate for drug offenders was 36 percent—1.5 times higher than other crimes—and people in their thirties and younger accounted for more than half of all offenders. The government would therefore allocate budgets toward lowering repeat offenses and prevention. Finally, the high officials declared they would restore the nation's status as a drug-free country and do everything possible to ensure future generations never encountered narcotics in daily life.
Was this the modern version of the War on Drugs? Was I going to end up in some re-education camp? I didn't like the sound of that.
The moment the announcement ended, orders apparently went out to every law-enforcement agency. The crackdown began immediately and without mercy. Itaewon took the first hit. Clubs, bars, and entertainment venues were raided nonstop, and this time it wasn't the usual token show of force. Revenue plummeted. Even my American soldier contact told me to pause operations—he didn't need the minimum volume if it meant staying safe.
My Vietnamese brother was unaffected; his holiday surge had already passed. Cheongnok's sales slowed. The real problem was the proxy I'd advised him to set up. Apparently the training hadn't been thorough enough; the guy had gotten himself tangled up like sweet-potato vines and was now panicking. He warned me to be careful too.
So I retreated to the countryside with the recipe my brother had brought from Bondam and went into hiding. I even gave the subject a name: Introduction to Narcotics. Not very original, but it worked. Today's lecture was on product quality—what makes a good product. The introduction covered the chemical components of narcotics.
Most modern drugs originated in nature, like tobacco. Our ancestors probably stumbled across something while walking, tried it, and felt good. They used it raw or after simple processing like drying or aging. They probably didn't even realize it was addictive; the doses were small and they didn't use it consistently enough to notice. With the development of modern chemistry, researchers isolated the active compounds, then learned to cultivate and amplify them artificially. In legal contexts we call them medicines; in illegal ones we call them poisons. The old saying that medicine and poison differ only in dosage isn't just something you read in wuxia novels. Opium poppies have been used for anesthesia, coca leaves for rituals and medicine. Even today, drugs like propofol serve medical purposes as anesthetics.
Once mechanization and equipment advanced, customization became possible and the era of individual branding began. We moved from originals to tuned versions. Romantic as that sounds, the flood of low-quality product turned the market into a mess. Where one hit used to mean a few hours of insomnia and euphoria, additives and stronger compounds now killed people.
From an evolutionary standpoint, plants containing narcotic compounds had to develop the right balance of lethality, addictiveness, and beneficial effects to survive. The same principle applies across the natural world. Therefore the highest-grade product is one that meets all three criteria: low enough lethality that a single use won't kill you (otherwise predators would wipe it out), sufficient addictiveness that users come back for more, and the distinctive beneficial effect the substance is known for.
Modern alchemists understand these principles, combine ingredients accordingly, and produce their goods. My brother's notes documented his own recipe-development process. After cross-referencing with my Vietnamese brother and the vast knowledge base of the internet, I realized it was an amphetamine synthesis. Amphetamine is a dopamine releaser and central nervous system stimulant—an awakening agent. That was the "distinctive effect" I'd mentioned earlier. If I ordered amphetamine and instead got a sedative or sleep aid, the batch was defective, a lower-grade product.
Looking at the components, my brother had tried to neutralize the most dangerous ingredients while ensuring rapid onset. Strangely, a small amount of Viagra had also been added. I became a chemistry student, studying the role and side effects of each compound and running my own experiments. One thing surprised me: Korea is apparently world-class in chemistry, especially petroleum refining. Chemical reagents that should have been difficult to obtain were surprisingly easy to buy here. Of course, anything in ton quantities required source reporting and permits, but one or two kilograms could be purchased without questions.
The government storm eventually passed and early summer arrived. Demand in Itaewon picked up again and delivery requests resumed. As expected—this business doesn't disappear overnight. I called back Hamo, whom I'd sent abroad for safety, and asked where he'd been. After hearing Cheongnok's story I'd grown nervous and hidden him away for a while. I gave him a bonus for his trouble—plane tickets and hotel reservations—and he enjoyed himself in Japan. He probably understood that his territory had looked like post-hurricane Florida.
And that was when I finally understood why events like the IMF crisis and the subprime mortgage collapse created so many new millionaires.