Run a Line

It started with USarmy. He even handed over the shisha line I had once tried to sell off. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠If he was going to do that, he should have given it to me back then. He transferred every bit of weed-related authority to me, and as expected from a classic foreigner-heavy district, demand was solid.

Then a message came from Flashmob. He wanted me to take over the full line in Incheon and Bucheon. Unlike USarmy, Flashmob’s territory had a problem: if supply didn’t arrive on time, the line would simply switch to another supplier. Wouldn’t the same thing happen in Itaewon? Back when that incident went down, the previous organization couldn’t even last a month before folding, which was how I ended up stepping in as the replacement. But Flashmob’s area had a far more aggressive competitor than Itaewon ever did—the Chinese syndicate. They were bringing product in directly from China and had built a network centered on foreign laborers.

I used the government’s special procurement windfall to expand the organization, especially around Hamo. Just like any small or medium-sized company, when you’re short on people you end up hiring through personal connections. Building a proper firewall would have been ideal, but there simply wasn’t time. Flashmob’s territory alone had a population of roughly two million, so the volume that needed moving wasn’t small.

I promoted Hamo to deputy and placed three employees beneath him, creating an official logistics team. I had wanted to keep the three employees completely separate from Hamo in a cell structure, but reality didn’t allow it. I would have to build that separation over time.

To keep the logistics team from collapsing, I put in the best safeguards I could: no private contact, all product talk only through Skylight, no face-to-face meetings, and so on. I also raised their pay to keep them motivated and introduced an incentive system. Once it was all set up, it looked suspiciously like a classic Ponzi scheme—multi-level marketing.

Two months passed that way. Then the sky did something strange: it suddenly started pushing my temperature up fast. The number that had refused to rise no matter what began climbing 0.1 degrees a week until it hit 37.5. In the final week it rose even though I hadn’t made any direct deals myself. I was busy building the logistics network and handling deliveries across the country, just managing to cover Incheon, Bucheon, and Itaewon, when a message arrived from that terrifying cop.

How the hell was I supposed to trust this guy with 10 kg? I’d have to test it first. And dollars?

What the hell? Why was he in such a rush? My guys were already struggling to handle the territories we’d just taken over—did I have to go myself? Still, the stuff looked hot. Was there a way around this? When in doubt, ask.

He left me on read. Typical—people in a hurry never answer right away. Thirty minutes later a message arrived.

The screen turned gray and Flashmob’s autobiography began. He told me how he used to run small-time errands until he inherited a wrecked line after an organization war, and from that moment his temperature had shot up. He was reminiscing about how fun it had been to watch the number climb when he started describing the time he fought seventeen-on-one in the Bupyeong underground mall. I cut him off.

Right—the errand service. Two months ago, when my temperature hit 37.5, a full degree above the average human, Skylight had granted me special treatment: a new function called the errand service. The moment the number reached 37.5, a manual-like message arrived via bank transfer. The gist was simple: request help if needed. Fees scaled with temperature.

The fees followed a 1-2-5-10 sequence. From what I could tell, you simply stated the required temperature and the job details, and the system would match you with someone. I felt like I had discovered another revenue model for Skylight. The feeling wasn’t entirely pleasant. Skylight’s thuggish nature hadn’t gone anywhere. The same thing had happened with withdrawals. When I was at 37.1, the highland-field delivery job had paid me twenty million won, yet the client had apparently paid a hundred million to get it done.

Flashmob added a few more details. At 36.5 the risk wasn’t just danger—it was also a lack of trust and skill. He was right; those people weren’t really human. On the other hand, if you tried to hire someone with a higher temperature, the money was one issue, but the higher the temperature, the less willing they were to take on dangerous work. So the conclusion was to use them in moderation.

I decided to hire a mercenary. I agonized over the cop’s job. What temperature to request? Receiving the product was something even a 36.5 could handle—if they were human. But aside from the few people I’d actually spoken with, 36.5s and 36.6s didn’t feel like people at all. Trust was the real problem. The quantity and value weren’t small. Ten kilograms. If it was premium grade, that was worth two billion won at retail. So I chose 36.7.

I wrote a simple “item pickup” request and asked for 36.7. In less than thirty minutes I was matched and given an ID. Apparently difficulty mattered. “Item pickup” must have looked easy, which was why it matched so fast, whereas my own errands were tough enough that the system had to pull in personal connections to find someone. And why did it demand payment up front? Thugs.

I contacted the cop and told him to send the product. He immediately wanted to set up a meeting. Through the app I contacted our part-timer. That was when I realized the transaction would show up as a Bank OP ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on my end. We set the time and place, and I sent the avatar.

The cop didn’t last long. No caution at all. They exchanged the product face-to-face like they were buying carrots at a market. I could never do a deal like that. Even more ridiculous was that our part-timer accepted the package without a second thought. Did he even realize what he was carrying? I’d offloaded every risk for five million won. I told him to ship it to the Bongdam Hideout and wrapped up the delivery.

The hideout was finished. When I went to inspect it, the place had changed so much I almost doubted it was the same house I used to live in. Especially the basement. On the surface, the only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠visible addition was a delivery locker the size of a cubic meter; everything else looked unchanged. Inside, the CCTV I had installed was gone. The master bedroom was the same. Down in the warehouse basement—the real workspace—everything had been transformed.

A drainage channel now ran along the left side of the corridor. Following it led to a shower facility. Where the old duct had been, nine monitors were mounted, six showing the exterior and yard, the rest covering the master bedroom and warehouse. I hadn’t noticed them at all. They blended in perfectly.

Humming the moving-house BGM from Follow the Arrow, I opened the door at the end of the corridor and found a miniature version of the coal mine I had seen in Taebaek. Wooden support beams lined both sides, some sections reinforced with concrete. After crawling another five meters the passage grew dark. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and followed the tunnel—roughly forty meters, though I couldn’t be sure. A ladder appeared, and above it was a steel plate with a handle. I pushed it open. A patch of sky appeared, surrounded by bamboo. It looked like the bamboo forest Mai had been ordered to prepare.

I closed the plate, camouflaged it again with leaves, and stepped into the clearing at the center of the bamboo grove. Perfect. I hoped I would never need to use it. I returned to the house, completed the final inspection, and paid Mai the remaining balance.