Blood on the Water
I caused an accident. And a big one at that. Murder in South Korea, and six people no less. A national disaster-level incident. That's how I'd define it. The moment I saw the Makarov pistol, my eyes went wild. I wasn't in my right mind.
After the incident, I told Eun-seong, who was outside the ship, not to come aboard and to turn straight back to Changwon. Since he never set foot on the vessel, he should be able to talk his way out of it later if questioned. The loyal guy and I stayed behind to check if anyone remained on board and searched the ship thoroughly. His face had likely already been seen, so after the search we'd have to send him overseas immediately.
Fortunately, the search turned up no survivors, so there were no further killings, but the bodies were another matter. We left them for now. During the sweep we found three rifles and about two hundred rounds of ammunition. I took one gun and some ammo; the rest I told the loyal guy to carry. I also left bullet holes all over the ship to make it look like a large-scale brawl had taken place. Then I recovered one kilogram of the product. The loyal guy had known about it. There were also dollars and rubles. At least we made back the labor costs.
The moment we left the ship, I told the loyal guy to destroy his phone, head overseas, create a new identity, and contact me through the Sky app. I also called Deputy Chief Ha and had him wire ten million won in cash to the loyal guy's real account. That same morning, as soon as the sun rose, I put him on a plane to the Philippines.
The police must have imposed a solid media blackout, because for three days after the incident everything stayed quiet. Those were golden hours. I went into hiding in Bongdam and lived like a real mole. There was a movie like this—Parasite. That was exactly me.
Through the Sky app I worked even harder to build an alibi. I insisted the Busan Russian shipment incident had nothing to do with me. Whether it worked or not, the case sank into obscurity. No one came looking for me, and aside from business matters, no one contacted me either.
I sent Eun-seong to Japan as a bonus. It was his first time traveling abroad, so it reminded me of my own first overseas trip—to Japan. I told him to enjoy himself and not to worry.
While I was lying low, constantly repeating “Don’t get caught, don’t get caught,” a message arrived from a high-ranking member of the Busan syndicate.
Shit. Why was this soda guy contacting me? Had he picked up my trail?
He then launched into small talk, probably trying to feel me out. Eventually he brought up the recent Russian ship attack. I slipped out of it as smoothly as I could.
Damn it. The soda guy must know. Should I just come clean? We're in the same line of work—maybe he'd let it slide. But if it had happened to him, he'd want revenge, right? While I was lost in paranoid thoughts, another message arrived.
??
He explained that he had already handed over his existing stock and customers to me. His group was no longer handling the product. Any old or new customers were being directed to our side—probably to the loyal guy. Because of the recent incident, however, they wanted reliable supply from us and were asking for understanding.
Listening to him, I felt annoyed. So we lacked credibility? Either way, with the loyal guy gone we needed to reorganize anyway, so I agreed. The soda guy's line had originally supplied us—why hand it over only to take it back? The next line made his greed clear.
Insane. He was asking for a huge volume. I reluctantly quoted a premium price—70,000 won per gram. He accepted without haggling. I wondered what kind of margin he was making…
Swallowing the resentment that comes when your cousin buys land, I continued living underground. A week later, just as I was getting used to a concrete sky as my normal sky, a message came from the loyal guy.
So he was still alive. He had even changed his username from BusanMan to ManilaMan.
I carried out an organizational restructuring. I hated doing this sort of thing. The logistics department had been built on a 1-3-9-27 system centered on Deputy Chief Ha, but with one section chief gone the 333 structure had collapsed. What worried me most was that logistics and money flowed through the same person, putting too much risk on Deputy Chief Ha. So I decided to act like a typical small-business owner. What else would that mean? Chaotic promotions.
Since the logistics department needed a director, I promoted Deputy Chief Ha to Director Ha and raised his salary. I also appointed two section chiefs as deputy directors—one for finance and one for product logistics. That brought the number of people handling money to three. I gave them internal control authority up to 100 million won each. I'd grown bold. Director Ha could handle up to a billion; anything beyond that the organization couldn't support and it made me nervous.
Originally a small business runs on the owner's whim, but I asked Director Ha for his opinion. He and I were both too exposed now, so we needed to use the section chiefs. Director Ha had been worried too. In reality, the two section chiefs already knew each other, so if one were interrogated the others could be dragged in. The section chief who had been arrested earlier was treated as a minor offender and was quietly doing fine. But once I ended up on the blacklist, the story changed, and he was concerned.
One of the section chiefs was also physically unwell and didn't want to do dangerous work anymore. So I reassigned the ailing section chief to finance deputy director and expanded the logistics side under the product logistics deputy director: 1 director, 2 deputy directors, 3 section chiefs, 9 assistant managers, 27 staff. Promotions to section chief were based on sales volume. The section chiefs would now have to sell too. Assistant manager promotions were based on delivery volume. Staff hires were left to Director Ha and the product logistics section chief.
The manufacturing department became an independent direct-report unit with the Vietnamese brother and the Haman Factory siblings. The security team still had Eun-seong. Production sites remained in Yeongcheon and Shinan. At this point, weren't we basically a small-to-medium enterprise? In reality I was a fugitive, but the Haman factory had been completed while I was in hiding. I directed everything from Bongdam.
Uncle Mai connected the CCTV first because I asked him to. I was too bored, and I was the owner after all. I watched. There was nothing else to do underground. The work was done properly. Besides Mai, two more men came. These friends weren't there for just a day or two—they hid everything. From head to toe. They even wore latex gloves so they wouldn't leave fingerprints. Their height gave them away, though. Exactly Mai's size, around 160 cm. If they'd been average Korean height it would have been perfect.
Watching the CCTV, I finally understood what these brothers did for a living. I thought they only existed in movies, but they were real. Body disposal crew. Cleaners. I learned by accident. If they'd spoken Vietnamese I wouldn't have understood, but they communicated in Korean because they were different nationalities. Mai pointed at a friend's pants and said there was blood on them. The scolded friend explained he'd gotten it during the job and took a hit. Mai pointed it out and the man beside him smacked the back of the friend's head without hesitation. It looked so solid that even watching through CCTV, it hurt. I wondered if knowing about them earlier could have kept me off the wanted list. Too late now. No point regretting it.
I completed the final inspection via LAN cable and paid the remaining balance. Another 100 million won. The ventilation system wasn't special; they said if I only planned to use it temporarily I didn't need to install it, but the next words forced my hand. Worker health and product quality! Weren't those our organization's top priorities?
That was how I gradually expanded my sphere from ordinary citizen to small-business owner. Looking at the completed factory, I wondered if this was right, but already fifty or so people were making a living under me. A sense of responsibility was forming—the feeling that I couldn't just disappear like this. It was a day when the burden made me sentimental.