Expansion (2)
"Who's handling the internal investigation of that organization?" GB asked.
"Director Jo is taking care of it," Hamo-hamo replied.
At some point, once the number of people working under me exceeded a hundred, I realized that even I had become just another cog in the machine. Things were happening that I didn't know about.
"Who else is working with Director Jo? He can't be doing it alone, right?" GB pressed.
"The security team is handling most of the fieldwork. Director Jo is managing the control tower operations," Hamo-hamo explained.
I thought I had received a report on this before. Still, I hadn't expected the work to be carried out so ruthlessly.
"He's doing an excellent job," Hamo-hamo added, perhaps sensing my hesitation.
"We need to reorganize the structure," GB said.
"I'll head up next week. If anyone's hiding anything, have them come clean. Let's discuss the organization's current problems and deal with them together."
"Understood. I'll make the preparations," Hamo-hamo answered.
Miju glanced at me, noticing my expression. I must have looked too serious. I forced a smile and suggested we take the cruise ship that circled Odongdo. They were apparently holding a fireworks display on the deck tonight. The attempt to lighten the mood worked—Miju finally smiled back.
Sorry. What could possibly be wrong between us?
Whenever we visited tourist spots in Yeosu, we seemed to hear "Cherry Blossom Ending" and "Yeosu Night Sea" everywhere. The cruise ship played them too. The song really was well made—the sound of the waves, the night view, and the atmosphere kept it from growing stale.
Miju leaned against me, humming "Yeosu Night Sea." Yeosu night sea~ bathed in those lights~ This was why people traveled and made memories. Suddenly, she turned and kissed me. That night in Yeosu left me with a memory.
We didn't need to meet anyone at the Haman Factory, so we only looked around the exterior. I told Miju to wait at a nearby café with a cup of coffee while I drove over alone. I wanted to check if anything felt off—anything I didn't know about—and get some advice if needed.
The only change since my last visit was an additional container. As I approached in the car, I heard a dog barking. Someone must have been keeping one. A woman in her mid-twenties came out. Unfortunately, she seemed to have poor eyesight—she was holding a white cane. A minute or two later, Mincheol appeared. He didn't notice me and simply told her I was just a passerby before leading her back inside. Yeonhui wasn't around, it seemed. I still needed to check on the progress of the Busan operations. I observed from a distance to see if anything had been set up differently from what I'd arranged, but since I couldn't see inside, I eventually turned back. I caught a glimpse of what looked like drums, but from the outside, nothing seemed suspicious enough to raise alarms.
I took the Namhae Expressway, stopped by Haman, then turned the car toward Daegu. Changnyeong was on the way, so we visited Upo Wetland. Nearby was a restaurant famous for duck and lotus leaf rice, so we stopped there as well. We booked a place to stay in Daegu, close to Yeongcheon, and I told Miju I had some business to take care of. She was remarkably cool about it. Most people would have asked questions, but she simply said she'd rest and told me to go ahead. I was back in under two hours.
PRIVATE PROPERTY — NO OUTSIDERS PERMITTED
I punched in the Yeongcheon farm address I'd received earlier and drove there. About five hundred meters from the destination, the road ended. Following the unpaved farm road a little farther, I found a closed gate with those words scrawled in red. Beyond it, two CCTV cameras were positioned in blind spots, slowly panning to monitor anyone approaching the entrance. Anyone who knew what they were looking at would find it highly suspicious. Even in a country where being targeted could happen anywhere, this seemed excessive from the outside.
The previous manager of the Yeongcheon farm—his name, contact information, and face were all unknown to me. I called Candlelight.
"Manager, do you know who runs the Yeongcheon farm?" GB asked.
"Hello, Boss. That guy's autistic, so meeting him will be difficult. He also has some social anxiety," Candlelight replied.
That wasn't what I wanted to know. I gave up on seeing him in person.
"The thing is, I'm in Yeongcheon right now. The surveillance equipment and the entrance seem a bit over the top. I thought I should mention it," GB said.
"The gate's been like that since I took over. The CCTV is just his personality," Candlelight explained.
"There are no houses nearby, and no one to greet. It's basically abandoned. Even when I lived there for about a year, no one came looking."
Hearing that was somewhat reassuring.
"Then please pass the message along. Just like I said before—be careful, stay cautious, and watch your health," GB instructed.
"He'll be fine. His hobby is talking to plants. He says plants don't ignore him," Candlelight answered.
I was starting to feel our organization drifting further from anything resembling normal.
When I returned to the lodging, Miju was already asleep. I left her be, took a shower, and looked up nearby restaurants. As the old saying goes, even Mount Kumgang is best enjoyed after a meal. The area had plenty of meat restaurants. While searching for places specializing in makchang and daechang, Miju woke up. When I asked what she wanted, she said she liked daechang and suggested we go eat. We took a taxi twenty minutes away to a highly rated daechang spot. The place had about twenty tables, and I couldn't tell if we were in Korea or abroad—the dialect was so thick I could barely understand a word.
That dawn, I prepared for an operation. Once Miju was asleep, I slipped out of the lodging, changed into the work clothes I kept in the car—dark-colored top and bottom with work boots from my training days—and set off for the Yeongcheon farm. I needed to see it with my own eyes to believe it.
After about forty minutes, the navigation showed two kilometers remaining. It looked like the last building before the farm. The lights were off, but just in case, I drove past as if turning around, killed the headlights, found a farm road leading into the rice paddies, and parked the car beside an irrigation channel. Taking only a flashlight and basic gear, I started running. Two kilometers meant roughly ten minutes at a jog.
I began my midnight run. Not a single streetlight in sight—I was on a farm road. Ten minutes later, I reached the opposite side of the road leading up to the farm and began climbing the mountain with no trail. In Korea, there was nowhere GPS wouldn't work. With just a phone, you could find your way anywhere. In Mexico, I'd navigated with nothing but a map. What would they do if I got lost? Controlling my breathing, I reached the ridge and looked down. Two buildings and a large greenhouse came into view. It looked different from the satellite images, but those were two years old, so I understood.
Following the ridge down, I saw lights on in both buildings and the greenhouse. I could even hear the boiler running. Moving slowly to avoid detection, I approached—but there was no sign of anyone. I headed for the greenhouse first. It was about two hundred meters long, twelve meters wide, and three meters high. Exactly like a strawberry greenhouse. When I was still fifty meters away, I had to stop. The smell was overwhelming—that distinctive stench of urine. The building on the far side of the greenhouse had ducts installed, and the odor coming through them mixed with the greenhouse smell to create something so potent it made you question whether a human could endure it. I covered my nose with my sleeve and moved closer.
Through the translucent vinyl, the sight inside overwhelmed me. It was a jungle. The sheer number of pots packed tightly with cannabis was staggering. There were plenty of signs that harvesting had taken place—proof that production was indeed insufficient. They seemed to be managing it in rows, with the smallest plants in the middle and larger ones toward the entrance. The opposite entrance had the best growth.
Leaving the greenhouse, I approached the smaller building. It looked like living quarters—the door was open, I could see the kitchen, and I heard the sound of a TV. The manager was probably inside, but approaching him would only cause trouble for both of us, so I moved toward the larger building instead.
Peering through the window, I saw a sight that made me freeze. Then I climbed back down the mountain.
"Mina, how are you feeling today?"
"You seem a little less shiny than yesterday. Want some nutrients?"
A burly man in his twenties, wearing a pink maid outfit, was talking to the plants—each one labeled with a name written on its pot.