Temperature Rising

"Fuck, what the hell? What just happened? Did they catch me? Is my life over?"

The moment I stepped off the ferry, a group of plainclothes officers with stern faces surrounded me. They snatched my bag and the squid, then shoved me into a patrol car. No Miranda rights. No answers to my questions. We drove for about forty minutes before I spotted the sign for Pohang Nam-bu Police Station. After saluting the auxiliary police at the entrance, we pulled into the lot. Escorted by the detectives, I was led to a conference room on the second floor.

I glanced around nervously, then spoke up loudly. "I'm sorry, officers. I messed up."

I groveled the way I'd taught Hamo, but it didn't work. The cops around me looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at me like I was a hardened criminal. Damn it. I shouldn't have taken this job. I spent what felt like an eternity regretting every choice that had led me here.

After about two hours, they handed back the half-eaten squid and my bag and told me to go home. What the hell was going on?

Instead of heading straight home, I bounced between motels across the country, convinced they might be tailing me. After several days of wandering, I finally felt sure no one was following and returned home. For the next few days I couldn't bring myself to go outside or meet anyone. Even the sky I usually loved felt oppressive. I holed up in my apartment, waiting for Flashmob to contact me. Saint Gabriel never reached out either. I worried they'd been picked up by the cops from the demon realm too.

While I was stuck inside watching TV, a national disaster struck. Dozens of people had died in Itaewon during some Halloween party or costume event. Why didn't they stop it? The Pohang cops at least do their jobs. What the hell were the Itaewon police doing?

For the next week the news was nonstop: who was to blame, what went wrong, what measures would be taken. High-ranking officials gave briefings about thorough investigations and new safety protocols. "A national disaster has occurred. We offer our deepest condolences to the bereaved families. Seoul City will conduct a full investigation and implement measures to ensure this never happens again."

The next day, Flashmob messaged me.

Everything's a mess. Typhoon had taken my stash, and I'd gotten picked up by the cops while doing that "patriotic youth" side gig.

He must have been desperate—he broke his own rule and personally dropped off a brick. At least I hadn't lost his trust. I could still work with blueandgreen and Nguyen WW. The best part? The price was half what it usually was. When I asked why, he didn't answer. Classic Flashmob.

Even blueandgreen's temperature had gone up. Maybe because we'd done business, or maybe he'd made a withdrawal. Deposits into SkyBank seemed to raise temperatures. I'd never tried it myself.

I had a brick to move fast so I could pay my dues. My hands were still shaking from the police station—I couldn't focus on work.

What?

They'd received complaints and tested it themselves. THC levels were too low, and there were too many impurities. Damn it. Why did Flashmob give me this garbage?

I apologized immediately. It felt like I'd lost their trust. Why was everything going wrong lately?

THC stood for tetrahydrocannabinol—the compound that produced the hallucinogenic effects. It determined the quality of the weed. Different parts of the plant contained different levels; usually the flower was used for product. If seeds or other impurities got mixed in, the quality tanked.

I contacted Flashmob right away and ratted him out like a sniveling little brother who'd just taken a beating at the playground.

There was a reason it was half price. I explained the situation to blueandgreen, apologized profusely, and begged for forgiveness.

Hashish was processed to increase THC concentration, making it stronger than regular weed. A technician among my contacts?

I hadn't known one of my top two customers was the technician. The usual ratio for turning flower into hashish was 30:1, though it varied by quality. Higher THC meant less raw material was needed. The problem was scale—5 kg minimum for a single batch. Nguyen WW had only done it back home in Vietnam; he'd never attempted it in Korea.

He asked about my inventory. I told him to wait and contacted Flashmob. I laid out the whole situation like a startup founder pitching investors—found the method, secured the technician, Nguyen WW would handle demand, low risk, needed startup capital. Ten minutes of nonstop talking.

The conclusion ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was simple. I passed the good news to Nguyen WW and told him to prepare. The deal was 50,000 won per gram of raw material; he'd handle the rest.

A week later, the money arrived along with a status update.

I learned the hashish process from Nguyen WW—or rather, I didn't. He just sent me a reading list. When I admitted I knew nothing about the product, he gave me books instead of a recipe. They were all in English. He really was an elite. Chemistry, biology, regional economics, geography, agriculture, climatology—everything. Some titles I couldn't even figure out why he'd included.

Oh, and my temperature went up. 37.0! I'd finally broken out of the 36s. I immediately requested a withdrawal. I was too scared to go to Seoul.

The withdrawal took five minutes. Incredible. Everything I'd done in Seoul—slitting open the fish bellies, eating sushi—felt like a black-and-white Joseon-era film now.

While I was holed up studying impossible chemical formulas, biological data, economic graphs, American river characteristics, plant growth cycles, and global warming with translation apps, Flashmob messaged again.

Watching him apologize made me feel like I was suffocating. I'd never even seen a patrol car while working, yet I'd been stuck in that terrifying place for two hours over some side job. He said it didn't seem like a delivery accident—more like someone had deliberately given me that order as bait.

He also congratulated me on raising my temperature and finding a technician, and told me to be careful. Yes, hyung. I'll remember that.

Remember the grower who'd failed at cultivation—Yangcho? I'd asked Nguyen WW about him while mining customers. He wanted a sample, so I told Yangcho to send one. The guy boldly shipped 10 g. Does he have money to burn? Is he that desperate?

Five minutes after the "product arrived" notification, Nguyen WW contacted me.