The Trap and the Hunting Dog

Two in the afternoon, at the Starbucks just off campus.

I crushed the cardboard sleeve in my fist until it buckled, desperate to hide the tremor running through the hand that held my coffee. Across the table, legs crossed, sat Choi Yura — the goddess of the business department. No. A four-hundred-million-won gold bar that walked on two legs, scrolling through her phone as if I weren't even there.

"Ugh, unnie. This coffee is awful. Doesn't it taste burnt to you? I don't think they're even taking care of their beans."

Yura frowned and set her cup down with a sharp clack.

I wanted to scream that her taste buds were the problem, that she was a spoiled, overfed princess — but I just beamed and nodded.

"Right? I think they switched baristas. Next time let's go somewhere better. There's a decent cafe over in Cheongdam. My treat."

"Don't bother. We both know what a TA's paycheck looks like."

Yura let out a short laugh.

The words drove into my chest like a blade, but I had to take it. I bit down on my lip and forced the smile to stay put.

Right now the charts were hemorrhaging, plunging in a dead drop. A crash so violent you could almost hear the retail traders screaming. But a hustler's instinct was whispering in my ear.

This is it. This is the real bottom.

When the panic selling pours in — that's the opportunity. A technical rebound comes from exactly this kind of bloodbath. It has to. If I liquidate everything I have left and flip to a long position right now, I can turn my whole life around.

The problem was ammo. I didn't have enough of it. To bet at a timing this perfect, I needed serious capital.

My only hope. My only bankroll. She was sitting right in front of me.

"Hey, Yura. About what I mentioned earlier... have you thought about it?"

I put on the most pitiful, desperate face I could manage — the look of a woman carrying the weight of the entire world — and finally got to the point.

"What, the thing about lending you money?"

Yura didn't even glance up from her phone. Her thumb kept flicking through her Instagram feed.

"Yeah... unnie is in a really tight spot. My mother's surgery costs came out of nowhere, and... the hospital says they won't operate unless the deposit hits the account today."

A blatant, flaming lie. My mother was back home in the countryside, perfectly healthy and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thriving. But with kids from money, this devoted-daughter routine was a cheat code. It worked every time.

"Surgery? What's wrong with her? How much do you need?"

Yura finally lifted her head and looked at me. That gaze. It was the look you give a piece of junk left on the side of the road — or a mutt wagging its tail, begging for scraps. On any other day I would have been so insulted I'd have shoved my chair back and walked out. Right now, I was grateful even for her contempt.

"Seventy... no, fifty million should be enough. I just need to put out the immediate fire."

I watched her face and slashed the number down hard.

"Fifty million? That's pocket change. That's like, what, a couple of handbags?"

Yura snorted. Fifty million won, pocket change. Heat surged up through my chest until my sternum ached, but I forced myself to play along.

"Right? Chump change for you. But I don't have anywhere to pull it from right now... I'll pay you back the second next month's salary hits. With interest. Okay?"

I reached across the table and took her hand. My palm was clammy with cold sweat.

"Yura, please. Just this once. Save me. Okay? I heard you have four hundred million. Just fifty million of that... I'm begging you."

It was pathetic. I took the dignity of being a TA, the pride of being her senior in life, and I shoved all of it into the trash. In front of money, that kind of thing was a luxury I couldn't afford.

Yura slipped her hand out of mine and scrubbed it with a wet wipe, as if something filthy had gotten on her skin.

"Ugh, unnie. Why is your hand so damp? Do you have hyperhidrosis? Are you nervous?"

"Huh? Ah, no... it's just hot... the air conditioning is weak."

"Hmm. Well. I could lend it to you."

Yura propped her chin on her hand and looked me over. It was the look of a pawnshop owner appraising a piece of collateral.

"But why should I lend you money? Are we even that close? We've never even had a meal together."

"Well... we're in the same department, and I gave you the exam files during finals, and I looked the other way on attendance more times than I can count..."

"Looked the other way? I don't remember that. I just got good scores because I'm good at studying, didn't I?"

Yura cut me off, her voice gone cold.

"And I don't throw money around. Dohun oppa said so. He told me money should only go where it has value. Would lending it to you have any value?"

Dohun...?

Park Dohun?

What the hell was that returning student, that nobody, doing in this bitch's mouth? But right now I would use his name, grab her by the pant leg, do whatever it took to get the money.

"Right, of course. Dohun has a point. He's sharp. But couldn't you think ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of this as an investment? I'll pay you serious interest. Way more than a bank. Twenty percent... no, thirty!"

I blurted it out, the words tumbling over each other.

"Thirty percent? Pfft."

Yura laughed in my face.

"Unnie. I made hundreds of millions last week. You think an annual thirty percent is even going to register? Are you joking?"

My mouth snapped shut. She was right. To someone who had tasted a real gambling table, thirty percent a year was about as meaningful as a dog barking in the street.

"Then... what do you want me to do? I'll do anything you say. I'll write your assignments. I'll write your entire graduation thesis. I'll handle all your attendance. Please..."

"I don't need any of that. I can take care of it myself."

Yura gathered her handbag and stood up.

"I'll think about it. My cash is tied up right now. It's all in staking."

"No, you can't! Yura, I need it right now! If the money doesn't hit the account today I'm finished! They won't do the surgery!"

I lurched to my feet and grabbed the hem of her dress. If I let her walk out of here, it was over. The life where I became a Gangnam rich woman and lived like I owned the world would go up in smoke.

"Let go! You'll stretch it. This is expensive."

Yura's face hardened and she yanked her hand free, rough about it.

"Why are you being so clingy? I didn't say I wouldn't lend it. Stop pushing."

"Th-then...?"

"I'll ask Dohun oppa. If he says yes, I'll lend it to you. He manages my money."

"Park Dohun...?"

"Yeah. He's my financial advisor. And he's been feeding me killer intel on crypto, too. So just wait. I'll contact you. Keep your phone on you."

Yura walked out of the cafe without looking back.

Click. Click.

The receding sound of her heels felt like it was stepping on my heart.

I dropped back into the chair. The torture of false hope. Acting like she might lend it, acting like she might not — bleeding a person dry. Rage surged all the way to the top of my skull, but underneath it was a thin wash of relief.

She hadn't refused outright.

If I could just work Park Dohun the right way, this might still happen.

Park Dohun... so that bastard was the key all along.

I bit my lip until I tasted blood. When had that pathetic, dirt-poor returning student become someone this big? The way he had Yura wrapped around his finger, he was clearly no ordinary player.

Just you wait. Once I hit this score... none of you are getting off easy. I'll make every last one of you kneel in front of me.

I clenched my fist. But for now, I was in the miserable position of having to lick the soles of their shoes. The humiliation rose all the way to my throat. I forced it down and swallowed.

This was the life of the one on the bottom.

At the same hour, in the student council office of the Business Administration Building, Seo Jisu sat in the president's chair reviewing documents. Her eyes, however, were not on the text. They were on the trembling fingertips of the girl sitting on the sofa across from her.

"Minjeong. Don't be nervous. I didn't call you here to scold you. Have some tea."

Jisu soothed her in a gentle voice.

Kim Minjeong. A sophomore in the business department. Quiet, diligent, and pathologically terrified of losing her scholarship. Jisu had also heard that she had been staying late for frequent meetings with TA Shin Nara.

"P-President... I really don't know anything... I swear..."

Minjeong kept her head bowed, her voice shrinking into the floor.

"You don't know? Really?"

Jisu slid a sheet of paper across the desk toward her. It was a server log from last semester's grade-correction period.

"Can you explain this? The grade changed without the professor even knowing. And at nearly midnight, no less."

"Th-that's... there was an error..."

The color drained from Minjeong's face.

"Minjeong. I want to help you. I'm not trying to get you disciplined."

Jisu rose from her chair, came around to Minjeong's side, and put an arm around her shoulders. A warm, gentle touch. To a girl rigid with terror, it must have felt like the merciful hand of a savior.

"If this goes to the university audit office, you're expelled. A mark on your record. Your life is over. You know that, right?"

"Hhk... I-I'm sorry... please... just look the other way this once..."

Minjeong burst into tears.

"Don't cry. There's a way out. There's a way for you to survive this."

Jisu wiped Minjeong's tears and whispered against her ear.

"Tell them you didn't do it. Tell them the TA made you. That she blackmailed you, and you had no choice but to pay. You're the victim."

"What...?"

"Tell me the truth. TA Shin Nara asked you for money, didn't she? She told you she'd raise your grade if you paid her, didn't she?"

Minjeong trembled and nodded.

"How much did you give her?"

"T-two million... everything I'd saved from part-time jobs for tuition... I gave her all of it..."

"Do you have proof? A transfer record, a text, even a recording."

"She told me to delete the texts, so I did... but the transfer is still there. It's in my banking app..."

"Good girl. Send that to me. Screenshot it."

Jisu's eyes flashed like a hunting dog's. She had her. The decisive evidence that would close around Shin Nara's throat — airtight, irrefutable, inescapable.

"Minjeong. Send the transfer record now, and write me one statement. That TA Shin Nara coerced you. Do that, and I will personally take responsibility for protecting you. No disciplinary action. You'll stay in school."

"Really... is that really true? I won't get expelled?"

"Of course. Who do you think I am? I'm the student council president. Protecting you is my job."

Jisu smiled, utterly sure of herself. Minjeong, as if spellbound, pulled out her phone, captured the transfer record, and sent it. Then, with a shaking hand, she began writing the statement on the blank sheet Jisu had placed in front of her.

Jisu watched her, and a strange pleasure uncoiled in her chest. The pleasure of steering someone under the banner of justice. Of taking a weakness and using it to get exactly what you wanted. This was something Park Dohun had taught her thoroughly. The same method he used when he handled her — she was using it now to dominate someone else.

Dohun will like this... won't he?

What face ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would Park Dohun make when she brought him this evidence? Would he stroke her hair and say, "Well done, Jisu. That's my girl"? Or would he say, "I should reward you," and kiss her with that hot, rough mouth?

Just imagining it made her heart slam against her ribs. And at the same time, a sharp, electric ache bloomed between her legs. She could feel her panties growing damp.

You're insane, Seo Jisu...

A slave who went into heat thinking about her master in the middle of doing her job. But she couldn't stop. This evidence was not just a document. It was the most perfect tribute she could lay at Park Dohun's feet — a desperate courtship dance, begging for his love.

"I... I'm ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠done."

Minjeong held out the statement. Jisu took it and checked every line. It was perfect. This one sheet of paper would bury Shin Nara socially.

"Good work, Minjeong. You can go. And don't forget to keep this quiet. If you talk about this anywhere else, you're the one who takes the fall."

"Yes... thank you, President... thank you so much..."

Minjeong fled the room. The student council office stood empty. Jisu pressed the statement and the phone with the transfer record to her chest.

"I miss you... Dohun."

She leaned her hips against the edge of the desk and crossed her legs, rubbing her thighs together, savoring the wet, transgressive heat spreading between them. She wanted to go to him. She wanted to be praised. She wanted to be rewarded with those rough hands and that burning heat.

Jisu took out her phone and sent Park Dohun a text.

A sultry, corrupted smile spread across her mouth as she hit send. It was the moment she shed the student council president's mask and let the instincts of a female in heat — waiting for her master — rise to the surface.