I'll Kill Them All For You (2)

"Haaah. I'm losing my fucking mind."

Hotel buffet. Yuri's head was a tangled mess the whole time she picked at her sausages. It felt like she'd already been on the run for a week, but barely a full day had passed. She just wanted to go home and crash already. But thinking about that house crawling with perverts who planted trackers in her underwear made her stomach churn.

Yeah, I said I'd quit this shit once we leave Korea...

Cheol-woo setting down his gun? She couldn't picture it. He was always disassembling it whenever he had a moment, fiddling with it, muttering to himself while racking the slide—click-clack—like a total maniac. How could someone look so natural with it after just picking it up yesterday? Like he'd been shooting his whole life.

Would GeumMyeong Group really give up the chase cleanly once they left Korea? They didn't seem like the type, not after hounding them this relentlessly. And Cheol-woo, who had no skills beyond pulling a trigger—could he really start from scratch, giving up that fat paycheck? He might grit his teeth and do it quietly, but one accident or injury needing big money, and he'd grab a gun again in a heartbeat.

She couldn't exactly rake in enough cash to support him worry-free—Aah—Yuri's future looked pitch black.

"Haaaah..."

Shing—shing—she drew and sheathed the wakizashi hidden in her clothes over and over, taking deep breaths. That clear, resonant sound soothed her body and mind. All her anxiety and worries melted away. She could probably do this all day with her brain on autopilot.

Shhhk—the blade whispered against its scabbard, followed by a crisp snick as it seated perfectly without a hitch. She didn't know about durability, but the craftsmanship was flawless. Why did kendo use those ugly bamboo shinai when they had beautiful live blades like this? She was starting to wonder.

"Excuse me, miss."

"Ah, uh! Yes!?"

Yuri startled, fumbling to cover up. She thought they'd yell at her to stop playing with the knife—the shing-shing was pretty loud—but the waiter's expression said otherwise. Following his glancing eyes, Yuri's jaw dropped.

A solo woman at a table buried under a mountain of plates.

"Ah."

"We're truly sorry, but... we don't have a time limit or anything... but if you eat this much, it makes operations difficult for us... If you'd like a refund, please just leave. We'd be so grateful..."

After that, Yuri's memory got fuzzy. Did she crawl out on all fours? Sprint full-tilt? Or just black out from sheer embarrassment? Wow, how many plates had she demolished? Every one piled high with meat. She didn't even eat like this on cheat days. What the hell was wrong with her?

The most ridiculous part? She was still hungry after getting booted. No way could she hit up another restaurant in the hotel. Felt like she'd been blacklisted—probably circulating through the whole place. They'd whisper, "That's the bitch who devoured a whole pig right there at her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seat." Even knowing it was her imagination, her face burned; she couldn't step foot anywhere and bolted from the hotel.

Across the street, DongYang Department Store caught her eye. Weren't the restaurants there supposed to be top-notch? She'd heard they imported high-end spots from China to compete domestically. Used to be too pricey to even dream of. But with the wad of cash Cheol-woo had somehow scored, money wasn't an issue.

Should I text him now that I'm out of the hotel?

It was just across the street—no big deal. But recalling his insistent gaze, maybe she should. Felt like dating some obsessive boyfriend, but given the circumstances, no point in pride. She'd shoot a quick text.

Yuri had the trauma of ignoring Cheol-woo, going rogue, and ending up zapped like an electric eel etched into her bones.

DongYang Department Store, 5th floor. Yuri drooled at the lineup of famous restaurants, then wandered into a Korean place like she was mesmerized. Why Korean at a department store? But cravings didn't care about logic.

"Whoaaa..."

Every dish that arrived had Yuri gaping, snapping pics nonstop. Korean food served as a fancy course meal? First time for everything. The plates looked Western, but the ingredients screamed authentic Korean. Globalization, huh? This could work—until the bill hit. Korean food's meant to be home-cooked comfort—no way around it. Yuri couldn't wrap her head around fancy Korean cuisine as a Korean.

"Excuse me? You left something behind."

A paper under the serving dish. She almost called the waiter, but unfolding it like a note, her voice dropped. It was a business card.

Handwritten note on the back.

What? She snapped the card shut and whipped around, hand instinctively going for her wakizashi. Being watched? They recognized her? Kidnapping? Her mind raced, but shing-shing—drawing and sheathing cleared her head.

Not a kidnapping.

If it were, no need to raise alarms like this. Not after they'd already shoved her into a van and cuffed her for a patrol car. So, separate from GeumMyeong chasing Cheol-woo? That was horrifying in its own way. Strangers recognizing her face and approaching? No way she'd drag herself into some random mess without Cheol-woo.

Yuri wiped her mouth with a napkin and stood.

"No need to pay. Just follow me to the president's office—"

"Ah. Thanks. I'll head out now."

She brushed past the waiter and bolted for the elevator—totter-totter. What if they followed? Draw the sword? For real? Cold sweat beaded as she tensed, but luckily, no one piled in.

Huuuuh—shing-shing—huuuh—shing—repeating to unwind as the elevator descended.

"Huh?"

Suddenly, it jerked to a halt and reversed. Buttons ignored, emergency unresponsive. Fuck-fuck-fuck—teeth chattering, hands shaking. Scary enough with Cheol-woo; without him, she felt tiny and helpless.

Ding—top floor. Yuri yanked her wakizashi, aiming at the doors. Kashink—it gouged the wall as it cleared the sheath.

"Oh my. Did the staff scare you? You look tense."

"Pardon?"

"Sorry. We were in such a rush, practically dragged you here. Won't take long. Hear me out?"

The doors slid open. A tall woman strode in. Yuri couldn't swing, just shuffled back meekly. Doors shut; they were alone. The woman signaled at the CCTV—red light out.

"Nice to meet you. Saw the card? I'm Han Si-rin, president of this store."

"What do you want with me?"

"You're Min Cheol-woo's sister, right? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I have a great offer for you both, so I took the liberty."

"..."

Great offer? Great for you, maybe. Yuri eyed the offered hand warily. No trust.

Ding. Phone buzzed—brrr. Yuri glanced. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Han nodded—take it. She did, and thunderous yelling exploded.

"Uh, you didn't reply right away, so I figured it was fine."

"Ha. Where are you now?"

"Right now..."

Quick glance. Han smiled reassuringly.

"DongYang Department Store... elevator... with President Han Si-rin..."

"What? Why?!"

How the hell should I know? You probably know better than me, you little shit. Yuri bit her tongue.

"If it's alright, could I speak to him?"

"Ah, sure."

"Min Cheol-woo? Nice to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠meet you. You know Oriental Group? Han Si-rin, DongYang president. I ran into your sister and we're chatting—maybe you could join—"

"Eh? Huh? Yes?"

Call cut dead. Han Si-rin's serene face flushed with shock.

GeumMyeong Security 1st Team office. Bodies cleared, janitors scrubbing bloodstains. Jeong Gwa-jang lit a cigarette in his trashed private office—safe ripped open, door smashed.

"Hoo. That ballsy little shit. Where'd he learn that attitude..."

First time he saw the rookie, he reeked of no guts, no spine—doomed for corporate life. Couldn't even meet his boss's eyes. Now? Backtalk, gunning down colleagues, doing whatever. Passing grade, right? No reason not to promote him after the test.

Manpower and resources lost? Pocket change compared to what the rookie would rake in. If the road shootout tanked GeumMyeong, just start a new PMC. One skilled guy beat a hundred obedient drones.

With Cheol-woo, ripping out Oriental's chink roots in Korea was a breeze. Ship him to the Middle East, and GeumMyeong could dominate intel, snag oil rights. Middle Easterners brainwashed by US doctrine? One taste of the rookie's lead, and culture shock. No suppressive fire—just headshots on the advance. How the fuck do you stop that?

"Heh-heh. Hnng."

Would the rookie grasp the grand plan? Jeong chuckled, dumping blue powder on the desk. He snorted it in one go.

"Krrgh! Guh! Krrghh. Urgh. Ugh. Holy shit! Fuck!"

Flash! Eyes bulged, veins popping, muscles swelling. Crack-crunch—spine straightened. Head snapped back; his fist crumpled a metal file cabinet.

"Haa. Haaa. Uwaaa. Feels good. So good. Like I'm 20 again."

Shuddering subsided; he sprang up. Swish—click—swish—click—draw speed jacked. Trigger pull under 0.1 seconds. Human eyes clock 10 fps—physically impossible to react. Even if spotted, neural lag made it undoable.

Body like his youth... no, better. Beyond human limits.

"Heh-heh-heh-ha-ha-ha. So what if you're accurate? Slower than me, you're fish food, punk."

He couldn't wait to face the rookie again. Worst case, shred his limbs to rags and negotiate salary. Teach him full-auto? Monster upgrade. Just thinking about it cracked him up.