Chapter 7: Asura Field
"That new guy's just sitting pretty at the office..."
He opened the phone app to check, and the rookie along with Team 1 were still clocked in. Only Team Leader Kang had clocked out. That fucker. He'd said he was stepping away for a bit, but he'd just gone home?
Jeong Gwa-jang set his phone down and drummed his fingers anxiously. Everything was clearly running smoothly, but something felt off. Like he'd forgotten one crucial detail. Like leaving the gas valve open at home. Something, something was nagging at him.
Jeong Gwa-jang tapped his radio and called out to Team 3, the ones tailing the woman.
"Team 3. Any issues on your end?"
Women, man. You never knew which way they'd bolt.
"Keep tracking. Report if anything comes up."
"Ha..."
How fucking obvious were these guys? Jeong Gwa-jang sighed and pinched his temple. It didn't matter if she slipped away anyway. Wherever she wandered, she'd end up back at her one-room apartment eventually. Just secure her before the rookie got off work. Plenty of time left—no need to rush.
That made sense. But still, Jeong Gwa-jang felt an ominous chill.
"Chase her down. Secure her now."
"Yes! You've got a car! Now! Right fucking now!"
Grab her now. If they let her slip, she'd be gone for good—that anxiety surged through him.
The staff listening nearby jumped up routinely, bustling to clean up the site. Adjusting CCTV blind spots, timing the studio exit with patrol schedules—the meticulously planned op crumbled in seconds. Yet no one complained. Jeong Gwa-jang's "gut feelings" and whims weren't new. And every time he flipped the script, his judgment proved eerily spot-on. No choice but to follow.
"Keep chasing! Secure her!"
"Doesn't matter—secure her fast!"
A sigh mixed with a faint "fuuck" leaked through. Faces on CCTV, photos online—who'd take the heat? The company handled cleanup, sure, but that meant erasing traces, launching them overseas, or suicide if unlucky. That's why we gotta get off field work, the staff thought bitterly.
"Secured her?"
"Head straight to the parking lot once secured. Swap cars."
"Hey! Team 3! What the fuck?!"
Response cut off dead. Did those fuckers bail? With time ticking down, Jeong Gwa-jang's neck cramped hard. He was about to send Team 2 to check when his phone rang.
"What? I'm busy."
Jeong Gwa-jang's face twisted. What the hell was this?
"Explain slowly. What's this about? No outstanding payments."
"W-wait. Hold up. Total ammo count? How many guns?"
"Who... the fuck. Recipient, location, time."
Jeong Gwa-jang's eyes bulged. The rookie? He should be pulling overtime. Picking up unrequested gear? Then it hit him. Ah! Fuck!
Jeong Gwa-jang gritted his teeth, hung up. That motherfucking rookie used his name to snag the gear. Office had to be a shitshow—no need to check. This was a massive fuckup. When? How'd he catch on? Pointless questions now. A walking disaster, fully armed, loose in Seoul—that was the crisis.
"Team 2, secure the woman first. We're en route."
Recovery crew bolted out on cue to haul bodies. Without a word, staff donned Level 4 vests, prepped for gunfight. Jeong Gwa-jang ground his teeth to nubs boarding and speeding off. What the fuck's he thinking? Link up with his sister? Escape Seoul alive? Psycho fucker, charging blind—no thought to fallout. No negotiation now. Gunfight downtown? HQ couldn't cover this.
Quiet as possible. Quick and clean.
A small envelope rustled in his pocket. Powder like glowing blue sand. This can't leak in Korea...
"Whew."
Through the scope, the spotter vanished. No more tails—Team 3 wiped. Link with sis, hop the truck, shake pursuit for a bit.
Cheol-woo swiftly unscrewed the M110's suppressor, collapsed the stock, stowed it in the guitar case. Range drills made it familiar. But sniping near a kilometer? First time. At that range, zero shifts massively, wind dominates. Yet barrel auto-adjusted to gusts, click-locked perfectly. Seven shots, all clean chest hits. Slight miss? Bystander skulls. How? Even he wondered.
Something's off with my senses.
Pre-shot lock-in, post-shot buzz in hands. Felt weird handling guns before, but never this intense. Peaking daily, senses sharpening by the hour.
Sis found. Time to bail Korea.
Plan? None. Overtime rage-shoot led here—what plan? Now with breathing room, rough out safe exit.
Three options. One: Surrender to cops. Fastest, but unsafe—GeumMyeong influence in brass confirmed. Two: Snag flight abroad. Can't sneak boarding; ditch gear, face overseas branches post-landing. Weapons let him hold now—naked abroad? Dead. Three: Stowaway... No solid route yet. Busan least influenced, but still suicide gamble.
Cheol-woo sighed as he descended stairs. How to handle this? Phone rang mid-hesitation.
"Told you no calls. Wiretap risk."
"Yeah, me. Where are you."
"I shoot guns for work."
"Do what?"
"..."
Cheol-woo was speechless. Explain from "they ignore warnings" to "sparing one leaks your spot, backup in 10"? She'd seemed clued in—obedient at first, saw daytime kidnap attempt. Reality check failing hard?
"Where are you. Meet and talk."
"No! Sis!"
Fuck, really. Cheol-woo swallowed rage, lowered voice.
"Sis. You know you're in danger, right."
"Meet first, talk. I'm on your side. Got it?"
"Fine. So where."
"What?"
Call dropped. Cheol-woo's pace quickened.
"Miss. Saw the crash behind you, right?"
"Y-yes? No?"
"Cooperate, please."
Patrol car screeched up out of nowhere. Two cops slammed doors, approached. "Cooperate" not "can you"—Yuri sensed wrongness, but nah. Cops, crowded street. Chaos made 'em rude?
"Sorry, I'm in a rush..."
"Just need a quick statement. Really quick—come with us voluntarily."
"No."
"..."
Cops sighed, exchanged looks. One circled behind, grabbed her arm sudden.
"What the hell?!"
"Don't move! Drop the knife! Drop it!"
"Knife? What kni—"
Clang. Huge kitchen knife hit pavement from her twisted arm. What the fuck? Stunned, she was kneed down, cuffed fast.
"Threatening cops, huh. Total anger issues. Arresting on the spot."
"You dropped the knife—why...!"
Crowd gathered, but no one saw full. Her protests drowned in applause. Yuri hurled into patrol car; door locked before escape try.
"You assholes! Filing complaint! Let me out!"
Ah! Yuri choked. What conversation? Woman? Secured? No face damage? Human traffickers, not cops. Pounding window hurt only her; acrylic blocked driver sabotage.
"Let me out! Fuckers, let go!"
"She's... kicking like mad. Can't drive. Shut her up."
"Got it."
Acrylic slid; long rod emerged. What—zap! Body hairs stood, Yuri shrieked piercing. Zap off, on—zap zap. Next prod, she curled fetal, sobbing tremors.
"Boss said no damage."
"She won't die."
"Not just dying? Burns scar? Ruins shoots."
"Scar lovers exist."
"Dumbass? Clean shoot first, beat then reshoot—covers all. Moron. Quit sales."
"That's why I did."
Scars? Shoots? Needs? Biz? Face drained white. Rod neared; leg reflex-kicked.
"Quit zapping. Gonna piss her—urk!?"
"Kyaa!"
Bang! Kick crumpled driver with crunch; head smashed wheel. Brakes screamed, screeching halt. Yuri panicked—didn't think it'd break.
Cops cursed, rod-ready; Yuri whimpered, "N-nooo—accident—sorry—"
Truck halted ahead. Window down, black object—silenced pistol, kimbap-long suppressor. Face ashen.
"Front! Front!"
"Front wha—"
"Huh?"
Thud! Thud! Crack! Bang! Windshield holed twice. Acrylic splattered crimson gore; Yuri screamed. Cowering, cracked glass showed approaching shadow.
Click. Rear door opened; Yuri's final wail escaped.
"What're you doing. Out, sis."
"Ah... Ch-Cheol-woo..."
Saw his face; tears surged. Body lunged, cuffed arms around neck, hugged tight. Carried sobbing to truck, cries unending.