Mafiosi Managers and Morning Memorization
“Gossiping on your first day, Deputy Kim Jian?”
“Sorry, sir.”
The three senior bankers' gazes zeroed in on me all at once as I teased Isaac. I reflexively scanned the faces of the assembled veterans in the conference room. Their visuals alone were overwhelming. You could tell at a glance they were no ordinary folks.
Slick Ellama, the guD powerhouse running the multidimensional outpost—bald-headed, mid-forties human from Dimension 14. Bishuti, the stern, soft-spoken minotaur section chief from guPasa with his half-closed eyes and fluffy white fur, slicked back with pomade in true guE style. I'd seen that dwarf from HR during the interview. And finally, across from me sat Razma, the guC ace—an ectopl in a spacesuit layered with a suit, topped by a transparent glass helmet filled with swirling, amorphous mist that was apparently his true form. A fitting look for someone from the otherworldly Neptune Bank, the most alien faction of them all.
Anyway, my first impression of them was simple: scary as hell. Sure, the visuals were intimidating, but the sheer aura they exuded was something else. No matter how I sliced it, they looked like a trio of villains. More mafia lieutenants than bankers. Just from that vibe, I could guess the hell they'd clawed through to become their factions' top dogs.
“Here's the list of politicians, business leaders, and HQ execs crawling in tomorrow morning. Memorize it in five minutes.”
That thought didn't last. The second Slick Ellama barked the order, Isaac and I buried our noses in the attendee roster for the groundbreaking ceremony and started cramming.
But not even thirty seconds later, Razma—the guy with the fishbowl helmet—calmly raised a hand. Right on cue, Bishuti lifted his massive bull head.
“Got 'em all memorized.”
“Memorization complete.”
Bishuti and Razma grinned as they shredded the list. Wasting perfectly good reusable paper on that little show—clearly, the power play had already begun.
“One's got a bull head, the other's missing his entirely. I was worried, but looks like I fretted for nothing.”
Ellama's tone dripped with open disdain.
“Seems you're lacking in political correctness. No fur means no species sensitivity, huh?”
“Bullshit. Bet you could grill three cows on those ribs.”
“This is why I hate working with the living. They can't keep their tempers in check.”
“Shut it before I smash your fishbowl, tank-head.”
“Looks can be deceiving—you're quite the moly cuss.”
“Good thing you know me so well.”
“Famous at HQ, weren't you?”
“Then you must've heard what I'm famous for.”
It took less than five seconds for the banter to escalate into a full-blown verbal slugfest. Ellama baring his fangs in a grin, Bishuti narrowing his slit eyes, Razma's faceless helmet giving nothing away. Watching it all, I felt the sharp sting of killing intent prickling my skin.
The two section chiefs could mouth off to their deputy chief like that because they knew—as long as they delivered results—Ellama wouldn't touch them. Looked like the rumors about him strictly separating work from personal were spot on.
“Isn't it hilarious that we're the best buds in this room?”
“……”
Isaac stayed quiet for a beat before nodding. A guy who hadn't even made deputy yet landing here meant he'd racked up serious numbers at his old branch, same as me. He'd probably been sent on a mission like mine: not just perform, but grow fast and buffer the faction wars. A tall order.
Of course, that was for when you had some leverage. Right now, we were still extras barely tolerated.
Del Monte had called guD the moderates, but watching Ellama, that seemed off. Or maybe this guy was a wild card even guD couldn't rein in. Either way, best not to expect cozy chats between him and the other faction aces.
Faction drama or not, I just needed to keep my head down and focus on my job.
Sigh.
Should've stayed at the outpost. West Podoks Branch was already feeling nostalgic, and it was barely day one.
* * *
The cutthroat meeting wrapped past 7 p.m. Isaac and I crammed every detail—the ceremony order, protocol, even the catering menu—before we could escape the conference room.
'How long you gonna make me wait? Fail to memorize in ten minutes, and I'll stuff you both in a drum barrel for a midnight swim in Kikiwai's bay.'
Ellama had growled that while pointing to a rusty drum in the corner. Turns out it was real. Unlocked some hidden brainpower, that's for sure.
“Finally free.”
We'd scarfed dinner at the Larryert Hotel—a five-star chain—and were now kicking back on the guest beach with cocktails. Isaac's treat, naturally.
Kikiwai was like Hawaii back on Earth. The sun had dipped below the horizon, but the beach campfire crowd was still dancing to upbeat tunes. Working on this gorgeous southern isle was a win, but with bosses like that, who knew what hell awaited.
“Heard there was corruption in tier-1 banking, but this bad?”
Isaac adjusted his eyepatch as he spoke. He was lounging in a hammock strung between palms, looking utterly liberated. I'd noticed it at the training center: the guy managed his personal time like clockwork. Straight from dinner to hammock downtime.
Like me, he'd come from a chill branch where rookies got some slack. Plus, born silver-spoon, his tolerance for BS was worlds apart from mine—Korean military vet that I was.
“Same where I'm from. Job hunting, all I heard was city banks with pointless boot-camp vibes.”
Still, if Isaac bailed, I'd be screwed. Time to vent a little.
“Guess people are people everywhere.”
“Yeah. They pull all sorts of nonsense under the 'handling money' excuse.”
Bank BS came in flavors, but fresh out of job hunting, I'd heard horror stories: tagging along for boss hikes or fishing trips. Or "team building" marches and musicals. One bank made tellers squat in horse stance memorizing Ahn Chang-ho essays—unrelated to work. Compared to that, memorizing VIP bios was chump change.
As long as Ellama didn't actually dunk us in a drum.
VIP car plates, though? Still no clue why. Tiny lot at the outpost anyway.
“Fast-track promotion, my ass. One slip and stress'll cart us off.”
Isaac nodded silently in agreement. Yeah, first time seeing someone threaten to barrel a chaebol heir, huh?
“What can ya do? Lay low for now.”
“Faction wars?”
“You heard too?”
Isaac grimaced.
“Yeah. Said it'd be rough characters.”
“Now that you've met 'em?”
“Childish.”
No hesitation, then he added:
“…And exhausting.”
Childish? Totally. Exhausting? Probably his background talking. Guy rolled up to training in a 20-meter limo—prime chaebol brat material. Faction beef would've been old hat.
“…Heard anything besides faction fights?”
Isaac nodded.
“About Ellama Slick.”
“Oh?”
News to me. He sipped his cocktail and continued.
“He's the 13th Cavillo Watch. Youngest deputy in guD history now, but…”
“13th Cavillo Watch?!”
“Yep.”
“Who's that?”
“…Cultured, are we?”
Culture my ass—first I'd heard the name. 13th? Even if it was a person, what'd that mean?
“Like, the '13th generation' title royalty slaps on heirs?”
“Close enough. Watch is the head family inheriting Carbuk.”
“Carbuk…”
Rang a bell. Great Huuriten's traditional all-male theater: heavy makeup, wild wigs, ornate costumes, unique music and dance. Pricey tickets, never caught a live show amid work, but stars were living cultural treasures.
But of all people—
“That psycho?”
“Head of the 400-year Watch lineage, inheriting the genius stage name of the 13th Cavillo.”
Hard to buy, but it clicked with nagging questions. The guy had Flat Sharpendora's post-diet glow—superior mask you don't see every day. No wonder he ditched acting for banking; top acting dynasty collecting prime genes for centuries? Made sense.
“How's a star like that end up banking…?”
“Who knows. Left the family at twenty, joined the bank. President valued his resolve, or so I heard.”
Twenty. Eight years ago, what was I doing? Personality aside, hell of a resume. Stepping down from industry peak for this? What broke him?
Beyond me.
“'He's a natural actor—keep your distance, can't read his game,' my boss warned.”
“Hm…”
Del Monte said the same: distance from Slick. Accounting for his roots?
“Anyway, this place is a monster magnet, factions be damned.”
guC and guE section chiefs did have that overwhelming vibe.
“Eh. To me, you're the odd one out.”
“Me? Why?”
You really don't see it. Del Monte mentioned guC and guE—get details later. Too late tonight.
“Never mind. Let's figure how to survive those beasts. Heading out—late.”
Short hang, but solid intel.
“Can't drop out of the golden path now. Trainees gotta stick together.”
“Trainees, huh.”
Only reliable ally here: fellow special hire. Annoying at times, but we'd bond.
“…I'll get you a ride to the dorm.”
Annoying retracted. Taxi saved. Sweet.
“Giving me a lift?”
“No.”
“What? You just said ride to dorm.”
“Dorm?”
Isaac blinked blankly for a bit.
“Your bath is ready, young master Isaac.”
A suited old man approached from nearby. Isaac snapped his fingers.
“Forgot to mention.”
“What?”
“Moved all your stuff to the top floor yesterday.”
“Top floor?”
“Yes.”
“This hotel—”
“Family-owned.”
“……”
Explains the matching name.
“You look pale. Need a doctor?”
“No.”
“Why the formal suddenly…?”
“Get me home. Now.”
“Sebastian. Prep the car.”
“Yes, young master.”
I rode the Larryert limo back to the dorm that night. Isaac cruised in this daily. Envy.
“Filthy bourgeois… hic.”
Raiding the minibar's priciest bottle, I puked till 2 a.m. Ughhhblechpukeblargh. Booze discriminates now too, damn it.