Insight at the Pocheon Factory
The Pocheon Factory workers couldn't have cared less who Min-ho was. They were simply relieved at the chance to pause their grueling labor and head to the hospital.
Meanwhile, in the far corner, a middle-aged man scrutinized Min-ho's face with keen interest. It was Jeong Na-il, the Gangwon Province native known as Left Swing.
Quick with his sums, he darted his eyes around, gauging the others' reactions. He quickly grasped that no one except Manager Ham knew Min-ho's true identity.
Jeong Na-il understood well: information about the royal family—details others overlooked—was straight cash in his pocket.
Suddenly, as if a slick scheme had dawned on him, he clutched his left side, twisting his face into the world's most pitiable grimace, and spoke to Manager Ham. “Boss, my stomach's acting up. Mind if I hit the restroom?”
“You've got a hospital trip ahead, so wrap it up and be back in five.”
“Yes, boss.”
With a perfect excuse in hand, Jeong Na-il slipped into the office. A vile smirk curling his lips, he dialed a number.
The line connected swiftly, and a man with a deep, resonant voice answered.
“Seongbuk-dong.”
“Butler Moon, it's been ages.”
“Who is this? Your name, please?”
“You might not recall, but it's Left Swing—Jeong Na-il.”
Without explicit orders, even Manager Ham wouldn't dare ring Seongbuk-dong. A lowly factory drone calling? Unthinkable.
Butler Moon's tone turned steely, his irritation plain. “This isn't a line for scum like you. Get Ham on now.”
“Aw, come on—years apart, and that's how you greet me? Kinda stings.”
“You know pulling stunts like this just piles on your debt.”
“Well... truth is, I've got some prime intel. Might prove useful.”
“No Ham, and I'll come down there myself. You know how that ends.”
“If a guy like me—who knows the score—is calling bold as brass, doesn't that scream something's brewing? Hear it out, then decide.”
“Spout garbage, and you'll regret it hard.”
Jeong Na-il hitched up one corner of his mouth, baring his black heart without shame. “This is gold, see. So... how about shaving 500,000 won off my principal?”
“You bargaining with me? Unneeded. Ham. Now.”
As Butler Moon geared up for another roar, Jeong Na-il blurted it desperately. “It's... about Young Master Min-ho. Your call?”
Min-ho's name from a Pocheon peon's lips. Odds near zero, even allowing for chance.
Sudden call. Suspicious source. Butler Moon's instincts flared; he pressed. “What was that? Young Master Min-ho?”
“Yeah. I used to work at JK Mutual Savings Bank, remember? Nobody else'd spot it, but I clocked him instant.”
“Hold on... spotted him? You mean the young master was here at Pocheon...”
“Sharp as ever. Spot on. Dropped in briefly.”
Pocheon Factory's very existence? Secret to all but a handful in the JK royal circle. Min-ho's station made access impossible.
Moon's mind raced through every scenario in seconds. Reconsidered: still impossible for Min-ho to know.
“Anyone else in the know besides me?”
“I know yapping cheapens the goods. Would I risk that?”
“Spill every detail. Now.”
“So, the 500k...”
“Done. Promised.”
“Right, right. Lay it out.”
Promise secured, Jeong Na-il spilled every scrap without holding back.
The tale grew baffling: why Pocheon? What for? Confusion mounted.
Deep sigh from Butler Moon. One last fact-check. “So he halted operations, sent everyone to the hospital?”
“Yep. Gotta jet soon myself—can't chat long.”
“Certain?”
“Kid hit the bank plenty young. Held his hand, bought candy loads. Felt familiar—dead ringer.”
“Loose lips, and my face shows up there.”
“No sweat. Lips thin, but they weigh a ton.”
“More? Call.”
“Will do.”
Dark-faced, Butler Moon cradled the receiver.
Why'd the young master hit Pocheon...?
No answers, however he puzzled. Threads tangled into deeper fog.
Till lately, Min-ho stayed predictable. Then—shift. Rapid.
Not mere boyish spark reborn. Goal shrouded, yet he stretched for it. Instinct screamed: slipping control.
Can't predict his plays... Report to the Chairman, only way.
Heavy steps. Butler Moon eased open Chairman Kang's study door.
“Chairman, urgent report.”
***
Bracing for fallout—like his own crime—Butler Moon bowed low, sinner-like.
No rage as feared. Chairman Kang defied: head thrown back, booming laugh.
Moon rubbed eyes, double-checked. Mood? Sky-high.
“Min-ho pulled that off, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Facts align perfectly. Need verification? I'll go.”
“Nah, you old fool—why drag yourself?”
Min-ho's Pocheon jaunt. Chairman's guffaw.
Two decades plus at his side, yet Moon blanked on this one.
Chairman eyed Moon. Usual poise, but chaos-tension brewed beneath.
Book shut. Casual probe. “Quit stewing solo. Spill it clean—you'll breathe easier. That's your mug.”
Hesitation uncharacteristic. Careful words. “How the young master knew Pocheon... no clue, sir.”
“Choi Jong-hoon possibility?”
“The lawyer I know? Never.”
“No grudge 'gainst this geezer, Jong-hoon wouldn't. Du-seong's favorite too.”
“Hence the maze. How? Why? Zilch.”
Grin broad, pipe clenched. “You knew Min-ho young, aye?”
“Indeed. You doted on him fiercest 'mong grandsons.”
“That tracks. Nought else.”
“Date it—I’ll dig memory.”
“Min-ho at ten-ish... Arboretum trip, then Pocheon pitstop. Urgent.”
“Sir—you saying that lone visit stuck, spot-on location?”
“My error. Pegged him clueless kid. Wrong.”
Moon knew the boy's early sharpness. Stretching it: plausible once.
Snag? Purpose. Still gnawed.
Hazy smoke out. Slow words. “One itch bugs you most.”
“Yes, sir. Why Pocheon? Debt-chasing ground—no business tie.”
“Tokyo status?”
“Ginza underway—50% real estate sold. Pushing max per orders.”
“You know it. Why query?”
Koan vibes—Chairman loved 'em. Moon? Ironclad decoder.
Not today. Intent? Fog.
“Forgive me, sir—lost.”
“Pocheon roster handy?”
“Prepped. Here.”
Glasses on. Scrutiny sharp. Satisfied smirk—nailed it.
“You twig it: Cheon Dong-gwan.”
“Zainichi trader?”
“Ruminate my question.”
Long mull. Hit: shock unmasked. “Fluent Korean-Japanese asset, shipped local?”
“Bingo. Lad's scheming Dong-gwan as his arm.”
“Young master briefed you on Japan econ...”
“Yup. Bee to honey meadow.”
Grandson mirrors grandsire. List-glance: move decoded.
Old mem'ry flickered? Faint smile. On. “Here, lads pawed my hard-won treasures. Youthful itch.”
“Young master? Never once, recall.”
“Aye, outlier. Pretty loot tempts touch—nature. Fingerprints? I loathe.”
“Ever my watchpoint.”
“Toddler on: hands pinned, eyes only. Rest? Not.”
Sentence end—phone shrilled, timed perfect.
Nod. Knew source. “Seongbuk-dong.”
“Immigration Office.”
“Proceed.”
“List you sent: Cheon Dong-gwan. Japan-bound now. Orders?”
Influence vast—even borders bowed. Knew gist. Greenlit. “Clear him.”
“Roger. Done.”
Min-ho's pebble: ripples in Chairman's still pond.
Brainwave struck? Sly grin. Scribble, note to Moon. “Follow this. Cash to Min-ho.”
“Pardon, but he's barely past twenty.”
“Big stack risks relapse?”
“Yes. Transformed, true—old habits linger possible.”
“Mere 300 million. Booze binge, Han River dump—his call. Relay.”
Intent veiled. Moon pierced swift. “Testing him?”
“Skirt-wavers snag Yeongdong plots, call it win? That's his cap. Watch.”
“Understood. Delivering pronto.”