Background Check 2
After sending the manager off to the countryside, I indulged in some well-deserved leisure. I headed to a high-end spa, slipping into the steaming bath until only my head poked out, letting the heat seep deep into my bones. At first, I hadn't been thrilled about this whole bathing and sauna culture, but tagging along with Mother so often had taught me the true pleasure of warming up the body. The grime built up from daily life sloughs off, leaving that refreshing, invigorating sensation—if you can savor it, mission accomplished. After toweling off and stepping out, a sip of sweet fruit-flavored milk was the perfect finishing touch.
"Straight to the massage without a break?"
"Yes, please."
The middle-aged female staffer whispered into her walkie-talkie and led me to the foot massage area. Even if the whole world claimed to have escaped class society, money let you glimpse the old nobility's treatment—and I was thoroughly satisfied. Someday, when I get back, I'll reshape society just like this. I settled into the chair, stretched out my legs, and dipped my feet into the toasty basin. In came a proper masseuse—a respectable woman whose eyesight seemed a bit off—who began kneading my legs.
"Mind if I take this call?"
"Of course."
I apologized to the masseuse so as not to be rude and picked up the incoming call.
"Got it."
-Boss, can you talk now?
"Yeah, go ahead."
-We found the parents. The mother's divorced from way back and started a new family, so no direct contact there. The issue's the father...
"What's up with him?"
-He's part of some weird religious group. Church, maybe? The building's isolated halfway up a mountain—looks risky, so I didn't get too close.
"Good call. Fanatics are the scariest. Just come straight back. We'll handle that kind of thing at the office."
-I'll head up and compile the report.
"No rush—take your time."
After hanging up, I started to dial Father to report, but my hand paused midway. From a company's perspective, nothing's more annoying than religion getting involved. They ignore you until you succeed, then grovel for PR access. But flip side: make them allies, and they're useful. Pair with politics for die-hard supporters; with thugs, and you've got a group that'll harm anyone as "God's will." Reminded me of those black mages sacrificing people to evil gods.
"Tempting group. Hmm..."
I had no plans to perform any rituals myself right now, but having a mindless, fanatic horde that obeyed orders blindly? Not bad. Perfect for dumping shit on rivals' houses or trucking them off a cliff later. I'd mull it over slowly—for now, back to the massage. After my skin gleamed from the treatment, I dressed and stepped out. The post-massage lightness always made me crave a smoke, a habit I still hadn't kicked, so I popped a cinnamon candy instead.
-By the time Hyeon-a's brother returned loaded with pizza bread, red bean buns, croquettes, and crammed the fridge full, a text arrived with the church's address.
I called it a church because most cults crib from them. Two thousand years of doctrine, revisions, Bible, high-level gaslighting refined by smart folks, even the rise and fall baked in—perfect reference manual. And slapping "church" on it makes them seem normal, easier to approach regular folks.
"Nothing else to do—might as well check it out now. Heh..."
Curious about Korean religious outfits, I grabbed the car keys without delay. Purely my whim, so no need to tell anyone. Bonus: it was in Gapyeong, Gyeonggi-do—not far. They'd made a killing somewhere, apparently.
"Who are you?"
"A guest. Supposed to meet a manager here... but you're blocking from the entrance?"
The road was public, marked on maps, state land even—but barricades at the gate. The guy in familiar apartment security gear cracked his window, eyes scanning me. Satisfied with my looks first, then spotting luxury brands, he waved me through without much suspicion.
"Nothing inside but our church, so tell me your name, and I'll check and open up."
"Hmm..."
To get his name, I tapped his forehead as he leaned in. A click echoed in his mind as the mental lock unlocked; his eyes jerked wildly before glazing over blankly. Just a prank to pass the gate, but the reaction was off—way too extreme. Why did it remind me of that Japan incident?
"Bro, what're you doing?"
Another guy approached, puzzled by his colleague frozen like an idiot. No one would blame him—standing mute, rooted to the spot. The newcomer slung an arm over his shoulder. I tapped his forehead too: another click, and he froze mid-motion.
"Same with this one. Not just a money-grubbing cult, huh?"
Stepping out, I shoved their bodies back, wedging them against the building by the barricade. A phone there rang—I picked up but didn't speak.
-Hold that incoming car. Don't open the gate.
-Stay inside, don't do anything...
Hello?
"Eh..."
A groan escaped the zombified guy; I hung up first. I flashed my face at the watching CCTV, then swung open the barricade. Felt like they treated outsiders like plague carriers—weirdly irritating.
"Just wanted a quick chat with the head."
Smacking my lips, I drove in.
Not some towering church—repurposed an old forest retreat building. CCTV probably just recording, not live. Despite the manager's "pretty big" comment, it wasn't huge: one two-story building, a few containers—maybe under a hundred people max.
"Eerily quiet."
I'd expected a mob of burly guys waiting after that call—instead, dead silence. A lived-in place should have some presence, but no sign of life. Felt like a ghost town. I parked by the luxury sedans and vans for shuttling marks. Gravel crunched underfoot as I stepped out.
"All at the station begging for directions on a weekday? Creepy as hell."
Natural retreat my ass—deep in the mountains, shadowy woods, oppressively gloomy. Could be a club to the head or celebratory dome performance the second I opened a door, so I crept carefully, scouting. Grabbed a weapon first: edged toward a container likely a shed, eased the door. Creeeak—freshly used farm tools scattered about. I picked the sharpest sickle for defense.
"If you won't come out, I'll have to come in. Ho ho..."
Muttering loudly at the door to gauge reaction—met with silence. Now it bordered on outright dread, the kind that'd send the faint-hearted fleeing in cold sweat. But I'm far removed from fear; sickle in hand, I flung the door wide.
"Ugh, what the hell is that smell."
Foul waste hit my nose the instant I entered. Years of experience: the stench when someone dies and their sphincter relaxes. No need to open doors—I pictured the scene inside crystal-clear. No interest in daily life details anyway; I strode straight to where the self-proclaimed reincarnated god lurked. Documents freshly shredded and burned, noose around his neck—he'd hanged himself. Could save him, maybe. But why bother.
"Kkhiii... eee—"
"Didn't even get to ask before you bailed."
Dangling, choking in agony, yet smirking like he'd won. No point rifling papers—fire raged from the corner, belching thick smoke. He'd grin in victory, but pity: I'm a necromancer. Yanking a soul from a dying body? No chants or prep—just a gesture.
"Cults deny gods and afterlife hardest, huh."
Saw an intriguing article lately: brain as high-tech storage—hook to a computer, extract memories? Perfect chance to test.