A Son's Endless Search
After wrapping up with those three upstairs and one more below, I decided to take a day or two to really unwind and sift through the incoming requests.
The manager uncle had headed back out to handle another adultery case, while Hyeon-a, the other manager, was busy cherry-picking requests that I'd like and that had strong video potential for going viral. Having confirmed we weren't desperate for cash, she was expanding the options and organizing them.
Spotting that Vtuber we'd confirmed in Japan got me wondering who was really behind the characters moving in the industry right now—it was its own kind of fun. It wasn't like I'd suddenly taken an interest; stories from similar fields just came up a lot. The clients looked exactly like those old-school paparazzi digging into celebrities' homes or phone numbers. The kind of faces that screamed "trouble waiting to happen."
"What're you looking at?"
"Just thinking why people watch these virtual streamers."
"No way the boss is thinking of trying it herself?"
"As if. There's this one rumor floating around online lately, so I was checking it out. Someone requesting to verify if that 'red pill' photo posted online is real."
"They offering big money?"
"Word is they carry around a million won like pocket change."
"Scary. Feels like those old first-gen idol fans writing blood oaths."
No matter how you sliced it, it seemed like a test of raw talent—how to carry a stream on voice alone. Tougher market than one banking on looks. People tuned in for the voice, yet they obsessed over appearances? Hard to wrap my head around. With the other side a total unknown, weren't they worried about poking the wrong bear and ending up buried with just their head showing, like in that earlier example?
"Boss, I organized these. Picked ones to your taste as much as possible, but not sure if you'll like 'em."
"Thanks."
She could've just emailed them, but to give it that company flavor, she insisted on printing them on A4 paper and slipping them into the approval binder. We even used the all-in-one printer—half decoration most days—for official docs via fax sometimes. Pretty efficient use.
I flipped through the pages, scanning the text.
"Finding missing person's remains? Fine. Catching the perp? No way."
"Why not?"
"We're not cops. What're we gonna do, nab 'em? Shamans catching killers would just spit foam."
If we brought on a retired cop or some law/psych PhD from the start like other channels, it'd lend credibility. Reveal the perp, and folks would buy it. But flip your eyes back, dance around, then point and yell "That's the killer!"? Yeah, real convincing.
"Too bad. It's got a huge payout for the drama."
"We can sketch a composite at most."
We bantered lightly over nothingburgers while I skimmed the sheets.
"Anything catch your eye?"
"Yeah. This one about a missing Joseonjok woman jumps out."
"Joseonjok?"
A Chinese ethnic Korean—not even one of ours—coming to us to find their mom? Rare as hell. They stick tight to their own, handle internal stuff in-house, don't outsource.
"Says his mom came to Korea for factory work to earn money when he was a kid and vanished. Family man, swears she wouldn't ditch for another guy."
"How's he know?"
"She'd come and go home every payday with cash. Super inconvenient, but she kept it up to see her kid's face—then poof, stopped."
"Hm."
"Tried caring for his ailing dad solo, no luck, so we're like his last shot."
Made sense. Grasping at straws, down to "at least find the body."
"Daelim-dong or Ansan? Tough spots."
"Nah, Chungcheong Province. ...Should we take it?"
"Yeah. Sounds good."
"Kinda international, huh."
Chinese, or more precisely Yanbian folk. Mess with their turf, and lives are on the line. I'd seen and heard enough to know the media tales of them slipping in for shady ops weren't all hype. I wasn't worried for me, but Hyeon-a tagging along to film? Yeah. Still, Chungcheong's newer industrial zones beat the northern risks—safer bet.
"Contacted him—we'll take it."
"Soon as the advance hits, we roll. Rested up; time to move."
"Got it. Prepping."
Right after, I poked around news and our internal comms for related cases. Mid-click, a sharp zap zinged my fingertips. The little trap I'd rigged upfront had finally sprung. Video drops tomorrow, so not some random daytime walk-in. Had to be the perp noticing their mark gone, rushing back. Or someone tight with 'em.
"Wonder if they can handle it... heh."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Just mumbling."
"Coffee?"
"Sure."
Once you craft grudge spirits for others, gotta wonder if one's coming for you. That's the spice of life, right? Heh.
—
Tracking a missing person—especially one tied to that crowd, maybe—was risky, no doubt. Even with the client coming straight from China, just us two women here? If they meant harm, big trouble.
Uncle Manager freaked on hearing, offered a cop buddy's contact. Said a couple days wouldn't strain 'em—capital cops are slammed, but locals chill unless it's heavy crime.
"Seoul Station, right?"
"Yeah. Train from China, should be here any minute..."
A guy emerged from the station right on cue, simple bag in hand. For a kid raised by a disabled dad sans mom, he'd done well. Landed a big corp gig, climbed out of China to greener pastures. Even married into good fortune, but couldn't forget the mom who ghosted young—tracked us down cold.
Scanning the plaza post-exit, he zeroed right in on us two young women.
"Mr. Zhao Xin?"
"Yes, that's me. Nice to meet you."
"You too."
Later he said I'd told him to look for the celeb-lookalike woman by the fresh minivan. Rare sight midweek daytime: early-20s gal parked up. Easy find.
"Your Chinese is spot-on. Was stressing communication."
He'd crammed Korean quick, prepped a translator app, but nothing beats real talk for details and vibes. This? Perfect.
"Gotta match the client for the job."
"Very kind."
Hyeon-a's eyes went wide—didn't know I'd do Japanese and Chinese.
"Wasn't kidding about knowing a few languages, huh?"
"Who jokes about that? Time's tight—hop in."
"Yes, boss."
Easing the heavy van out, Hyeon-a hopped back for a quick client interview, translator aiding. He greenlit filming, no face blur, answered openly.
Mom scrimped flights for ferries to save, crossed oceans monthly—then vanished without trace? No sense. Accident? She'd have legit visa, some contact. Nada. Broke family couldn't do much beyond Korean police report, but foreign Chineses? Fat chance.
"Know where she lived? Factory?"
"Yeah. Sent parcels of goodies sometimes—still got the address."
Pulled a creased, laminated paper from his bag. Cherished.
"Chungnam Dangjin."
"Yep. Lived there, factory bus commute. Out dawn, home dusk... Over ten years now."
"Ten-plus years? Even we might struggle. Place booms daily with new plants."
"I know. Just want any trace..."
Filmed the pre-chat recap, building narrative. "We'll find her!" cliffhangers sell less than emotional hooks. Tedious, but whatever—I drove, eyes front. Languages differed, but they synced fine.