Rumors Reach Overseas (2)
The moment I saw Hong Siyeon through the phone screen earlier, I glimpsed the future.
A madman, high on booze and drugs, bursts into the school with a gun.
He slaughters dozens of kids inside before getting arrested.
It hasn't happened yet.
But time's running short.
"We need to move as fast as possible. Can you do it?"
Hong Siyeon, who'd been listening silently, fixed me with a steady gaze, as if asking if there was more.
The future shifts.
From her standing there, dazed amid the scene of dozens of casualties.
To her as the hero who spots the threat, reports it quick, and evacuates the kids.
That'll do it.
"I believe you can pull it off."
"I always trust you, President Hong."
Her smile on the screen froze for a beat.
Then it deepened.
Hong Siyeon's eyes sparkled.
The second she hung up, Hong Siyeon let out a deep sigh.
Of all times, this had to happen while she was here.
But backing down wasn't an option.
"James, Levin, Rachel. Help me out here."
"Boss. What's up?"
"That shaman again?"
"Rachel, what're you talking about? Shaman?"
"He exists. The guy the boss likes."
"I-I don't like him like that!"
Hong Siyeon shook her head at Rachel, flustered.
"He says there's a lunatic coming in here with guns right now."
"....."
Only then did the bodyguards' faces turn serious.
Hong Siyeon grinned at them.
"Didn't catch who exactly."
"....Understood."
The bodyguards didn't press further.
Because it was the boss's order.
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Ali Marcia, the janitor at Atlanta Whivers Middle School, gripped the wheel with one hand while chugging cheap brandy with the other.
Blatant drunk driving, but he didn't give a damn.
He glanced at the passenger seat.
A bag stuffed with guns.
Two shotguns bought from a gang.
Three pistols.
And a rifle he'd stolen from a mart and modded himself.
Hundreds of rounds of ammo.
He ground his teeth, clenched the wheel, and hurled the empty bottle out the window.
His destination loomed ahead—a place he loathed.
The one that'd fired him without mercy.
So he'd smoked in the corner, started a little fire with the cig.
No one got hurt, right?
Yet they canned him over that bullshit.
Unforgivable to Ali.
'Those bitches too...!!'
The teachers flashed in his mind.
Just glorified counters and writers.
After school, spreading legs like club whores.
Their sour faces at him? Unbearable.
But it wasn't just them.
The little shits at that school were scum too.
What made them so special?
They'd end up lowlifes like him anyway.
Yet they dared look down on him.
Ali gnashed his teeth and floored it.
The school appeared in the distance.
He parked on the road out front.
Parking violation?
Didn't care.
Once he killed those whores and brats, everything'd be fine.
'Could even shit on that principal's face.'
The rude old fart who'd stamped his termination without hesitation.
A former coworker still working there said some VIP was visiting today.
What if shit hit the fan then?
Or better—pump that VIP full of lead?
He took a deep hit of weed and chuckled.
All set.
Just walk in.
Staring in the mirror, he muttered low.
"Rotten fuckers...!!"
Time to move.
He stepped out calm, heading for the school.
The entrance came into view.
Normally, just one sleepy old guard there.
Take him out quick, then inside, slaughter the kids.
Plan crystal clear in his head.
'...Huh?'
Grab the guard first.
That's when he aimed at the guard booth—and froze.
The booth was empty.
No dozing old man.
"...Tch."
Lucky break.
Nothing else.
No interference meant slipping in quiet.
He caught his breath and strolled toward the school slow.
Crossed the wide playground.
The instant he entered the building.
-Bang!!
"Ugh?!"
A brutal impact slammed his body.
He dropped his gun, scrambling for the shotgun to fight back.
But a bullet pierced his hand.
"Aaaagh!!"
Pain ripped a scream from him.
What the hell?
Why?
His eyes caught black-clad figures aiming guns at him.
Why the fuck were they here?
Cops waiting like they'd known.
"...How...?"
His dazed question got answered.
By a rifle butt smashed into his face by a man in black.
The guy cuffed Ali's hands and grabbed his radio.
Suspect captured.
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Atlanta PD Chief Owen Grooper sighed in relief after confirming the radio report.
The initial tip sounded like bullshit.
Gunman hitting the local middle school?
In under an hour?
If it was a joke, not funny.
Georgia high school shooting not long ago got a chief reamed by the governor, nearly fired.
Now one in his turf?
Headache city.
Couldn't dismiss as prank, so he led his team there himself.
The tipster? Korean lady named Hong Siyeon.
No tourist.
She had ties to the governor and senators.
Owen prepped full force.
Called in SWAT.
Meantime, with Siyeon, her guards, and cops, herded kids to the gym for safety.
In case the nutjob spotted the entry ambush and hopped the fence.
Got principal's okay for evac.
Then the bastard actually showed.
Eyes half-glassy, like he'd OD'd.
Armed with shotgun, rifle, pistols.
Watched tense from gym windows.
SWAT net held; he couldn't break through.
Averted what could've been dozens dead or maimed.
Owen sighed again, glanced aside.
The beauty who'd helped calm the kids with his cops.
"Thank you, Miss Hong. We dodged a bullet thanks to you."
"No need. As long as no one's hurt, I'm satisfied."
Her fluent English drew a grin from Owen.
What a good soul.
"How'd you know that guy was coming?"
Eastern mysticism?
Special powers? Witch, maybe.
US gun rampages yearly—countless.
If she could tip 'em off...
Stop those horrors...
Who cares what she was.
"Gang connections tip you off?"
"Haha, no. Nothing like that."
Her answer blew past his guesses.
"I just passed it along."
Passed along?
Daughter's conspiracy books popped in his head.
Freemasons, Committee of 300.
'No, maybe...'
Secret hero group fighting movie terrorists.
Heart raced like he was young.
"A-are you, like, a secret hero org? I-I could help!"
Man can't resist that.
Just a Georgia chief, but he'd back Marvel-style heroes legally any day.
"Hahaha! Nothing like that."
"Damn. Then what?"
"A friend of mine... yeah, friend. He told me."
"Your friend...?"
"Korean guy."
"How'd a Korean know? Oh, detective?"
Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot.
Genius deducing it all armchair-style—like kid detective novels.
Her laugh at his eager eyes.
"No. He's a streamer."
"...Pardon?"
Streamer.
Internet broadcaster type.
She left the gym, leaving him baffled.
Reporters swarmed the school front somehow.
Owen rushed out, explained, hyped Hong Siyeon and her guards as the real MVPs.
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What a wild, unbelievable day.
Back home, Owen recalled her words, grabbed his phone, searched the guy.
"Dad? Whatcha doing?"
"Oh, Swan. My cute girl. School fun today?"
"Same old. Whatever."
His darling daughter Swan approached.
Hugged him from behind, kissed his cheek a few times, peeked at his phone.
An Asian guy yakking away in incomprehensible Korean.
"Huh? That guy...!!"
"Swan, you know him?"
"Yeah. Joanna mentioned him on stream."
The pop star.
Joanna name-dropped him in her occasional broadcasts.
"Kang Noah. Supposed to be an amazing fortune teller?"
"Fortune teller?"
What the hell now?