Work + Hypnosis = Side Income?

The gym I usually went to wasn't far from here.

When I'd first looked into learning boxing, I'd sworn I would never commute to a place that wasn't near home. Distance came before facilities or price — that was the only real filter.

I pushed open the gym door.

The sharp reek of sweat hit my nose, mixed with the smell of old rubber mats. That familiar, foul stench brought a little of my reason back. Right. Work the body until the noise in my head burns out.

I changed roughly and loosened up with jump rope and shadowboxing. But in one corner of my mind, the electric thrill from earlier still lingered like an afterimage.

This isn't working. I need to hit a heavy bag and reset this goddamn horny brain of mine.

The gym coach came over just then.

"Been a while, huh? You warmed up? Want to spar today?"

He pointed toward a middle-aged guy with a slight gut working the heavy bag. Older than me, sure — but I was only amateur level myself. I could lose. I'd been coming long enough that the coach would have matched me with someone roughly my equal. In other words, a fair fight.

On any other day I would have accepted without a second thought. Today, though, a loose spar like that wasn't going to blast the noise out of my head.

"No. Not him… I want to go with that one over there. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠She's a real fighter, right?"

I jerked my chin toward the far side of the floor. A woman in short black shorts and a tight white top that left her midriff bare was hammering the mitts with a vicious rhythm. Her ponytail whipped with every movement.

From what I'd overheard, she was either prepping for the pros or already there.

The coach's face twisted for a second.

This bastard — is he hitting on her looks, or does he think she's easy because she's a woman?

That was the vibe. Even a pro woman still had to contend with a man's natural strength and weight class. And she was pretty, too. I didn't run into her often, but I'd heard more than once about guys who confessed and got shot down.

I waved both hands immediately.

"Wrong idea. I just want someone who can push me harder. Looking around, nobody else here hits better than she does. Or you can spar with me yourself, Coach."

I kept it flat and clean. The coach finally nodded. Two years of watching me train in silence had earned me a little credit; he seemed willing to take me at my word.

"Alright. I'll ask her."

I started working the heavy bag, glancing over every so often. The coach approached her, said something, pointed my way. Her expressionless face turned toward me.

A moment later the female fighter, hands already wrapped, walked over.

Sweat-damp bangs. Sharp, blunt eyes. A dry, flat voice to match.

"You really want to spar with me?"

"Yeah. I want to get my ass kicked by a woman."

Silence.

Ah. That should have gone through the brain filter first.

What I'd meant was: I wanted a woman to beat the lust out of me so I could clear my head. Instead, both the fighter and the coach were staring at me like I was a flasher in the park — pure contempt, the look you give garbage.

The coach pressed a hand to his forehead, the face of a man regretting every life choice that had led him to say yes.

"No — not in some perverted way. I genuinely want a hard workout…"

The excuse landed nowhere. Neither of them believed a word. The woman's expression soured.

"Whatever… fine. Let's do it."

She accepted, and before I knew it we were on the ring.

I let out a long breath and quietly pulled on the headgear.

"Alright. You both know the rules. Start easy. Don't overdo it."

The coach clapped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠both our shoulders and stepped out.

It began.

We touched gloves and broke. I had no intention of going easy because she was a woman, and no intention of bulldozing her with raw male physicality either. Only clean strikes and proper defense.

I'd asked for a female fighter as a sparring partner because I wanted to train evasion more than offense. In my line of work you ran into guys who threw fists first and thought later. Boxing was how I made sure I didn't eat those punches.

I forced my brain to lock onto nothing but the exchange of fists in front of me.

Thud! Pop!

Her speed was no joke. The one-two snapped out, hunting my face with real venom. The moment I stopped forcing power and focused inside the rules like pure shadow work, she changed too. Any leftover hesitation vanished. She pressed in with a fighter's full eyes.

"Be more aggressive there! Watch for the counter!"

The coach poured advice mostly at her, but barked at me now and then as well.

Breath clawed up into my throat. Sweat poured like rain. Every time a punch that rattled my skull got through, the noise in my head blew clean away. Yeah. This was it.

The spar ended.

I leaned on the ropes, dragging in ragged air. Speed and reflexes — I was never beating her there. I had genuinely gotten my ass handed to me.

To win, I would have had to charge in like an animal and turn it into a mud fight on pure male physical difference. Pro or amateur, a man's punch still hit harder. If I protected the chin, even taking three and landing one, I might have scraped a win.

She pulled off her headgear and came over.

"Good work. You fight cleaner than I expected."

The same person who always hammered the bag with a blank face was now smiling faintly, cheeks flushed. Clear interest in her eyes.

So this is how it goes.

Two years in the same gym and we'd never had a real conversation. Get beaten half to death and somehow goodwill piles up. A miracle.

She said she was going back to the bag and climbed down from the ring. I was completely spent; I waved and headed for the showers first.

Thud. Thud.

The coach came up and clapped my back. Bear or man? It hurt like hell.

"I was already worried Sara didn't have a decent practice partner. Come more often."

"Ah — yes."

"Come often and spar with Sara like today, and I'll coach you myself."

"Yes. That works for me."

He told me again to show up regularly, then headed over to her.

Sara.

So her name was Sara. I might have heard people call her that before. She had always felt like a beauty from another world, someone I'd never cross paths with, so I'd simply tuned her out.

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I dragged my shaking legs toward the shower.

I was alone in there. Not unusual — this wasn't a crowded gym to begin with. Was it unpopular, or was boxing itself just out of fashion? In a world where even grabbing a collar could get you fined, throwing punches was a fast way to blow a few hundred on a settlement. If I didn't need it for work, I would have stuck to regular weights myself.

I turned on the shower.

Cold, hard water hammered down, cooling a body still running hot. Muscles screamed. Breath still came shallow and ragged. I had properly emptied the tank.

And yet.

The moment I closed my eyes, she was there again — the sharp footwork right in front of me. The solid abs showing under the opaque white sports bra top. Beads of sweat tracking down the clean line of her neck. Thighs contracting with elastic power every time she loaded a punch. A face too pretty for the cage.

…Huh?

My gaze dropped on its own.

Even with the cold shower water hitting me dead-on, it was standing at full attention.

Fuck.

Boxing had drained every last drop of energy out of me.

My energy, anyway. My dick still had plenty left.

I dragged a body that somehow felt both overflowing and empty all the way home. I took the bus instead of walking. After a hard spar for the first time in a while, my legs were still trembling.

I crawled straight into bed.

Sleep came easy.

.

.

.

A sound woke me.

I thought it was the alarm. It was a phone call.

What time was it?

Nine p.m. I'd gotten home around five, so for a nap I'd slept a lot. Without the call I would have slept longer.

I checked who was calling on a weekend.

Ah… Cheol-gon.

Cheol-gon. Come on. Not this.

I sighed and answered. If I kept ignoring him, he'd lose his mind.

"Yes, Manager."

"Yes — I dozed off for a second."

I thought so too — until you called.

"Yes."

"…Yes."

Something ominous. The conversation had the stink of going somewhere ugly.

Drone imports? I dug through my memory and found it fast. He'd dumped that on me Friday — yesterday.

"Yes, I remember. The company importing drones and sensors. TJ Air Drone, was it? Principal loan of two hundred eighty million, total claim with arrears three hundred forty million. Book value of collateral one hundred ninety million, but after review recovery would maybe hit thirty or forty million…"

"But why…?"

Ah. When the manager talks like this, the conversation always runs the same way.

I did not say anything MZ like It's the weekend, though?

Working NPL recovery at a non-performing loan firm, this kind of thing was routine.

"…Yes."

He hung up.

"Ah…"

Today had been good. The blowjob. The oral from the girl next door's friend. The female boxer's abs. All of it excellent. Peak, even. And on top of that, a check of my hypnosis proficiency.

No — hypnosis can't be the side dish.

My brain had finally switched from dick-mode back to head-mode. Sex was the side dish now.

Anyway, the day was shot. Truly.

I never thought the job he'd handed me yesterday would turn into this. Still, the manager didn't talk nonsense. Wherever he picked up his tips, he had sources feeding him the dark corners of things, and on this kind of intel he was almost always right. Especially the "someone's about to run" tips. Always landed. Stupid bastards practically advertised their own escape.

I filled my dried-out gut with water, got dressed, and checked the manager's message.

Mullae-dong. On the map app it sat in a back corner. Getting in and out would take time. Of course, because of the company dinner, my car was still parked at the office. Taxi it was. The bus would burn too much clock. I'd keep the receipt. This was not coming out of my pocket.

I grabbed a coat on instinct and was glad I did. The night was still cool.

I got out on the main road near the destination. From here I could walk. Pulling a car too close would only draw eyes.

I checked the map as I walked. Second floor of an old commercial building. A ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠front office, most likely.

I was still turning that over when I saw a truck parked in front of the target building — and someone loading cargo into it.

"Huh…?"

Those looked like drone crates.

Boxes were being stacked carefully into a one-ton truck. Dark out, but clear enough to identify.

I stopped.

Checked the map again. This was the front approach. If I cut around to the right, I could get closer.

Slow. Quiet. I killed the sound of my footsteps and closed in.

One man was going up and down from the second floor, loading. While he was upstairs I slipped over to the truck and checked the cargo.

Confirmed.

Drones, LiDAR sensors, thermal cameras — crates of the whole assortment.

I took photos first. Labels clear. Silent shutter. Evidence shots: the boxes, the truck plates, and the second-floor building in the same frame.

The manager had been right. Where the hell did that bastard get this kind of information?

Then I waited.

The moment the man came back down with another box, I whistled.

Hypnosis command.

"Load the cargo first."

He set the box he was carrying into the truck.

"Name. And what are you doing right now?"

"Kim Su-cheol. Moving this out to the warehouse in Guro before anyone notices."

"Drop the casual tone."

Smack.

I slapped him across the head with my open palm. Kim Su-cheol's head rocked; his face went blank with confusion.

I kept digging.

It was exactly the TJ Air Drone case that had come down as company work. And the surprise: the firm had capped expected recovery around forty million. What he was moving right now was worth about fifty.

The bigger surprise:

"What? Ninety? So there's another ninety million won of goods at the Guro warehouse?"

"Yeah. Once this lot's over there, we sit on it a bit, then pull everything out."

This was huge. Fifty plus ninety made one hundred forty million — a full hundred million over expected recovery. Massive performance.

"When are you pulling the Guro stock?"

"Monday."

Hold on. Think this through.

Learning about the Guro goods was a windfall, but I couldn't report it straight. I'd found it through hypnosis; I had no way to prove the source. If anyone asked how I knew, I had nothing. And of course Kim Su-cheol would deny ever saying a word.

So what if I hit the Guro warehouse on Monday and caught the extraction in progress? I could say I'd sensed something off but didn't have hard evidence, so I hadn't reported yet. Monday work would become an outside job, and tonight's weekend mess would turn into pure profit.

Good. Run that scenario.

"Location and time?"

"Location's Guro… time's eleven-thirty at night."

"…Damn it."

Smack!

I slapped the back of my own head without thinking.

"Eleven-thirty at night — is that Monday or Tuesday? You start hauling at eleven-thirty, it's past midnight and you're into Tuesday. What kind of Monday is that, you bastard."

The realization that I'd have to burn a full Monday at the office first had me boiling.

Kim Su-cheol just stood there rubbing his head with a vacant look. That face made the heat climb again.

"Ugh. Anyway. If you get caught loading this right now? If our company — Donglim Asset Management — seizes this lot tonight, are you still pulling the Guro goods Monday night?"

"Can't get caught. Can't get caught. And the Guro stuff isn't me pulling it — the other side only has that window. I wanted to move it today, but…"

From what he said, he wasn't working alone; he had collaborators. Not partners in any real sense, so I filed them under ignore. I only needed to do my job.

I was about to lift the hypnosis when I looked at Kim Su-cheol's face and felt the pure injustice of working a weekend night.

So I asked, almost casually.

"Any emergency cash stashed somewhere nobody knows about — something even you wouldn't find for a while?"

I'd imagined shaking people down with hypnosis plenty of times. No CCTV, whistle at a passerby, demand money, walk away. How would they ever catch you? Most people only notice their pocket's empty later.

"Uh… yeah. Under the carpet by the driver's seat."

"Oh, there is? Hand it over."

As long as I was here, might as well pad the side income.

I took the three white envelopes Kim Su-cheol pulled from the truck.

"Three envelopes… Wait, why is there this much?"