Mishimoto Yoshiaki
I ran away.
I hate that word, but it's the truth. I retreated to Japan for a few days, to a place where I still have influence and respect, and where Yoon Hyunjin wouldn't dare cross the line. It's not because I'm afraid of his people. It's just that now was not the time to play the hero.
I needed to disappear. To regroup. To regain control.
The air in Tokyo is different. It's cleaner and cooler. It reminds me of, who I was before this game turned into a personal vendetta. I sit in silence in a room with tatami mats and open sliding doors, where the only sound is the distant noise of the city. Peace. And yet my skin itches.
Because peace is now just an illusion.
The message reached me on the third day. Short. Concise. Emotionless. They survived. Just one word. And yet it exploded in my head like a grenade.
Hyunjin survived. And so did that boy.
At first, I laughed. A dry, incredulous laugh. Things like that don't happen. Not when you do things properly. Not when you personally oversee every detail. Not when you control the steering wheel, speed, weight and the knowledge that the impact will kill.
The glass of sake shattered in my hand before I realised that I had been gripping it too tightly. The shards fell to the floor and the liquid spilled across the wood like blood. I didn't move. I just stared.
Nishimura is dead.
Hyunjin is alive.
This is no longer a game. It's not about tactics or patience anymore. It's an insult. Personal. Direct. They took my right hand. And they escaped under my wheels.
The worst part isn't the failure itself.
It's the feeling that has settled under my skin and refuses to go away. The feeling that Yoon Hyunjin has taken something from me. Something that belonged to me. Control. Hope for a clean ending. Maybe even peace, too.
... ༺༻ ...
Sitting in the back seat of the car, I watch it all through the tinted windows as if I were watching someone else's life.
It's night-time. The streets are quiet and empty in this part of the city. They stride through Seoul at night. Taesung and only two bodyguards. How naive.
The boy walks in a strange way. He is inexperienced, but alert. His body is tense, as if he is subconsciously expecting a blow. That's exactly how people walk who have been broken once before but don't yet understand it.
There are two men on either side of him. Kang's brothers. Big. Strong. Reliable. The funny thing is, they really think that's enough.
„Now," I say calmly into the transmitter.
Everything happens in a matter of seconds. Thirty men materialise in the empty alley like shadows. Thirty hands. Thirty blows. Thirty bodies rush forward without hesitation.
The Kangs fight well. Hard. Furiously. But they are not gods.
I open the door and grab his arm. The boy turns around. He doesn't have time to scream. He's lighter than I expected.
„No," he gasps, but it's not a plea. More like shock.
I press the sedative-soaked cloth to his face before he realises what's happening. He still tries to resist. Briefly. Weakly. His fingers dig into my jacket sleeve. He looks me in the eye. We load him inside. The doors close. The car pulls away. Outside the windows, there is only chaos and screaming, and two bodies on the ground. Without Taesung.
I lean closer. I lift his chin slightly with my fingers, as if he were an object I were examining before buying.
„Hyunjin thinks he knows, how this game works," I say quietly, more to myself than to Taesung. „But he forgot one thing." I sit back up in my seat. „Wars aren't won by force," I continue calmly. „They're won by taking away what your opponent can't live without." The car disappears into the night-time traffic and I smile broadly.
... ༺༻ ...
The car journey takes longer than necessary.
On purpose.
I want his body to wake up before his mind does. I want him to feel the cold, the vibrations of the car and the smell of petrol and metal. I want his brain to piece together reality bit by bit, reaching the same conclusion each time—that there will be no rescue this time.
The car stops. They pull him out. My men drag him inside like a rag doll. They drag him through the house towards the stairs leading down to the ground floor and the basement door. It's basically just water-soaked concrete. The air is thick with the smell of rust, mould and old oil. It's a place where time has stopped because there's nothing left to spoil.
On my way to join the others, I am stopped by my son, who should be asleep in bed by now. I'll have to punish the nanny when I'm done downstairs.
„Daddy," he shouts, reaching out his arms to me. I bend down and pick him up. A second later, the nanny runs out from around the corner. I give her a stern look, then hand my son to her because Ishida has appeared at my right side.
„Oybun, everything is ready." I follow Ishida down to the basement, where a young man is sitting on a chair wearing only his underwear. His hands and feet are tied to the chair and goose bumps cover his body — the cold here penetrates people's bones. Next to him is a bucket full of water.
I sit down on a chair opposite him, cross my legs and light a cigar. The young man looks up at me, fully conscious, his eyes burning with fire. I see only one thing in them. He wants to kill me. He has trained him well, a few months ago, he didn't even know how this world worked.
„Well," I say to get his attention. „Now you're going to tell me everything I want to know." He knows the only reason he's still breathing. „Taesung."
... ༺༻ ...
BLOOD DEBT (피의 빚)