The scene inside is as pathetic as I expected.
Goh Seung-ho sits on the edge of a sagging mattress, his pants around his ankles while a woman kneels between his legs, her hand wrapped around his limp, unresponsive cock.
The room stinks of cigarettes even more than the hallway outside, every table and dresser littered with old liquor bottles and takeout cartons.
The woman screams, scrambling backward and clutching her tits as if she’s someone respectable.
Seung-ho’s reaction is slower. His bloodshot eyes widen, and he grabs a pillow to cover his lap.
“What the fuck!” he snarls, half slurring. “Who the fuck?—”
He stops as recognition dawns. Even after all these years, he knows my face.
I remain in the doorway, perfectly composed despite the squalor surrounding us.
“Get out,” I order the woman.
She’s still topless, but she knows it’s more important to obey. She snatches her leopard print blouse and chunky heels from the floor and scurries past us.
“Shut the door,” I tell Min-gyu. “Don’t forget to put the sign out.”
He does as I’ve requested, hanging the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the knob and twisting the lock in the door.
We’re officially alone in this miserable room.
I take a moment to study what’s become of Goh Seung-ho, former highly regarded captain in the Bulgeomhoe.
The years have not been kind to him, though I suppose I’m partly responsible for that.
His jaw is permanently disfigured from where I shattered it, the bone healed crooked so that his mouth never fully closes. It affects his speech, turning his words into a wet, lisping drawl.
His face is bloated and sallow from years of drinking, skin mottled with broken capillaries and eyes watery and rimmed red.
He’s a ruin of a man. A husk of his former glory.
“The Great Silent Hunter,” he spits, his ruined mouth twisting into his version of a sneer. “What do you want now? Come to admire your handiwork?”
His derision isn’t worthy of a response. I’m more preoccupied with mulling over the situation.
This can’t be him.
The shootout outside the boxing arena was well coordinated. Multiple vehicles and shooters showing up at the exact right moment then delivering the cryptic message once they’d flexed their might.
That kind of operation requires resources and discipline. It calls for men willing to follow orders.
Goh Seung-ho can barely string a coherent thought together. He’s a drunken, bloated mess hiding in a love motel with a prostitute he probably couldn’t even pay properly.
But we’ve traveled four hours for this—and hewasseen at the boxing match.
“Restrain him,” I order next.
Seung-ho struggles as Min-gyu hauls him off the bed and shoves him into a rickety chair, but it’s a weak, flailing resistance. I pull my blade from inside my jacket, delighting in the flicker of fear in his bloodshot eyes.
“Why were you at the underground boxing match in Yeongdo-gu?” I ask.
He laughs, producing the wet and phlegmy sound before choking on it. “Is that what this is about? The fucking boxing match?”
“Answer the question.”
