“Where can I find them?” I demand. “The Hyeonmudan. Where do they operate?”
“It’s been years since I’ve seen any of them. They don’t come here to conduct business anymore. They’ve moved even more underground. But their old location—their old compound—is on the outskirts of the city, near the industrial district. It might be worth visiting for more clues.”
I grab one of the small square napkins from a stack on the counter and slide it over toward him. “Write down the address. If it’s incorrect, you’ll be seeing me again.”
Dok-su almost rolls his eyes then decides to simplycomply. He jots down the address and returns the square napkin.
“But be warned,” he says. “Some corpses are better left buried. Consider walking away from this while you still can.”
From the bar in Jangnim-dong, I head straight to what Dok-su claimed was the old compound of the Hyeonmudan.
As I’ve anticipated, it’s an industrial building that’s long been forgotten. There’s cracked windows and spiderwebs that are inches thick. It seems no one has been here in years.
Yet as I stand in front of the large, depressing slab of concrete, my instincts urge me to go inside. There’s potential information to uncover.
I step over rubble and discarded sheet metal, my senses on high alert. Every shadow is a potential threat. Every creak of wood a possible ambush.
I go from the open-spaced ground floor that once seemed to be used for storing cargo and other product to the second floor where it seems there’re more rooms.
It’s as I’m pushing open one of the doors that I come across an old office. The room is full of more dust and cobwebs, a desk situated at the back of the room with a filing cabinet and leather chair.
But it’s what’s pinned to the corkboard on the wall that truly captures my attention.
Photographs that have been tacked to the board. Except not just any photographs—they’re a collage of familiar faces. The first being my parents from when they were young, both of them posing in front of our old hanok home.
They were once smiling, but someone’s drawn a large X over their faces.
The second photo is even more unsettling.
Monroe, captured from a distance, walking down a public street. Her morning commute to school, back before she was being driven by Sang-cheol. She looks so innocent, clutching her teacher’s totebag as she walks, completely unaware that someone is watching her.
Someone was documenting her movements.
A cool, sharp shiver runs down my spine. I step deeper into the room, unable to look away from the photos.
“I promised we would see each other again, Seo Jin-tae, did I not?”
I spin toward the voice, my heart immediately racing.
Standing in the doorway is none other than the man who must be the Black Shell.
He’s dressed head to toe in black—a long coat that falls past his knees, fitted trousers, gloves, boots. Not an inch of skin is visible.
His face is hidden behind a sleek, dark mask with a subtle shell-like texture, completely featureless except for the narrow slits where his eyes should be. A hood is pulled up over his head, shadowing the mask even further.
Neither of us speak for a drawn-out second as I drink him in and he stands arrogantly in the doorway.
“You,” I say finally. “You killed my family all those years ago.”
“I did what was necessary.”
“Is that what you call what you’re doing now? Coming for me like you’ve been?”
“Do not take it personally, Seo Jin-tae. I am merely… tying loose ends.”
For the second time in recent weeks, rather than allowing the strategic side of my brain to guide me, I’m giving into impulses. I’m allowing emotion to guide me.
Sudden and sweeping rage consumes me until I’m exploding all at once.
