I decide on the latter.
“Have I mentioned I’m a reporter?” I lie casually. “I’m covering a story about old gang connections in Busan, and your name came up in my research. So we can do this the easy way, where you answer my questions and I leave you alone. Or we can do it the hard way, where I start looking into your sketchy business here and maybe make some calls to the authorities about what I find.”
It’s totally a bluff, and not a particularly good one, but apparently good enough to fool Dok-su. His features sharpen as he studies me for several seconds, his watery eyes narrowing.
“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he mutters. “That family... their history... it’s not something to dig up lightly.”
“Let me worry about that.”
He pours himself a quick drink and then chugs it whole, setting the glass back down. “You’re asking about Jung-hoon? You really mean his murder? You want to know about the man who did it, the Black Shell, eh? That’s who you’re looking for. He was an enforcer for the gang they were in called the Hyeonmudan. The most feared one they had. When Jin-tae’s father betrayed the organization, they sent Black Shell to deliver their punishment,” he explains. “He killed them all. The wholefamily. It was a massacre, meant to send a message to anyone else who might think about crossing them.”
A chill prickles the nape of my neck. “So this Black Shell… he’s still alive?”
“You’re the reporter. Isn’t it your job to find out?” he sneers back. He grabs the soju bottle he’s poured from and fills up another glass. “I’ve told you all I will divulge. Get out of my bar or you will be tossed out.”
I have more questions, but he’s made it explicitly clear I’ve pushed him as far as he’ll go. I thank him as curtly as he’s snapped at me, then slide off the barstool and walk out of the bar.
The evening air hits my face like a slap, cool and sobering after the stuffiness of the bar. I pause on the sidewalk in my attempt to process what few details I’ve learned.
Apparently the Hyeonmudan are involved? I could’ve sworn Jin’s told me they were not a real crime syndicate in South Korea; it was more myth and urban legend than rooted in reality.
But if they are real—if Black Shell is aligned with them—then that would explain the complexity of what Jin’s been dealing with.
His family was slaughtered decades ago by this man, and now he’s returned to finish the job.
I start walking toward the nearest subway station, my mind racing with implications and possibilities. I need to figure out who Black Shell is now, where he’s hiding, and how to stop him before?—
The prickle at the back of my neck returns, sharper than before.
Someone is following me. Again.
I quicken my pace, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder, my heart pounding frantically inside my ribcage. It’sas if I already sense it’s too late. He’s already made his decision to make himself known, his footsteps coming up behind me.
I open my mouth to scream when a hand clamps over it. An arm wraps around my waist. I’m yanked backward against someone tall and broad and solid. His voice hisses in my ear, low and urgent and enraged.
“Don’t scream.”
20.Jin
“The Bulgeomhoe are finished,”I announce to the roomful of men seated before me.
We’re in the underground chamber of the Claw Lounge, where meetings are often held or special matters addressed, like when someone calls for a ceremonial punishment.
I walk back and forth in the center of the large room, slowly meeting the curious gazes of captains and lieutenants obediently gathered.
“Their clubhouse is ash. Their leaders are dead. Their soldiers have been scattered to the winds or buried in unmarked graves. This is what happens to those who challenge the Baekho Pa. This is the fate that awaits anyone foolish enough to cross us.”
Several murmurs of approval ripple through the chamber until I promptly hold up a hand and silence them.
“And yet,” I continue coldly, dripping with displeasure. “The Bulgeomhoe were never the true threat. They were insects—small nuisances that distracted us from the real enemy that still lurks in the shadows.”
Uncertain silence meets my words as a few men exchangeglances. They’re used to the praise of a weak and ineffectual leader like Kim Jae-hyun; they’re used to celebrations any time the syndicate accomplishes even the smallest feat.
But Jae-hyun is dead and I’m Baekho-je now.
We don’t celebrate until there’s a reason worthy of it. Until they have worked for it and we’ve truly come out victorious.
“The Black Shell,” I spit into the loud silence. “The fabled Hyeonmudan. These are the names that should be keeping you awake at night. These are the targets that matter. Yet what progress have we made in finding them? Weeks of searching and nothing!”
