The abandoned building stood far from any town, its concrete walls coated in dust and peeling paint. Rows of motorcycles rested inside the hollow structure like silent animals, their metal frames catching the dim afternoon light that slipped through broken windows.
Around fourty figures dressed entirely in black occupied the space.
Full motorcycle helmets concealed their faces. Thick leather jackets hid their bodies. In the dim light, they were nearly indistinguishable from one another.
Some leaned against the walls. Some sat on their motorcycles. Others stood in small circles, chatting casually. Their voices carried a strangely lively atmosphere, almost friendly.
At the center of the building stood a man beside his motorcycle.
He raised a hand.
"Alright, guys," he said. "Let's begin the roll call."
The conversations died down almost immediately.
He stepped behind his motorcycle,
"Number 1."
One courier stepped forward. Without a word, they unzipped their leather jacket and removed it, turning the interior outward. Printed clearly inside was a large white 1.
They draped the jacket carefully across the motorcycle seat so the number faced outward, then walked behind the man and stood with arms folded.
"Number 2."
Another courier repeated the same.
Jacket off.
Number revealed.
Placed on the motorcycle.
Then they joined the first courier.
"Number 3."
"Number 4."
"Number 5."
…
The pile of numbered jackets slowly grew across the motorcycles like a quiet display.
"Number 31."
A figure stood.
They were tall, as tall as most of the men, and taller than many of the women.
They removed her jacket.
Inside, the number 31 was printed across the lining. Beneath it, the black shirt they wore outlined a clearly feminine figure, the fabric stretched slightly across her chest.
She raised her arms to place the jacket onto the pile.
For a moment she misaligned it.
The number tilted sideways.
A courier beside her glanced at it.
She adjusted it carefully until the number sat perfectly upright.
Behind the helmet visor, no expression could be seen.
The man paused briefly.
Then he raised his hand.
"Helmet."
The girl paused.
A few couriers nearby tilted their heads slightly.
Slowly, she tapped two fingers against the side of her helmet.
Then lowered her hand.
The man stared at her for another second.
Then nodded.
"Right."
She joined the others behind the leader.
Then he continued.
"Number 32."
The roll call proceeded normally after that.
"Number 33."
"Number 34."
…
"Number 39."
By the time the final number was called, the motorcycles were covered in neatly displayed jackets.
The man pulled a small burner phone from his pocket.
He pressed a button and held it up.
"Full attendance," he said.
Around the room, the couriers stepped forward and retrieved their jackets, slipping them back on one by one.
Helmets turned.
Engines shifted slightly.
Movement began filling the room again.
Then the phone crackled.
A distorted voice emerged, heavily filtered, mechanical and stripped of anything human.
"Number 31 is to be brought to the White Devil."
The atmosphere changed instantly.
The man slowly looked up from the phone.
By the time he did, everyone had already put their jackets back on.
Once again, the room was filled with identical figures dressed in black.
No numbers visible.
No differences.
All were scattered around, chatting.
He raised his voice.
"Stop."
The command cut cleanly through the room.
Dozens of dark helmets turned toward him.
The man scanned the crowd.
"Number 31," he said calmly. "Please step forward."
No one moved.
A few couriers glanced sideways at each other, their helmet visors reflecting dim light.
The man frowned slightly.
"Which one of you is number 31?"
Still no response.
Whispers began spreading quietly among the group.
The man exhaled slowly.
Then raised his voice again.
"Roll call. Again."
He straightened slightly.
"Num—"
A courier suddenly stepped forward.
"I'm number 31."
Her voice was quiet, soft.
She removed her jacket again, revealing the 31 printed inside.
The murmurs around the room grew louder.
The man studied her carefully.
"You're unusually quiet today," he said. "What's wrong?"
The whispering continued among the other couriers.
She paused.
Then said nothing.
The man lowered the burner phone slightly.
"The White Devil wants to see you."
Even through the helmets, several couriers visibly stiffened.
"Did you do something wrong?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"…Yeah."
The man tilted his head.
"I… delayed a delivery." she said quietly.
"And?"
She looked down.
"It's just… something personal."
Silence lingered for a moment.
The man inhaled deeply.
Then he nodded once.
"I'll come with you, m'lady."
The courier's head snapped up.
"W-what?"
"To the White Devil," he continued calmly. "I'll say you were ambushed by Dongseok's men during delivery."
He slipped the burner phone back into his pocket.
"And that the reports were disposed of."
The girl slowly lowered her head in a bow.
"Thank you, sir."
The man waved it off.
"Don't worry," he said.
"You've done more than enough for us."