Knock, knock.
Her knuckles made a light tap on the secretary's door, the wood cool-smelling beneath her fingers.
"Come in," a gentle voice within instructed.
She slipped inside, letting out a soft breath. The air was paper-scented and coffee-scented, a faint suggestiveness of warmth, a small oasis of order and calm. Above the desk, the secretary smiled up.
"Good morning, Ms. Yun-lee Aira.".
"Morning," Aira replied, her voice polite but subdued. "I'm here to pay Lia's school fees."
The woman's smile widened. "Oh, just right on time! Please, take a seat."
Aira sat down, drawing out the envelope from her handbag. Her fingers lingered on it longer than they should have — a plain envelope, yet a reminder of just how far she'd traveled. Since her parents fell, each day had been survival disguised as normal. Paying Lia's school fees in advance wasn't merely a duty; it was a reminder that the world hadn't broken her entirely.
When she was done with the transaction, Aira neatly folded the receipt into her bag. "Thank you," she said, with a slight bow of her head, rising to leave, but the secretary stopped her.
"The principal wanted to see you for a minute. Nothing's wrong, don't worry."
Aira nodded and followed the corridor to the principal's office, the ring of her footsteps echoing in the silence.
---
"Ms. Yun-lee," the principal greeted. "Please, sit down."
Aira sat, her hands folded in her lap.
The principal's tone softened, the professional leaking concern. "Lia is a highly intelligent student — always at the top of her class. But lately… she's been distant. She doesn't speak to anyone, and she always looks lost in thought in class. I just wanted to ask if everything is okay at home."
Aira's posture stiffened. The question carried more weight than it expressed.
"She's just quiet," she said carefully. "Introverted. She's… coping."
"I understand," the principal said, though doubt lingered in his expression. "We're here to help, if ever needed."
Aira forced a polite nod, clutching Lia's academic report card on her way out. Straight A's — flawless. Despite everything, her sister still shone. Pride bloomed quietly in Aira's chest. She smiled faintly, promising herself, I'll get her something nice today.
She rounded a corner—and crashed hard into someone.
"Ah!" The air was knocked out of her body, and papers swirled like snow everywhere around them.
The guy she'd run into crouched down at the same time as she did, and again, their foreheads bumped together with a soft thud.
"Ah—!" she hissed, rubbing the place.
"Whoa, okay… that's one way to make a first impression," grumbled the guy, his tone half-sympathetic, half-in-pain and had a slight hint of sarcasm.
"I-I'm so sorry," she stammered, gathering papers in a rush. "I wasn't looking."
"It's fine," he said as he stood up, his deep but light voice, the kind that spoke charm without trying. "You're okay?"
Aira nodded, avoiding his eyes. But his eyes persisted. There was a spark of recognition.
"Wait… I know you," he said. "You're the quiet girl from the tenth floor."
Her eyes flashed up, shocked.
He smiled, extending his hand. "Kenji. We live next door. Small world, isn't it?"
Aira hesitated before shaking it. "Aira. Sorry again… I have to go."
She spotted Lia down the hall, clutching her bag and wondering. Aira waved her over and hurried away, leaving Kenji gazing after her retreating figure with a smile dancing on his lips.
Outside, the afternoon sun dipped low, streaking the sky with burnt gold. Aira took Lia's hand. "You did well again," she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her sister's face. "I'm proud of you."
Lia looked up at her quietly. "Unni, are we… okay?"
Aira smiled, though the question made her chest ache. "We're always okay."
But even as she said it, she didn't know if she believed it.
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Across the city, in a sweat-smelling, iron-smelling, fear-scented room with no windows....Ha-joon rested against a man strapped to a chair. The air clung, heavy with silence. A light bulb dangled dangerously from the ceiling, its jagged shadow slicing across Do Kyung's shaking face.
"You're trembling," Ha-joon said softly, nigh tenderly. "Relax. I have not decided yet whether you'll die.".
Swallowing hard, Do Kyung's lips quivered. "I-I told you everything I know—"
"Not everything." Ha-joon's voice was smooth, almost polite, but the fire in his eyes was lethal. "You said you were taking orders. Whose?"
Do Kyung hesitated. The knife in Ha-joon's hand glinted faintly.
"I… never saw their faces," he stammered.
Ha-joon relaxed back, tapping the blade hesitantly on the table — rhythmic, deliberate. "Then start at the beginning.".
Do Kyung's words spill out in hasty gulps. "It started 3 years ago — coded messages, threatening letters. They knew everything — my bank accounts, my wife's hospitalization bills, my grandfather's coma. They warned me that if I didn't cooperate, they'd kill him. I was instructed to move the money. I did not want to—"
"But you did," Ha-joon cut in, unruffled and cold.
"I had no choice!" Do Kyung's voice cracked. "They sent someone once — a guy with a scar on his jaw, silver tooth, serpent tattoo around his wrist. He came from somewhere called Red Velvet Club. He said if I didn't listen, I'd be sorry."
With that, Ha-joon's tapping stopped. His eyes narrowed.
A serpent tattoo.
He'd noticed that mark before, in reports buried deep, in photographs of dead men whose remains were never found. And 'Red Velvet club?' that was the same club they had been keeping a look out for.
Ha-joon's voice dropped. "You're sure?"
Do Kyung nodded frantically. "Yes! I promise! I don't know names, only that they had rooms under the club… secret ones. Deals, vanishing acts—nobody questions anything that happens there."
The knife ceased moving against the table.
Ha-joon slowly stood up, jamming it into his jacket pocket. His own eyes glinted with the same coldness as the steel. "Your pregnant wife...she is out there scouting with the police, looking for your ass....I might pay her a visit dont you think?"
Do Kyung froze. "Sir. Please—"
Ha-joon moved around to face him, hand on the door. "I wont kill you," he said softly. "For now atleast. But if i find out that even a word that you just spoke here was a lie...… she'll know what your last words were."
Do Kyung sobbed as the door closed behind him.
Ha-joon's phone rang.
"Suzanne," he replied, voice flat.
"Have you found anything Sir?" she replied brusquely.
"Red Velvet Club," he said. "Do Kyung says that's where they take cover. Secret rooms. I want it all — owner, staff, bank contacts, property records."
"Uhmm, Sir...," Suzanne's tone changed slightly, "that club's owned by people who bribe the police to avert their gaze. Even the feds give it a wide berth."
A trace of a smile played around his lips. "Then it's the place to dig." She sighed. "We'll get a composite sketch drawn up — scarred jaw, silver tooth, serpent tattoo, right?"
"Good."
"Uhmmm...Sir?" she paused. "If this ties into Org Z's rival syndicates, you're standing in a war zone."
He looked out the window, city lights fractured against the glass. His reflection wavered — a man split between vengeance and something he couldn't yet name.
"Story of my life," he breathed, and hung up.
He stood there for a very long time. Do Kyung's words reverberated in his mind — Red Velvet Club, threats, snake tattoo. The darkness swirling inside him, the snake tightening, hungry.
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There was laughter echoing off marble floors in the Park mansion. There was an odor of excess floating in the air as Park Choon-hee stretched out on her bed, silk robe hugging perilously.
"I;m telling you guys...Ha-joon isn't like the other men," she said, twirling a coil of hair, wallowing in the jealousy of her friends. "He has this boldness. The kind that makes you think you belong to him."
Her friends giggled, crowding in. "Sounds controlling."
She smiled. "Maybe. But it's exhilarating."
Their laughter was infectious, the room filled, but she demurred, hesitated for one second — a flash of desperation under the glamour. She knew in her heart she was losing him, but would not acknowledge it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mrs. Kim sat on the bed's edge, robe wrapped tightly about her gaunt frame. Her husband's words hours before still echoed in her mind: "Ha-joon has started again."
She stood before a framed photograph — a thirteen-year-old Ha-joon, holding a stray cat in his arms. Kind, gentle eyes.
Now, they belonged to a stranger.
"I taught him better than this," she panted, trembling. "He vowed to me."
Her knuckles trailed along the glass of the photograph, tears streaming down her face. "He can't go back to that life. I won't permit him. I won't lose my son. Not again."
Outside, thunder rumbled over the dark sky. Lightning stung, slicing through the darkness, lighting up her face with white for a moment, that haunting, brief moment.
Then blackness again.
And Mrs. Kim sat there clutching the photo of a boy who no longer existed.