Two Days After the Incident – 2:00 AM
A Small, Old Restaurant in a Poor Neighborhood
15 years ago
Outside
The street is a corpse.
Only the wind moves—dragging scraps of torn paper and plastic bags across the asphalt like restless spirits.
Dae-Ho shuffles forward with the heaviness of a man walking out of his own grave. His shoes scrape instead of step. His shoulders sag as if someone has hooked invisible weights onto them. His face… pale, hollow, the face of a man who hasn't slept in a decade.
Yang stops a few meters ahead, turns, and studies him.
The sight punches the breath out of him.
Dae-Ho's eyes are sunken caves.
His lips are cracked.
His skin clings too tightly to his bones.
He looks less like a living man and more like a ghost who forgot to fade.
Inside
The door creaks open. A wave of humid heat slams into them—heavy, suffocating, thick with garlic, chili, and old sweat soaked deep into the walls.
Dae-Ho steps in.
His glasses fog instantly, turning the world into a blank sheet of white.
He doesn't wipe them.
He stands there motionless, sightless, breathing in the choking heat like it's punishment he deserves.
Min-Ah sits at the back table—a woman younger than her weary eyes suggest, with a faded beauty hidden beneath her exhaustion. Her arms are crossed in a posture halfway between defiance and fatigue. Her hair is tied messy, skin glistening under the yellow bulbs. She lifts her head at the sound
Her eyes land on Dae-Ho.
She knows that look.
A man whose soul has been scooped out, leaving only a trembling shell.
Without a word, she rises and motions toward the farthest table.
Dae-Ho obeys.
The chair groans under him.
His hands touch the greasy surface, sticking slightly. He stares at those hands—the same hands that have done nothing for two days except tremble uncontrollably.
Silence thickens between the three of them.
Only the stew on the stove speaks.
Bubble… bubble…
A slow, weary rhythm.
The sound of a dying heart forcing itself to keep beating.
Min-Ah returns with a tray.
She sets it down with a heavy CLACK.
Dae-Ho flinches.
His muscles lock.
For a moment, the noise is not a clay pot hitting wood—it is bone shattering under force.
Steam rises from the dish, burning his cheeks.
The stew is violently red.
Red like anger.
Red like blood refusing to dry.
Yang leans forward slightly, voice lowered as if standing before a coffin.
"Pick up the spoon."
Dae-Ho stares at it.
The metal chills his fingertips.
He picks it up, but the weight feels unnatural—like lifting a stone tied to his wrist.
His voice escapes in a raw, broken rasp.
"I can't… my throat won't open."
Min-Ah stands beside him, arms folded, her voice roughened by years of smoke and reality.
"Your throat isn't closed. Swallow it before the night swallows you."
He dips the spoon into the stew.
The broth trembles with his shaking hand.
A drop falls, sizzling on the table.
He brings it to his lips.
The Moment
Heat detonates across his tongue.
A burst of pepper, fire, and pain.
His eyes overflow instantly—tears pulled out not by grief but the violence of the spice.
He swallows.
The burn tears down his throat.
For a single second, the pain of his body overwhelms the pain of his heart.
He takes another spoonful.
Then another.
Faster each time.
Soon he is devouring it.
Not eating—fighting.
Like he's trying to drown inside the bowl.
Slurping, gulping, panting, each mouthful a weapon he uses against himself.
Sweat pours.
Tears mix with it.
His nose runs.
His skin turns crimson.
Yang watches with a cigarette burning to the filter between his fingers, forgotten. He watches his friend eat like a starving beast—or a man desperate to punish every nerve in his body just to feel anything else.
When the bowl empties, Dae-Ho stops abruptly.
He leans back, dragging air into his lungs like a man resurfacing after nearly drowning.
He stares up at the stained ceiling.
His stomach is full.
But his eyes remain hollow.
His voice is rough, altered.
"Seok-Jun… is alone."
Yang lowers his head.
"Then go to him."
Dae-Ho rises slowly.
This time, his legs don't shake.
The stew has pulled him back from the brink—just enough to stand, to move, to return to hell in the morning.
He doesn't say goodbye.
He doesn't look at Min-Ah or Yang.
He steps into the cold night.
The wind cools the sweat on his skin, but the fire inside him refuses to die.
He walks toward home.
Toward Seok-Jun.
Toward the next battle.
The Empty Chair
The Next Morning – 9:00 AM
Company Headquarters
The fluorescent lights buzz relentlessly—
Bzzzzzz…
A thin, brain-gnawing sound like a trapped fly refusing to die.
The office is bitterly cold.
Yet the atmosphere hangs heavy, like stale breath inside a crowded elevator.
Clusters of employees fill the room, but the silence is unnatural.
Keyboards click timidly.
Chairs shift cautiously.
Everyone moves like sound itself might shatter something fragile and dangerous.
And there—between two long rows of desks—
is a void.
Min-Jun's desk.
Cleared.
Wiped.
Erased.
No mug.
No family photo.
No documents.
Not even dust.
Just a bare desk
and an empty chair
staring back at the office like an open wound.
People pretend to work.
But every mind is glued to that absence.
The silence of something missing screams louder than anything present.
At Dae-Ho's Desk
Dae-Ho hunches over his papers, glasses slipping low on his nose. He audits with cold precision. His lines are straight. His numbers are exact.
His hands do not shake anymore.
Last night's decision has numbed him like painkillers before surgery.
A shadow glides over his desk.
A long one.
The scent hits first—rich cologne layered over expensive tobacco.
Dae-Ho's spine tightens.
He doesn't need to look up.
He already knows.
Mr. Jang stands beside him, one hand tucked casually in his pocket. His gaze drifts toward Min-Jun's empty desk before settling on Dae-Ho's bent form.
His voice is smooth, polished.
"The place looks more spacious today, don't you think?"
Dae-Ho sets down his pen and lifts his chin slowly.
Mr. Jang's face is calm.
Too calm.
A face untouched by guilt—untouched by anything at all.
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Jang removes his hand from his pocket and rests it on Dae-Ho's shoulder—just beside his neck. His fingers squeeze.
Not enough to bruise.
Just enough to remind him of power.
"I heard you stayed late last night." His tone softens into something colder. "Dedication. I appreciate that."
He leans closer, voice dropping into a whisper that crawls into Dae-Ho's ear like an ice-cold needle.
"Sometimes, to make a garden beautiful, you have to pull out the weeds by the roots."
His fingers tighten slightly.
"You're a good gardener, Dae-Ho. You know which are the flowers… and which are the weeds. Don't you?"
Dae-Ho meets his gaze.
His pulse thunders.
Fear coils in his stomach.
But beneath the fear—
something else awakens.
Hate.
Precise.
Measured.
Cold.
He answers without breaking eye contact.
"I only work with numbers, sir. That's all I know."
Mr. Jang studies him, searching for cracks—submission or rebellion.
Finding neither, he releases his shoulder and gives two light pats.
"Very good. Keep your numbers clean."
He walks away, footsteps echoing like a judge's gavel.
The entire office exhales at once.
Dae-Ho watches him disappear into his office.
Then reaches for his pen.
He grips it so tightly his knuckles turn bone-white.
The plastic bends under his fist.
His eyes fall on a number in the ledger.
One he once labeled an error.
Now he sees it differently.
Not a mistake.
A weapon.
He circles it.
Hard.
Dark.
Pressing until the paper nearly tears.
This isn't accounting anymore.
This is war.