The boss—Kyungho—takes a half-step back. The blood drains from his face so completely he looks like a wax figure. His eyes dart from Suha to his own men, who are now either unconscious or being efficiently restrained by Suha’s henchmen. He looks back at Suha, and a nervous, sickly smile twitches on his lips.
“Suha,” he says, and his voice is too high, too tight. “What a surprise.” He gestures weakly at the scene, at his own defeated men. “What... what brings you here?”
Suha doesn’t answer right away. He takes a few slow steps forward, his expensive shoes making no sound on the concrete. He stops a few feet away, looking down at his uncle with an expression of mild interest. “You have something,” he says, each word dropping into the sudden quiet like a stone, “that belongs to me.”
His uncle blinks. For a second, genuine confusion wars with the panic on his face. Then his eyes widen. He whirls, staring down at me with dawning, horrified comprehension.
I grin up at him. My teeth feel gritty with blood. I have to cough, a wet, rattling sound that sends a fresh wave of pain through my side, but I force the words out anyway, my voice a triumphant whisper. “I tried to tell you.”
Suha gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. Two of his men detach themselves from the periphery and move toward me. They don’t look at Kyungho. They might as well be moving through empty space. One of them—the slender guy with glasses who hacked my phone—produces a small, sharp tool and slices through the plastic zip ties on my wrists with a quicksnick. The sudden release sends a flood of prickling fire down my arms. The other cuts the ties at my ankles.
My limbs feel like they’re made of wet clay. I try to push myself up, and my left hand—the cut one—gives way instantly, a jolt of agony shooting up to my elbow. I gasp, my vision spotting. A strong hand closes around my upper arm, not gently, but firmly, hauling me upright. It’s the glasses guy. His grip is steady, keeping me from face-planting back onto the floor.
I stagger, my legs trembling. Every part of me is shouting. My ribs are a cage of hot knives. My face is a throbbing, swollen mess. The cut on my hand is a line of pure, screaming focus. The cage and the piercings are distant, secondary aches beneath the fresher, more immediate damage.
I shuffle forward, one stumbling step, then another. I pass Suha’s uncle. Kyungho is just standing there, frozen, his face still that awful, pale color. I make myself look at him as I limp by. I put every ounce of smug, bloody satisfaction I can muster into that look. I let him see the crazy, unhinged glee in my one good eye.You picked the wrong fucking pet to kick.
I don’t make it far. The wall of the warehouse is only about ten feet away, and I lean against it heavily, the cool, rough concrete a solid anchor against the spinning in my head. I clutch my injured hand against my stomach, the other arm wrapped around my ribs, trying to hold myself together. I’m breathing in short, shallow sips, each one a careful negotiation with the pain in my side. I watch, from my spot against the wall, taking out my pack of cigarettes, carefully pulling one free, and lighting it. I put it between my lips and inhale indulgently as Suha finally turns his full attention back to his uncle.
Suha doesn’t look at me again. He turns his head slowly, his gaze sweeping over the subdued scene—his own men standing watchful and still, his uncle’s thugs either unconscious or kneeling with their hands on their heads. His expression is unreadable, a smooth surface over deep, dark water.
He shrugs out of his long black coat, fluidly and unhurriedly. He holds it out to one side without looking, and the slender guy with glasses steps forward silently and takes it, folding it over his arm.
Then Suha begins to roll up his sleeves.
He does it meticulously, first one crisp white cuff, then the other, folding the fabric back in neat, precise turns. The exposed skin of his forearms is pale and corded with muscle, the tendons standing out as he works. The silence in the warehouse is thick enough to taste, broken only by the wet, ragged sound of my own breathing and the low moan of one of Taewoo’s men.
“As it happens,” Suha says, almost pleasantly, as he finishes with the second sleeve. He looks up at his uncle. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Uncle.”
He takes a step forward. His shoes click softly on the concrete. “Imagine my own surprise,” he continues, taking another step, “to see you here.”
Kyungho takes a stumbling step back, his hands coming up in a placating gesture. The color hasn’t returned to his face. He looks like a ghost of the smug, calculating man who was holding a knife to my hand minutes ago.
“Suha, listen,” he starts, his voice cracking. “This is... this is a misunderstanding. A terrible coincidence. This... this delinquent,” he gestures wildly toward me, “he owed me money. A business matter, that’s all. I had no idea he was... involved with you. How could I?”
Suha doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t seem to hear the words at all. A slow, terrifying smile spreads across his face. It’s not a happy smile. It’s the grin of a predator that’s finally cornered its prey after a long, frustrating hunt. It’s all teeth and cold, dark amusement.
“No idea?” Suha echoes softly. He’s close now, only a few feet separating them. “You, who has your fingers in every petty loan operation south of the river? You, who has been trying to pick off my lieutenants one by one? You had no idea that the alpha you were torturing for pocket change was bonded to me?” He shakes his head, the smile never wavering. “You’re getting sloppy in your old age, Uncle. Or you’re just stupider than I thought.”
Kyungho’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. His eyes dart around the warehouse, looking for an escape that isn’t there. He finds none. Only the implacable faces of Suha’s men, and me, leaning against the wall, watching.
“It was just business!” Kyungho finally blurts out, desperation sharpening his tone. “The boy was a debtor! He was disrespectful! I was teaching him a lesson, that’s all! For the family’s reputation!”
“The family’s reputation,” Suha repeats, and he actually laughs. It’s a short, dry sound that holds no warmth. “You tried to have me shot. You’ve been skimming from my operations. You’ve been whispering in the ears of men who owe meloyalty, trying to turn them. And you want to talk to me about the family’s reputation?” He takes the final step, closing the distance. “You lost the right to speak for this family when you decided my chair looked more comfortable than yours.”
Kyungho makes a last, frantic attempt. He swings a wild, panicked punch.
It’s pathetic. Suha doesn’t even bother to block it properly. He simply leans back, letting the fist whistle past his chin, and then his own hand shoots out. He doesn’t make a fist. He just slaps Kyungho, open-handed, across the face.
The crack is shockingly loud in the quiet space. Kyungho’s head snaps to the side, a fine spray of blood and spit flying from his lips. He stumbles, crying out.
That’s all the opening Suha needs.
He moves then, and it’s not the controlled, almost lazy advance from before. It’s a sudden explosion of focused violence. He drives his knee up into Kyungho’s stomach, doubling the older man over with a choked gasp. As Kyungho folds, Suha brings his elbow down hard on the back of his neck, driving him face-first onto the concrete.
Kyungho lands with a sickening thud. He tries to push himself up, groaning, but Suha is on him. He grabs a handful of his uncle’s silver-streaked hair and yanks his head up, then slams it back down onto the floor. Once. Twice. The sound is wet and final.
Then the fists start.
