Mapo's streets were alive with festival prep, strings of fairy lights dangling like they were trying to class up the crumbling alleys. Hong Middle School's courtyard was a mess of half-built booths and kids shouting over who got to fry the tteokbokki. Me? I was elbow-deep in sauce, stirring a vat of spicy red goop for the Class 2-3 stall, all while plotting an underworld drop that'd make my old crew proud. Kang Min-jae, the White Dragon, now Lee Do-hyun, tteokbokki chef extraordinaire. If I wasn't dodging death threats, I'd have laughed.
That last text—Cute trick with the crane, Dragon. Festival won't save you—had me on edge. Dropping the "crane" hint to Hae-rin was a gamble, and it paid off: she was connected, whether she knew it or not. Her twitchy reaction in the committee meeting screamed "I'm telling someone," and the texter's response confirmed it. My burner phone was hacked, too, according to that Hongdae clerk. Someone from my past—Jin-woo's Black Crane Syndicate or this "new player" in Mapo—was watching my every move. The question was how they knew a scrawny 13-year-old was the White Dragon reborn. I needed answers, and Choi, my old fence, was my next step.
Choi was due at the festival's open rehearsal tonight, posing as a vendor to slip me a key to one of my old Busan lockers—20 million won, just a fraction of my stashed funds. The tteokbokki stall was the perfect cover: cash changing hands, crowds to hide in, and enough chaos to keep nosy teachers distracted. Except I had Bulldog, who was about as subtle as a foghorn.
"Boss, I brought the supplies!" Bulldog bellowed, lumbering into the courtyard with a crate of rice cakes so big it blocked the sun.
He was wearing a tracksuit—thank God, no scarf—but his grin was louder than any neon sign. Kids stared, some giggling, as he set the crate down with a thud that shook the booth.
"Ki-bum, you're killing me," I muttered, wiping sauce off my hands. "Keep it down, or we'll both be scrubbing dishes for Teacher Park."
He winked, oblivious. "Gotta make the stall look legit, right? I even brought extra chili paste!" He held up a jar like it was a trophy. I groaned. The man was a walking disaster, but at least he was my disaster.
The festival prep was in full swing when Hae-rin swooped in, clipboard in hand, her class president badge gleaming like a sheriff's star. "Do-hyun, the sauce is too watery. Fix it." Her tone was sharp, but her eyes lingered on me, suspicious as ever. She'd been extra watchful since my "crane" comment, and I wasn't sure if she was just a control freak or reporting to someone with a grudge against me.
"On it, your majesty," I said, tossing in more gochujang to thicken the sauce. Her lips twitched—annoyance, not amusement. I leaned closer, stirring the pot literally and figuratively. "Heard anything about Mapo deals lately? Big players moving in, maybe?" Another test. If she was the texter's mole, she'd bite.
Her eyes flicked to mine, sharp as a blade. "You talk like you're in a drama, Lee Do-hyun. Focus on the stall." She walked off, but her hand was on her phone again, typing fast. I smirked. Keep typing, princess. I'd know soon enough if she was the leak.
As the sun dipped, the rehearsal kicked off. The courtyard buzzed with kids practicing dance routines and parents sampling food. Choi showed up, a wiry guy in a vendor apron, blending in better than Bulldog ever could. He slid me a plastic bag of "condiments" under the table, the locker key tucked inside. "Busan's still hot," he whispered. "Jin-woo's got eyes everywhere. Watch your back, kid."
Kid. I hated that word, but I nodded. "Thanks, Choi. Stay low. Things are messier than you think." He slipped into the crowd, gone like smoke. I pocketed the key, my heart racing. That cash could get Sun-hee better meds, maybe even a private doctor. But Jin-woo's hackers were sniffing, and the texter was breathing down my neck.
Speaking of Sun-hee, I'd checked on her after school, before the rehearsal. She was back home, sketching more festival posters, but I couldn't shake the image of that hooded figure at the hospital. Someone was watching her, too, and it wasn't just Mapo's gossiping ajummas. I'd slipped a cheap tracker—ironic, right?—into her backpack, synced to a second burner I'd nabbed. If anyone came near her, I'd know. The White Dragon didn't mess around with family.
Back at the stall, Bulldog was "helping" by eating half the tteokbokki samples. "Quality control, Boss!" he said, mouth full, sauce on his chin. The crowd loved him, thinking he was some goofy uncle. I was about to drag him away when I caught Hae-rin across the courtyard, talking to a man in a suit. Her dad? Too well-dressed for a school event, with a vibe that screamed money—and not the clean kind. He glanced my way, and I ducked behind the vat, heart pounding. Hae-rin wasn't just a mole; her family was deep in this game.
The night ended with a bang—literally. As I locked up the stall, my burner buzzed. Another text: Nice sauce, Dragon. Busan's a bad move. Sleep tight. My blood froze. They knew about Choi. Either my phone was still leaking like a sieve, or someone was closer than I thought. I glanced at Hae-rin, laughing with classmates, her phone still in hand. Time to tighten the screws.