The Busan locker key burned a hole in my pocket, a tiny piece of metal promising 20 million won and a step closer to taking back my empire. But that text—Nice sauce, Dragon. Busan's a bad move—was a neon sign screaming "trap." Someone knew I was Kang Min-jae, the White Dragon, reborn in this scrawny 13-year-old body of Lee Do-hyun. My burner phone was hacked, Hae-rin was probably a mole for her shady family, and Mapo's streets were crawling with eyes. I'd survived Incheon's docks; I wasn't about to get smoked by some punk playing spy.
I was holed up in a Mapo internet café, the kind of dive where kids gamed until dawn and the air smelled like burnt coffee and desperation. Bulldog sat across from me, hunched over a keyboard, his meaty fingers making the keys groan. "Boss, I'm no good with computers," he grumbled, squinting at a search for "Busan storage hacks." "Why don't I just smash some heads instead?"
"Because smashing heads gets us caught, Ki-bum," I said, rubbing my temples. "Jin-woo's got hackers sniffing my old accounts. We need to know if that locker's been compromised before we walk into an ambush." My arm still stung from the alley fight, and Sun-hee's tracker app was open on my second burner, a faint blip showing her safe at home. For now. The texter's threat about "the kid" had me paranoid, and I wasn't taking chances.
Bulldog leaned back, nearly toppling the chair. "Okay, but I ain't a nerd. I called that Hongdae clerk again. He's digging into your phone's signal, says it's pinging some server in Gangnam. Fancy stuff."
Gangnam. Jin-woo's territory now, if he'd taken my empire. My old logistics man was paranoid, but he wasn't dumb. If his hackers were tracking my phone, they'd know about Choi's drop at the festival. Worse, they'd know I was poking around Busan. I needed to move fast—get the cash, secure Sun-hee's meds, and figure out who was playing puppet master with these texts.
School was a nightmare. The festival was tomorrow, and Hong Middle School's courtyard looked like a K-pop concert had crashed into a street market. Kids were stapling banners, spilling paint, and arguing over who got to MC the talent show. I was stuck at the tteokbokki stall, stirring sauce again, when Hae-rin swooped in like a hawk. "Do-hyun, the budget's off by 10,000 won. Explain."
I wiped sweat from my brow, the Busan key heavy in my pocket. "Probably some kid stealing snacks. You gonna frisk the whole class, Sherlock?" Her eyes narrowed, and I knew she wasn't buying my act. That "crane" hint I'd dropped had her rattled, and the texter's response meant someone was listening. Her, her dad, or both.
She crossed her arms, her badge glinting. "You're hiding something, Lee Do-hyun. I saw you with that sketchy guy last night. The one with the crate."
I froze, then forced a grin. "You mean my uncle? He's just enthusiastic about rice cakes." Lame, but I needed her off my back. She wasn't just suspicious—she was dangerous. Her family's money screamed underworld, and that suited guy she'd been talking to at the rehearsal? Not a PTA dad. I needed to flip the script. "What about you, Hae-rin? Your dad looked cozy with some big shot. What's his deal?"
Her face tightened, just for a second. "None of your business." She stormed off, but not before I saw her typing on her phone. If another text came, I'd have my answer. For now, I had to focus on the festival. Choi was coming back tonight, posing as a delivery guy to confirm the Busan drop. If I could pull this off under Hae-rin's nose, I'd be one step closer to my millions.
The festival kicked off at dusk, Mapo's neon glow mixing with the fairy lights. The tteokbokki stall was a hit, kids and parents scarfing down spicy sticks like it was their last meal. Bulldog was "helping" again, handing out samples while wearing an apron that said "Spice King." I'd have laughed if I wasn't so tense. Choi slipped through the crowd, his vendor cap pulled low, and handed me a burner phone under a stack of napkins. "Busan's clear, but Jin-woo's got a crew sniffing around," he whispered. "Move fast."
I nodded, pocketing the phone. "Thanks. Stay out of sight." He vanished, but as I turned, I caught Hae-rin watching from the dunk tank, her eyes locked on me. Damn it. She was like a bloodhound in a skirt.
Then my tracker app pinged. Sun-hee's signal was moving—not at home, not at the hospital, but an alley two blocks away. My heart stopped. She was supposed to be with Eomma, safe. I bolted from the stall, ignoring Bulldog's confused shout. "Boss, the sauce!"
The alley was dark, the kind of place where deals went bad. Sun-hee stood frozen, clutching her sketchbook, facing a guy in a hoodie—the same one from the hospital. He hadn't seen me yet. I grabbed a loose brick from the ground, my old instincts kicking in. "Hey, creep!" I yelled, tossing the brick at his feet. He flinched, turning, and I saw the snake tattoo from the ambush. Same crew.
"Back off, kid," he snarled, but his eyes widened when he saw me. "Wait… you're—"
I didn't let him finish. I tackled him, all 90 pounds of me, aiming for his knees. He went down, cursing, and I yanked Sun-hee behind me. "Run!" I shouted. She hesitated, then bolted, her cough echoing. The guy scrambled up, but Bulldog appeared like a freight train, scooping him up by the collar.
"Bad move, buddy," Bulldog growled, tossing him into a trash pile. The guy groaned and stayed down. I checked Sun-hee—she was shaken but unharmed. "Oppa, what's going on?" she whispered, eyes wide.
"Nothing," I lied, guiding her back to the festival. My phone buzzed. New text: Close call, Dragon. Keep the kid close, or she's next. I clenched my fist. They knew about Sun-hee, the festival, Busan—everything. Hae-rin's face flashed in my mind, but so did Jin-woo's. This wasn't just a hack. Someone from my past was playing God, and I was done being their pawn.