The restaurant felt different this time.
Same velvet lighting, same slow jazz, same hush-polished glasses on every table… but Mr. Hwang couldn't stop his knee from bouncing. His chopsticks trembled every time he tried to pick up a piece of sushi. His collar suddenly felt two sizes too small.
The sliding door opened with a whisper.
She stepped in like she'd been waiting outside the entire time.
"Mr. Hwang," the woman said, setting her handbag down. "You look pale."
"That's because I've seen death," he whispered.
She raised a brow. "You were at a tech company."
"You weren't there!" he hissed, leaning forward. "You didn't feel it! They were all—" He waved his hands helplessly. "Calm."
"Most professionals are—"
"Not like that!" he slapped the table, then flinched at his own volume. "They were calm in the way cats are calm when they've already cornered you."
She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile. "Sit properly. People are staring."
He deflated, sinking into the booth, rubbing his face. "The receptionist smiled at me like she knew my favorite meal. Security guards didn't blink once. One of the interns walked past with tea and bowed like a monk. Who bows like that? Who carries tea like it's classified intel?"
"It's called discipline," she murmured.
"It's called unsettling!" he shot back. "And don't get me started on Mr. Oh."
Her fingers drummed lightly. "The CEO?"
"Yes! Quiet, polite, polite in a way that felt… weaponized." He shuddered. "That man answered every question like it was pre-written. No delays, no double takes. Like he'd been waiting his whole life to shut me down!"
"You're exaggerating."
"He threatened me. With tea."
She blinked. "…Tea?"
He slapped his palms dramatically on the table. "Tea! He slid it toward me like it was a warning. Like, 'Drink this and remember: we know everything.'"
She blinked again. "…It was just tea."
He leaned forward, whisper-yelling. "And then he asked if it tasted good. Like a poet! I said yes— because what sane person says no to a CEO who radiates imminent death? And he smiled—calmly—and said, 'It would've been a shame if you'd disagreed.'"
She stared. "…And then what?"
"What do you MEAN 'and then what'? That's the threat! That's the whole cinematic threat!" He flung his hands up, almost knocking over the salt shaker. "Do you know how many normal humans threaten you politely through TEA?"
Before she could answer, he dug into his jacket with shaking hands, fumbling for the sleek business card. He slapped it down between them.
"Look at it."
The sleek surface shimmered under the restaurant lighting, and at a certain angle: the watermark of his entertainment agency— crisp and unmistakable. And at the bottom, printed with surgical precision, his stage name.
The name no one in that building ever heard.
The room suddenly felt too small.
"They knew," he whispered. "Before I even sat down. They dropped this on purpose. Like a smile in the dark."
She exhaled, the smile creeping, slow and delighted.
He pointed, wild-eyed. "My name. My real name. I didn't say it. I didn't type it. I didn't whisper it to the bathroom mirror. I didn't breathe it wrong. And yet—boom—" He chopped the air. "There it is. On the card. Waiting for me like a slap."
"That's… impressive," she breathed.
"That's horrifying," he corrected. "They let me walk out. Smiling. Like it was nothing. Like they could've snapped their fingers and turned me into confetti."
The woman's mouth tilted, a slow, calculating smile.
"So NovaSec is even more mature than reports suggested."
He stared. "Are you smiling?"
"Our intel claimed their internal structure was sloppy. Too young. Unstable." She tapped the card with one manicured nail. "If they can identify an alias you've never voiced… we underestimated them."
He slumped. "Finally, you understand the gravity—"
She slid the card back across the table. "Good."
"…Good?" he repeated, voice cracking.
"You'll go again."
His soul left his body.
"Go… again?"
"Of course." She smoothed her blazer. "Your next role is a supplier. Delivery access often passes through less-protected channels. Inventory rooms, loading bays, service elevators."
"But I just told you—"
"That they're calm. Organized. Intelligent. Which means they're hiding something worth stealing."
"I'm telling you they know things," he whispered. "About me. About— about the alias! That card was a message! A polite 'We see you.' A friendly warning before they decide to be unfriendly."
"You're overthinking," she dismissed.
"I'm alive because they let me be!" he whisper-screamed. "Do you know how humiliating it is to be threatened with tea?"
"That part I still don't understand."
"It's the way he slid it, okay? Like the cup was a prophecy!"
She chuckled softly. "Stop being dramatic."
"You hired an actor" he pointed wildly. "Drama is literally my job description."
"And so is obedience."
He froze.
Her voice went cold, the velvet peeling away. "Tomorrow morning. Loading dock entrance. New uniform. New badge. Ask about material sourcing, internal logistics, waste disposal contracts. We want to see how they react to a different angle."
He swallowed. "I can't—"
"You can."
"It's suicide."
"Not if you don't fail."
He stared at her, betrayed by his own trembling fingers. "Why are you so calm about this?"
She leaned in, lowering her voice until the jazz drowned it out.
"Because fear is expensive," she whispered. "And Black Wall doesn't pay for emotion. We pay for results."
He felt his throat tighten. "…If I refuse?"
She smiled pleasantly — too pleasantly.
"Then you'll be reminded who owns the stage you're performing on."
She slid a thin plastic card across the table—matte black, the forged company logo ghosting in the corner—and said,
"This is your ID for tomorrow: we fabricated the paperwork, approvals, the lot. You show up at the supplier's dock with this, act like you belong, and they'll let you wheel the crates in — no questions asked."
He picked the card up and stared at it intently.
"Just show it," she said, voice low. "Don't volunteer information. Nod, sign when asked, move the crates. If anyone looks at you funny, smile like you own the place."
He nodded, but the motion felt heavy, like a rehearsal for a stumble.
She rose.
He reached instinctively, voice cracking. "Wait— just listen—"
"Tomorrow," she repeated. "Same time we discussed. Don't be late."
She turned, heels clicking softly, like a metronome to his panic. The door slid, then closed with that same gentle, merciless click.
Mr. Hwang stared at the business card.
His alias glimmered faintly under the light.
His heart pounded in uneven beats.
He couldn't tell if the restaurant was suddenly too cold… or if that was just fear settling into his bones.
He licked his lips, hands shaking.
"Should've been a florist," he whispered.
- - -
That evening, the office light was low, the mirror behind Jae-Hyun throwing soft reflections across the room. Mr. Oh closed the door and set a slim pad on the desk.
"We had someone today," he said. "A supposed investor — asked pointed questions: leadership, funding, partners. I ran his background. He's an actor. Black Wall put him up to it."
Jae-Hyun lifted the corner of his mouth, the smallest smile. "As expected."
Mr. Oh's fingers tapped the pad. "He pressed. Kept circling. Tried to look casual, but the questions were deliberate."
"Black Wall will try every channel they can find to bring us down," Jae-Hyun said, calm as glass. "They'll fail miserably when they try spectacle. Panic exposes them." He folded his hands, watching Mr. Oh's face. "They won't give up easily. They'll try again — not the same trick. They'll pick somewhere companies don't police well."
"Supply chain?" Mr. Oh offered.
"Exactly." Jae-Hyun's smile sharpened. "Uniforms, manifests, disposal routes — those small corridors everyone trusts. They think those doors are blind spots. They'll probe there because it feels low-risk."
Mr. Oh nodded slowly. "Less flash, more quiet. Easier to hide."
"We'll indulge them," Jae-Hyun said. "Let them believe they're inside. Let them sift through a few crates. Then we pull a detail out of nowhere and close the loop with a little scare: 'We know who you are.'"
Mr. Oh nodded, eyes wide. "You already planned for this — you thought of the supply chain."
"Of course." Jae-Hyun's stare was almost fond, unsettlingly so. "It's a pattern. Humans and their organizations are predictable. Too predictable."
Mr. Oh exhaled. "So we make them sloppy."
"Exactly." Jae-Hyun sipped his tea, the room settling around the calm of a plan.
- - -
The next day, the delivery uniform didn't fit.
It was wrinkled, a size too big, and smelled faintly of cardboard. Mr. Hwang stared at himself in the mirror of the delivery truck and muttered,
"…Oscars, why have you forsaken me?"
The truck rumbled to a stop outside NovaSec's loading bay. The steel gate rose inches at a time, like the maw of something ancient waking up. Motion sensors blinked red to green, scanning.
His palms were already sweating.
The driver — a broad-shouldered man who didn't ask questions — jerked his head.
"You go. I wait. Thirty minutes."
"Thirty minutes? That's— that's—"
"Regulation," the driver grunted.
Of course it was. Everything about NovaSec was regulation.
Hwang slid out, nearly tripping over his own boots, clutching the clipboard like a lifeline. Massive crates sat in the back, stamped with the names of cooling-system manufacturers and encrypted data storage suppliers.
A security guard greeted him.
Greeted was a generous word.
"Delivery," The guard said and held up the scanner. "Vendor ID and PO number,"
Hwang held out his forged badge.
The guard didn't glance — he scanned it. A holographic grid passed over the plastic, analyzing everything from lamination texture to ink density.
Hwang smiled shakily. "Beautiful morning, isn't—"
"Step forward."
He obeyed instantly.
Another scanner rolled down from the ceiling — a vertical beam washed over him. His bones hummed. He felt like an X-ray just learned his secrets.
"You'll follow me," the guard said.
Not a question. No smile.
Inside, the loading corridor looked nothing like the lobby. Thick metal walls. Camera domes every two meters. Workers in gray jumpsuits moved like they'd been programmed — smooth, efficient, silent.
"You here to sign off the liquid-cooled server frames?" a technician asked without looking up.
Hwang blinked. "…Yes. Obviously. That's exactly what I'm here for."
"You sound unsure," the tech replied flatly.
"I'm always sure," he said, voice cracking.
The technician handed him a scanner tablet. "Crate serial numbers. Check each one. Mark discrepancies. No crates are to be opened by external personnel."
External personnel. He swallowed.
He approached the first crate — a server cooling unit the size of a coffin. He scanned the barcode. It beeped, screen flashing green.
"Perfect," he whispered.
Something clanked.
He froze. Another crate shifted slightly as a robotic arm moved overhead, re-stacking hardware. His breath hitched.
One crate leaned forward.
Too far.
"Nononononono—"
He grabbed it instinctively — and nearly toppled under the weight. A second worker materialized out of nowhere, bracing it with casual strength.
"Be careful," the worker said, voice calm enough to be condescending. "Materials are expensive."
"Ah, yes. I noticed."
"And fragile."
"I REALLY noticed."
Support beams glided into place, pinning the crates into perfect alignment.
"We don't allow accidents," the worker added.
The robotic arm passed inches over Hwang's head. He ducked so fast he nearly kissed the floor.
"You can continue scanning," the tech called, unimpressed.
Right. Scanning. Focus.
He checked serials, hands trembling. Every time the scanner beeped red, he panicked.
A supervisor approached, tablet in hand.
"Are you new?" she asked.
"N-new? Who? Me? No. I—I deliver things all the time. So many things. You have no idea how many things."
She stared at him.
He stared back, sweat sliding.
"…Continue," she said slowly, walking off.
He exhaled shakily.
Halfway through, his earpiece — supplied by Black Wall — crackled.
"Get closer to their internal disposal unit," the recruiter's voice whispered. "We want to know how they handle hardware waste."
"You want me to go WHERE?" he hissed.
"Waste tells you weakness."
He swallowed. "Fine. Fine. Just— don't talk loudly."
He crept toward the far hallway — marked with the ominously bureaucratic MATERIAL DISPOSAL CHUTE: AUTHORIZED ONLY.
A security drone rolled out, scanning him up and down.
"Access level?"
"I'm— uh— delivering stuff?"
Silence.
Red light. Alarms went off.
"Unauthorized access detected."
Another guard approached.
"That's the supplier for server frames," the guard murmured. "He doesn't handle disposal. Flag the route."
The drone's light turned yellow. The alarm sound died.
"Route flagged," it chirped. "Deviation logged. Recommended follow-up."
Deviation logged?!
He backed away instantly.
That yellow light followed him like guilt.
He hurried back to the crates, scanning faster, eyes darting. The mechanical drone rolled beside him now — politely, disturbingly close — as if escorting him.
When he finally finished, he pushed the scanner tablet back at the technician.
"All crates accounted for," he said, forcing professionalism.
"Good," the tech replied. "Sign here. Fingerprint and retinal confirmation."
Retinal—?
Before he could protest, a retinal scanner blinked on the tablet, sweeping his eye.
His forged record loaded in under three seconds.
The tech nodded, satisfied.
"You're clear to exit."
Clear. Escape. Flee.
He practically sprinted toward the exit, bowing awkwardly at every worker, nearly hitting a wall because he was bowing too much.
At the loading gate, the guard stopped him one last time.
"Here," he said, handing back Hwang's badge.
Something glinted on its surface.
A thin redesign.
Printed faintly beneath his alias:
"Acting is a dangerous profession."
His breath died in his throat.
The guard met his eyes.
"Careful on stage."
He walked out on shaking legs, climbed into the truck, and slammed the door.
The driver looked at him. "Everything okay?"
"Drive," he whispered.
The truck peeled off. Hwang slumped back, chest heaving.
"…Why didn't I become a florist," he muttered again.
Behind him, NovaSec's loading bay gate lowered.
Smooth.
Slow.
Certain.