The smell of roasted beans still hung in the air as Sang-ho leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The coffee shop had grown quiet, just the two of them, the hum of the fridge, and the low chatter of a couple seated near the window.
"So," Sang-ho began, stirring his coffee lazily, "you're telling me you just started talking Russian out of nowhere?"
Tae-min looked up from his cup. "Not out of nowhere. My mother was Russian."
That caught Sang-ho off guard. "Really? Didn't take you for half."
"She moved here before I was born," Tae-min replied. "She taught me the basics, but I learned the rest on my own after she left."
Sang-ho nodded slowly. "Huh. That explains why you handled that old man so well. Russians respect sharp tongues, not scared ones."
Tae-min didn't respond. His face remained calm, though there was a faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, a distant memory, perhaps.
"Anyway," Sang-ho said, sitting forward with a grin. "You've done more in a few days than most of these idiots do in a week. We should celebrate."
He reached for his phone, about to say something else, when it suddenly rang. The smile faded slightly. He checked the caller ID and sighed.
"Damn. Business call." He stood up, pocketing the phone. "I've got to take this one outside. You good?"
"I was about to head home anyway," Tae-min replied.
Sang-ho raised an eyebrow. "I'll drop you off. I'm heading that way."
They got into the black sedan parked outside, the city lights reflecting off the windshield as they drove through the dim streets.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The faint hum of the engine filled the silence, steady and low.
Finally, Sang-ho broke it.
"You probably figured out by now that this isn't just about collecting money."
Tae-min glanced at him. "I assumed that much."
Sang-ho chuckled. "Sharp as always." He exhaled, his tone darkening. "The Organization's getting tense. The two rival gangs, ths Red Pins and Black Runners, they've both been moving in on our turf. Small at first, but it's changing fast."
He paused, lighting a cigarette with one hand as the other rested on the steering wheel.
"I'm meeting a contact tonight," he said, blowing smoke out the window. "A cop. Dirty as hell, but he owes me. If things go right, I'll have names. If not… we'll have another body."
Tae-min remained quiet.
Sang-ho glanced at him briefly. "You might start getting tougher clients from now on. The safe jobs are gone. Everyone's on edge."
"Preparing for something?"
"Preparing for a war," Sang-ho said flatly.
The car went silent again, save for the sound of the rain beginning to patter lightly against the glass.
When they reached Tae-min's apartment, Sang-ho pulled up to the curb.
"Get some rest," he said. "The next few weeks might be hell."
Tae-min nodded, opening the door. "Stay alive."
Sang-ho smirked. "You too, kid."
Then the door shut, and the car drove off into the city.
The city skyline glimmered under the night sky, rain turning the streets into mirrors of neon and concrete.
Sang-ho drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh, a restless habit he picked up over the years.
He reached the big city's business district, turning into an underground parking lot beneath a towering skyscraper. The kind of place where money and secrets flowed like wine.
A man was waiting near the far corner, leaning against a pillar, cigarette in hand.
Detective Choi Dae-jin.
He was the kind of man who looked nothing like a cop, tattoos ran down his neck, his leather jacket reeked of smoke, and his eyes had seen too much.
When he saw Sang-ho, he grinned. "Didn't think you'd come in person. Thought you'd send one of your errand boys."
Sang-ho got out of the car and shut the door, his footsteps echoing across the concrete. "You don't give info to errand boys."
Choi smirked. "Fair point."
They shook hands. Firm, deliberate, but without trust.
"You still owe me for that mess in Busan," Sang-ho said.
Choi laughed. "If you hadn't stepped in that night, I'd be a corpse in the harbor. So yeah… I owe you."
He flicked the cigarette away and gestured toward a folder tucked under his arm. "I got what you wanted."
"How much?" Sang-ho asked.
Choi tilted his head. "That depends."
"On?"
"How badly you want it."
Sang-ho's jaw tightened. "You trying to scam me now?"
"Call it… inflation."
Sang-ho stared at him, the tension between them rising like static. The air in the parking lot felt heavier.
"You forget," Sang-ho said quietly, "I'm not one of your junkies, Dae-jin. You don't haggle with me."
Choi's grin faltered. The man had seen killers before, and he could tell when one was standing in front of him.
He raised his hands slightly, backing off. "Alright, alright. No games."
He handed over the folder. "Everything's in there. Names, movements, calls. You were right. Something's off in your organization."
Sang-ho flipped the folder open. Photos, message logs, transaction records, everything meticulously printed. He scanned the pages, his expression growing darker with each line.
"It's worse than you thought," Choi said. "Someone inside is leaking info. The Red Pins and Black Runners gangs? They're not fighting each other anymore. They're coordinating. Someone's connecting them through your people."
Sang-ho shut the folder with a snap. "Who?"
Choi exhaled smoke through his nose. "Don't know yet. But it's someone close to the top. A snake wearing your uniform."
Sang-ho's eyes narrowed. "You sure about this?"
"I'd stake my badge on it," Choi said, then laughed dryly. "Not that it means much anymore."
Sang-ho looked at him for a long moment, silent, before pocketing the folder.
"Keep your phone on," he said. "If this leaks, I'll know who to call first."
"Always a pleasure," Choi muttered.
Sang-ho turned and began walking back to his car. The echo of his footsteps faded beneath the hum of the city above.
For a brief second, he looked at the folder again, the papers that confirmed every suspicion he'd buried for weeks.
There was a snake in his house.
Someone feeding their enemies.
And if there was one thing Sang-ho hated more than betrayal, it was not knowing who.
He got into his car, lit another cigarette, and drove into the night.
The rain poured harder now, washing the city clean.
But some stains never left, no matter how much it rained.