The morning sun bled through the grime-streaked windows of Sparkle & Spin, casting long, skeletal shadows over the rows of washers. Elena emerged from the back, looking profoundly offended by her new attire—a faded "Employee of the Month" t-shirt and grey sweatpants that could have housed a family of four.
"This fabric is an insult to my skin," she muttered, grabbing a plastic basket.
"The fabric is high-density polyester," Min-jun replied without looking up from his monitors. "It's moisture-wicking and flame-retardant. Useful for when people try to burn the building down."
The bell above the door chimed.
A group of three men walked in. They looked like typical blue-collar workers—greasy coveralls, heavy toolboxes, and tired eyes. But as they approached the counter, Min-jun's fingers hovered over a hidden red button under the desk.
"Morning," the lead man said, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Got a load of heavy-duty rags. Stained with... oil. Need a deep clean."
Min-jun looked at the man's hands. They weren't calloused from wrenches; they were scarred from recoil. And those toolboxes? They were weighted too evenly to hold hammers.
"Oil is tricky," Min-jun said, standing up. "Takes a specific temperature. And a very steady hand."
"We've got all day," the man replied, his hand drifting toward the latch of his toolbox.
Behind them, Elena was struggling with a mountain of towels. She slipped on a patch of soap, her basket flying into the air.
"Oops!" she cried.
The distraction was all the "workers" needed. The lead man flipped his toolbox open, revealing a shortened tactical shotgun. But Min-jun was faster. He didn't pull a gun; he pulled the lever to Dryer Number 7.
WHOOSH.
A blast of superheated steam and pressurized detergent foam erupted from the dryer vent, hitting the lead assassin square in the chest. He went flying backward into a row of rolling laundry carts.
"Elena! Hit the Rinse Cycle!" Min-jun yelled.