The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the assassins tumbling in the dryer was the only sound in the laundromat until the bell chimed again. This time, it wasn't a group of thugs. It was a single man in a white linen suit, carrying a leather briefcase and an air of unbearable arrogance.
Min-jun froze. The hand that had been calmly wiping blood off a chrome dryer handle tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"Is that... Ji-hoo?" Elena whispered, stepping out from behind a row of washers.
"The Top of the Class," Min-jun spat. "The man who 'accidentally' deleted my senior thesis two days before finals."
Ji-hoo stepped over a puddle of foam with a look of profound disgust. He adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses and smiled—a sharp, clinical expression that never reached his eyes.
"Min-jun. I heard you had traded your brain for a scrub brush, but I didn't realize you'd turned into a common street brawler. And Elena... you look... damp."
"Ji-hoo," Elena snapped, gripping her metal iron. "The Syndicate sent a lapdog to do their talking?"
"I prefer the term 'Strategic Arbitrator,'" Ji-hoo said, clicking open his briefcase. He pulled out a single, golden document. "The Syndicate doesn't want you dead, Min-jun. Not yet. They want the 'Ghost Files' back. In exchange, they'll give you $50 million and a one-way ticket to an island where nobody can find you. You can take the girl. Consider it a retirement gift for the errand boy."
Min-jun walked toward him, his boots clicking on the wet tile. He stopped inches from Ji-hoo's face. "And if I say no?"
Ji-hoo sighed, as if explaining a simple math problem to a slow child. "Then the bounty triples. And the next person through that door won't be a 'Strategic Arbitrator.' It will be The Iron Presser."
Even Old Man Kang, who had been lazily cleaning under his fingernails with a screwdriver, went still at that name.