Three Eight-Chapter 62

"Ajusshi."

The low voice was as cold as the winter wind. Even without turning his head, it was obvious who stood behind him. The only one tall enough to tower like that, and who always wore black leather gloves, was Mu-gyeong.

"Do you have any idea how much he’s worth, and you’re pointing a knife at him?"

"Wh-Who the hell are you? Urgh—!"

The leather glove tightened. The man’s trembling hand instantly lost all strength. The knife he’d been holding clattered to the ground, bouncing once off the toe of Hongju’s worn sneakers before spinning away across the floor.

"Ugh—S-Stay out of this, it’s none of your—"

"You’re the one who needs to get out of here."

The look Mu-gyeong shot at the pastor was piercingly cold. Enough to raise goosebumps at the back of one’s neck. Even Hongju flinched instinctively.

"Do you know how much fucking money I poured into this place? And you pull a knife without permission?"

Mu-gyeong clucked his tongue quietly and twisted the man’s arm without hesitation. The pastor screamed in pain, his body bending along with the motion. Mu-gyeong stepped to the side and dragged the man with him.

"Ah! Let go! I said let me go!"

The man shrieked, his twisted arm flailing as he spat curses at Mu-gyeong. Mu-gyeong casually covered his own ear with one hand. The pastor’s high-pitched screech echoed like a siren, refusing to fade. Mu-gyeong furrowed his brow and raised his hand—then brought it down hard across the man’s cheek with a loud, sweeping arc. Whack! A heavy thud followed, like something bursting open.

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"Grugh—!"

The pastor stumbled, unable to stay on his feet.

"If you want to throw a tantrum, pay up like I do."

Mu-gyeong didn’t wait. He struck again, his hand packed with force. Thud! The sound of something solid rupturing repeated a few more times. The pastor’s already flushed face started to show blood. It dripped from his nose in thick streams, splashing the floor with each drop.

"Ugh—s-stop...!"

"Stop? What do you mean stop? You don’t get to wave a knife around and walk away from it."

The retreating pastor was cornered by a wall. His face panicked, he raised both hands in defense. Mu-gyeong, standing slightly sideways, ran his gaze up and down the man, then kicked him sharply in the knee.

"Agh!"

The man collapsed, dropping to his knees and falling forward. With his opponent completely exposed, Mu-gyeong pulled his gloves taut and advanced.

"D-Don’t come any closer!"

"You said you were going to heaven, didn’t you? I’ll help you get there."

Mu-gyeong’s blood-red lips curled into a grin as he kicked the man under the chin. Crack! A grotesque sound of bone twisting echoed as blood sprayed into the air. The kicks kept coming, each one more vicious than the last. His chin, his shoulder, his stomach, his chest, his thigh—no part of him was spared. The man curled up like a shrimp, covering his head with both arms as Mu-gyeong’s shoeprints stamped endlessly into the black jacket on his back.

"......"

Hongju didn’t even think to stop it. He simply stood there, watching the violence unfold.

He felt movement behind him. Turning his head, he saw House employees rushing down the stairs. The most visibly shocked was Guppping.

"Where the hell do you think you’re crawling to?"

The pastor, dragging himself along the floor, reached out toward Hongju. Without missing a beat, Mu-gyeong’s black shoe came down hard on the back of the man’s hand—and ground it side to side.

"Argh!"

The pastor shrieked again. Mu-gyeong’s brow twitched in irritation, the deep crease in his left eyelid darkening.

"Should I carve out that filthy mouth you ran so freely earlier?"

"Hhk."

He was throwing the man’s own words back at him. Hongju swallowed dryly, watching Mu-gyeong step on the man’s stomach without so much as a change in expression. Just like that time he’d done a collection on Mu-gyeong’s behalf—every move he made, every step he took, exuded a dominating presence.

"You were so full of words earlier. Why so quiet now?"

Every kick landed with a solid thud. The pastor didn’t even resist anymore, just flinched and twisted his body under the beating. Blood was smeared thick on the floor where his face had scraped the concrete. On the dull cement, the red was shockingly vivid.

"God must be furious. A guy like you pretending to be a pastor."

Pretending to be a pastor? What was that supposed to mean? Mu-gyeong murmured something indecipherable and pressed his foot down on the man’s shoulder, who was now lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide with confusion.

"W-What... are you..."

"You might’ve fooled your congregation, but you can’t fool me."

The man’s blood- and dirt-smeared face turned ghost white. His black clothes were marked all over with boot prints. Guppping and Yang Siljang hadn’t even made it down to the first floor yet—they were still frozen halfway on the stairs.

"Hff—"

Mu-gyeong pulled something from his coat pocket and tossed it to the ground. A handkerchief—one he often used when sitting down. Then he tapped the floor with the toe of his shoe. The pastor flinched visibly.

"Wipe it."

The shoes were too dark to see clearly, but when Mu-gyeong dragged his foot across the ground, it came up stained with blood.

"Hh..."

The man’s breathing was ragged, his trembling uncontrollable.

"What are you waiting for? Slow bastard."

Mu-gyeong kicked the pastor in the shoulder. The limp body wavered like it would fall backward, then flopped back into place.

"Maybe that’s why you couldn’t even tell when someone was bottom-dealing you right in front of your face. Huh?"

"D-Do you even know who I am?"

"Of course I do. You’re the idiot who screwed himself over, then tried to take it out on the easiest target. That’s not how you live, man."

Mu-gyeong stomped on the man’s chest. The pastor reached out in a panic.

"Grk, urgh..."

He scrambled across the floor and snatched the fallen handkerchief. Sitting up in a daze, he hurried to wipe Mu-gyeong’s shoe. Up close, it was clearer how much blood had actually stained it. The white cloth instantly turned red.

Mu-gyeong tilted his head side to side, inspecting his shoe, then crouched in front of the man. With one hand, he gripped the man’s cheek, hard, and yanked the handkerchief from his grasp.

"Ajusshi, if you ever hold a knife like that again, I’ll cut off all your fingers. Should’ve brought gasoline instead."

Whether the man squirmed or not, Mu-gyeong shoved the handkerchief into his mouth without hesitation. What was he trying to do? Hongju, tense, locked eyes on Mu-gyeong’s fingers.

"Urk—ghrk!"

With the handkerchief stuffed firmly into the pastor’s mouth, Mu-gyeong turned his head toward the stairs.

"Gu Madam, you got a lighter? Let’s burn him and dump him at the House. Since it’s under construction, we can sink him in the cement. What do you think?"

It was the kind of vicious talk you’d expect from thugs in Gweoleum-dong. Yet Mu-gyeong, while uttering those terrifying words, wore a smile.

"......"

Maybe... that was Mu-gyeong’s real smile.

"What? Isn’t that how things are handled around here?"

Guppping curled his chapped lips into a strained grin.

"N-No! I-I’ll take care of that bastard myself. Choi, go lock him up."

Killing someone was something they’d done plenty of times when chasing out construction crews—but not anymore. This time, everything was riding on the House renovation. Any noise could ruin it. The investments, the outstanding debts—all of it would be wrapped tightly around Guppping’s throat.

"Yes, sir."

Choi, his heavy body swaying, lumbered down the stairs. Watching Mu-gyeong closely, he awkwardly hauled the man off the floor. As he was dragged upright, fresh blood trailed from the man’s torn lip, dripping to the ground.

Mu-gyeong, silently watching the man being hauled away, slowly stood up. He smoothed out his wrinkled pant leg and clapped the dust from his gloved hands. No one said a word the entire time.

"You’ve got no sense of fear, huh? You didn’t even dodge."

"......"

"I told you to take better care of him. He’s your number one asset when it comes to collecting debt—his face is the one doing all the work."

Mu-gyeong let out a faintly amused remark as he brushed past Hongju. Earlier, all Hongju had sensed was a faint scent. Now, there was a sharp, unsettling reek of blood in it.

"Aren’t you going up? Don’t you have things to talk about?"

He rubbed his gloved hand across Guppping’s shoulder, who was still standing dazed. A faint red stain appeared where he’d touched.

"Y-Yeah, going. Going."

Guppping waved his hands at the men blocking the stairs, signaling them to move aside. As Yang Siljang and Doksu stepped back against the wall, Guppping led the way, guiding Mu-gyeong up.

"Did that guy call you? Trying to set another date?"

His forced smile was crooked, and his dark eyes were hollow. Following behind, Mu-gyeong looked utterly nonchalant, as if he hadn’t just been kicking a man into the floor.

"He said tonight’s good. Do we all have time?"

"Ah—yeah! Of course!"

As they climbed higher, their voices faded into the distance. The air was still thick with tension, and blood dotted the floor. Outside, where the man had been dragged away, the only sound was that of an engine starting.

"What the hell... Like some fucking gangster."

Yang Siljang’s muttered words, laced with disbelief, reached all the way to Hongju.

"......"

Hongju felt the same. The more he got to know Mu-gyeong, the more baffling—and full of contradictions—he became.

Hongju picked up the rolled-up newspaper from the ground. He slid the paring knife back inside the paper, like returning a blade to its sheath. Just in case, he figured he’d put it in one of the House’s desk drawers later.

The atmosphere inside the House had frozen over in a strange way. Even though Mu-gyeong was now in the back room talking with Guppping, the staff acted as if he were still standing right in front of them.

"Where’s Choi gone off to?"

Yang Siljang, his tongue running along his gold tooth, asked one of the gangsters.

"He got a room at a motel and locked the guy up."

The gangster with the phone answered quickly and cleanly.

"Tell the old man to keep a close watch. That motel’s pretty lax—jumping out a window wouldn’t be hard."

The ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) single uncovered eye under Yang Siljang’s eyepatch landed on Hongju. He looked away, resisting the urge to react. After all, he’d once tried escaping through a third-floor window at that very motel.

"Yeah."

Yang Siljang folded his arms, sinking into deep thought.

"Hmm."

He let out a long breath and began making a call. His thumb tapped furiously across the screen. Just as he finished, the back room door flung open. Mu-gyeong’s voice drifted out, immediately tightening the air again.

"After eight o’clock, then."

"Right, I’ll be on standby."

Guppping gave Mu-gyeong’s shoulder a light slap. Mu-gyeong glanced at the spot his hand touched, then brushed it off with a flick of his gloved fingers—like swiping away an insect. Guppping didn’t dare say a word.

"Later."

With only that brief farewell, Mu-gyeong headed back down to the first floor. Even after the sound of his shoes had faded, not a single person dared to breathe too loudly.