SEOUL, 2016
SONG JUNHEE was standing behind Choi Mujin's right shoulder, hands clasped neatly over each other in front of her as she witnessed a girl—the one she had met in the afternoon when she went to pay respect to Dongcheon's fallen member, Yoon Donghoon. Holding a wooden box which houses the remains of late Donghoon was his daughter, Yoon Jiwoo.
The spacious office was consumed by quietness, the only source of sound was the scraping of Jiwoo's sneakers against the glistening black marble floor, carrying a desperate indent in each step she took towards the numero uno sitting in the leather chair, hoping he would help her after being refused by the police.
"Please help me find my dad's killer." Was the first thing Jiwoo said as she placed the box and a piece of crumpled paper in front of Mujin.
Printed on the paper was the CCTV investigation, which Junhee could easily guessed the young girl obtained it from the police—her melon-pink lips quirked, a tad amused at Jiwoo's effort. From where she could've possibly get her hands on the footage if it was not from the police? Not to mention the sheer audacity of asking Choi Mujin—the Choi Mujin—for help, of all people. Other people would've think twice before asking for his help, yet here she was, standing in front of him. Junhee's gaze then settled onto her boss as she analyzed his profile, noting the twitch of his jaw and that severe expression he always put on.
Being his personal assistant for almost a year, Junhee knew his head was whirring at full speed, formulating plans to expand his drug empire although it was already big enough, building up idea one after another. All that business-y thought always romping through his head, then Donghoon's death crashed in, erasing the blueprints he had made. The destruction was only temporary as after tonight, the pulleys and blocks of thought in Mujin's head would work furiously, sketching up another plan for Dongcheon's future. He always had a plan in that mind of his. Sometimes Junhee wondered what it was like to be in the folds of his cerebrum, to see for herself what made him like this.
"You said he was your trusted chingu and brother." Jiwoo recalled Mujin's words from before, words that gave her hopes as her glassy eyes were fixated on the drug lord.
"If I find him?" Mujin's husky voice filled the air as he met Jiwoo's gaze. His heart still aching from the loss of his trusted friend.
"Then I will kill him." She said with finality as she stole a glance at Junhee, finally noticing the woman for the first time. A woman of pulchritude; she looked young, possessing the exquisite elegance of a lady and a high-standard demeanor figure. Who is she? She had thought. She must have been someone important, for her to be in this room right now.
"You'll kill him. . ." Mujin trailed off as he stood up from the comfort of the leather seat, Jiwoo's attention was back at him, "Do you know what it's like to kill someone?"
He asked, planting the seed of doubt in Jiwoo as he walked around the mahogany desk towards her, her clueless figure shrunk once Mujin was inside her personal space in no time, exuding air of authority over her—and to Junhee as well. A feeling she knew very well.
He roughly grabbed her right wrist as his other hand went to his back, unsheathing one of his double-edged daggers clipped on his belt, adroitly flipping the blade without looking as its sharp edges perfectly landed on his palm. He then placed the hilt on Jiwoo's open palm. "Stab me. Pretend that I'm the killer and stab me."
Unbeknown to Jiwoo, it was a test. She took a step back, gasping, but Mujin tugged her closer—coercing her to stab him. She whimpered as Mujin's iron grip wrapped around her trembling hands, positioning the dagger inches away from the fatal point on his neck as he repeatedly urging her to stab him.
Junhee glance intently towards Jung Taeju—Mujin's best man and her close friend—whom had been standing in the middle of the room, witnessing the same thing as her with a stern face. As if he could feel her piercing meaningful brown pools, he looked in her direction and quickly shook his head, gesturing Junhee not to meddle whatever happened between Mujin and Jiwoo.
"Do it!" His yell echoed through the office, laced with Jiwoo's sobbing. He then retrieved back the dagger, thrusting it hard into the wood of his desk before a slap of his hand went up to Jiwoo's face, toppling the girl to the floor with such force. That surely would leave a mark.
"Drag her out." He ordered, not even looking at the abused girl.
Taeju grabbed weeping Jiwoo by her shirt at once. The latter quickly gathered the items she had brought with her, taking her leave—unable to stay there for another minute longer. A tad of Mujin's fury was already dripping, if she stayed and beg him, surely all seven hells will break loose, lighting up the entire hotel building in conflagration. The whole Seoul would witness the wrath of Choi Mujin.
Her only hope to find Donghoon's killer had turned to dust, for she had been refused not once but twice. Twice in a day! That explained why her shoulders began to sag and collapse like an avalanche as she walked out of the office with Taeju behind her.
"You're being harsh on her." Junhee finally spoke once the doors sealed shut, earning herself the habitual and dramatically slow head turning and eye blink from her boss. When the void stretched on, Junhee added, "She has potential. We could use someone like her."
Mujin's brows hoisted at his assistant's idea as he ambled towards her, both hands buried in the pockets of his crisp black trousers, "She doesn't have the zeal for killing."
"Did you expect her to stab you? Because I would." She said reflexively as corner of Mujin's lips quirked disbelievingly, the proximity between them made Junhee felt his full towering height, chilling her to the bones.
Junhee casted her eyes elsewhere rather than looking directly at her boss—at his sternum to be exact, given their height level—already regretting her statement. She could say those words leapt out from her throat spontaneously, it tasted weird in her mouth as it actually sounded funnier in her head than being vocalized.
Her stomach lurched at her own words, mind buzzing with Mujin's heady scent—smell of tobacco clung to his white dress shirt, the icy breeze perfume sprinkled over every pulse point on his body, the aroma of whiskey he had sipped until the sun slipped into the horizon lingered in his breath—slithered into her nostrils. What a weird combination but it suited him very well.
Mujin's head cocked to one side, his smoker's lips slightly parted as his dark brown orbs analyzing the woman before him. His index finger travelled to the soft spot underneath Junhee's chin, sending her heart into a silly somersault. His finger was warm against her snow-white skin as he gently guided her head so her eyes could met his to reveal the intricate web of her brown kaleidoscope, searching for the unasked question; the one he already knew.
"You want me to bring her in." He clucked his tongue, nodding as he traced his steps back to his desk, yanking the dagger out from the surface and began to polish the deadly weapon with a piece of cloth.
"I saw something in her. . . I—I saw myself." She reasoned as she wrung her fingers nervously, recalling each near-death moment she had had throughout her involvement with Dongcheon. And it seemed the God of Death was always unlucky when it comes to her. "She could be my successor if anything bound to happen to me again."
Mujin stopped mid polishing, considering her words. Never he had thought about that until Junhee brought it up. He inhaled deeply, fragments of the aforementioned event started to piece together in his head like grey clouds cottoning the blue sky, bringing darkness from above.
The woman in his periphery was the top-of-the-line Dongcheon acolyte, even the same level as Taeju, though he never admitted this in front of her. Junhee was a woman of focus, commitment and sheer fucking will—something their enemies know very little about it. When she started to put on her pitch black cloak and daggers, she was not the gentle and elegant personal assistant to Choi Mujin, but the sentient manifestation of death itself, the Grim Reaper. Her loyalty to the organization coursing through her blood, Mujin knew that well; she kept proven that over and over again ever since he found her two years ago. Yet it was his mistake—his hankering, his thirst—to subjugate most of the drug markets in Seoul that it almost costed his assistant's life.
"Sir?" Junhee called out, quite concern about his faraway countenance that could have put a hole on the silver dagger; it was one of his favorites. Since it was just the two of them and it was way, way, way past office hours—throwing the formality away, Junhee tried to pull him from the trance he was caught in, "Mujin?"
He turned around, his eyes only met hers briefly before it fell on the right side of her abdomen. Underneath the black fabric that neatly clasped around Junhee's slim build, lies the mark of his foolishness in vertical and fading line of a scar inches away from her liver—carved on her epidermis a year ago. The Dongcheon shadow did not have many scars, so did Mujin, but the one he was looking at now was one hell of a painful reminder of his own personal guilt.
"You've done a great job, Miss Song. You can go now." Was all he said as he resumed his work, examining the sharpened blade underneath the light with the keenness of a soldier.
She checked the time on the silver-and-gold Rolex clinging around her left wrist; it was almost eleven PM. Lightning began to flash outside, ripping the night sky like paper followed by the loud rumble of thunder seconds later. It was going to be another cloudburst and all she could think about was, poor Yoon Jiwoo.
"Don't forget the chamomile tea, sir." She bowed, the slightest smile—not that she imagined it—tugged at Mujin's lips, like flurry of foams hitting the sand as she left the dashing leader to his own devices.
"Jun-ah." Jun. She froze right in the middle of the room as she turned around towards the source, now standing beside the cart laden with smorgasbord of liquor, fixing himself a drink, his tie loosened, "Whatever you're thinking about that girl, don't."
"Understood, sir."