Double-Piece

The man searched inside his jacket pocket, causing everyone to flinch. They were afraid he might pull out a gun. Luckily, what he took out was only a cigarette.

He tapped the bottom of the cigarette pack in his hand, making one white stick poke out, which he then bit down on. At that moment, the man beside him, bearing a jagged scar from his earlobe to the middle of his chin, quickly produced a lighter.

A bright red flame sparked up, casting a crimson glow across the man’s face. In that instant, Ajin remembered the name Taehoe-pa, which he had overheard in passing.

**Taehoe Gang**
The organization’s name uses characters meaning “wave” and “gathering”, suggesting “a gathering of waves.”
The group had started in Busan more than ten years ago, dominated Busan Harbor, and recently entered Seoul. They were rumored to be expanding quickly, fueled by vast, mysterious wealth and strong members.

Ajin recalled overhearing that Taehoe-pa wasn’t interested in the usual gangster turf like karaoke bars, adult entertainment spots, or clubs. Instead, they were involved in human trafficking—snatching orphans and the homeless and selling them overseas, lending money at exorbitant interest, and dealing in drugs—specifically, cannabis and opium.

Since taking over Busan Harbor, they often clashed with Japanese and Chinese gangs. People said that severed heads of Chinese and Japanese gangsters floated like buoys in the waters off Busan.

Recalling this, Ajin lowered his head even more, not wanting to draw attention. Nothing good could come from catching the eyes of people like these.

The man took a deep drag from his cigarette and released a cloud of smoke. He gave a look to the scarred man, who then took two steps forward. Standing with his shoulders wide and his hands clasped below his stomach, he announced in a loud voice:

“Starting today, the Gold Hotel will serve as an office and warehouse for Taehoe Moolsan.”

His speech was casual yet rude, and his tone made it clear he wasn’t asking. None of the blood, flesh, broken objects, or the people lined up like captives had been briefed on this news.

People exchanged glances and murmured. It was only natural; their workplace of several years had changed ownership in the blink of an eye.

This was rare even in Seoul, a city known for rapid changes and stories like “Mr. Kim who once pushed a cart now owns a car dealership.”

“What… what happened to our boss, Mr. Geum?”

One employee pushed forward and asked, his tone laced with defiance and anger. He clearly didn’t appreciate these intruders barging in.

And for good reason: this place was protected by the Jung-ho Gang, the biggest organization in Seoul, which controlled several major districts including Jongno. The gambling den had been paying them for years for safety and stability.

The scarred man scratched his chin and moved closer to the employee, who glared back defiantly—a foolish gesture. The scarred man stared him down, then unexpectedly let out a wide grin, revealing surprisingly white and even teeth.

Before the employee could comprehend the meaning of the smile—

Schluck.

A quick slash, like slicing through radish. Bright red blood spurted like a wave.

“Cough, cough…”

The employee clutched his neck with both hands, but blood gushed between his fingers like a fountain. The scarred man flicked the blood from his knife into the air, where droplets splattered on the floor in dark, red splotches.

People gasped sharply, but no one screamed. They dared not. Who knew who the next target of that blade might be?

The employee collapsed to the floor, convulsing. He reached out with bloodied hands toward the scarred man’s shoes but fell short and his hand dropped. A pool of red slowly spread beneath his limp body.

Faces turned pale, and some of the women silently shed tears.

Ajin, staring blankly at the limp body like a gutted fish on a cutting board, felt his stomach churn. His limbs went cold, and a chill ran through him, making his knees wobble as his body swayed to one side.

Blood. Death. Blood. Death. Blood. Death.

The crimson color slithered into Ajin’s vision like a snake. One wrong breath, and he felt he might throw up.

The scarred man placed a foot on the fallen employee’s back and smirked at the terrified crowd.

“That’s what happened to your boss. Any other questions?”

Silence reigned. There was no other option but silence. It was a question that demanded silence.

Everyone shrank back, their necks drawn in. All the doors were tightly shut, yet an icy draft seemed to scrape their throats. Goosebumps prickled down their backs.

Just then, the “boss” who had been leisurely puffing his cigarette called out a name.

“Myung-jin.”

His voice was soft, unexpectedly so. It was refined and smooth, not the rough and booming voice one might expect from a bear-like man. A few men chuckled.

The scarred man, apparently named Myung-jin, scratched the back of his neck.

“…I apologize, boss. Hey, what are you doing? Clean it up; Seok-joo here is feeling uncomfortable.”

So his name was Seok-joo. The people in the gambling den briefly glanced at him before casting their eyes back to the floor.

The Taehoe-pa members dragged the body of the slashed employee to the back of a sofa.

In the meantime, Seok-joo had finished his cigarette. He crushed the short butt between his thumb and forefinger and flicked it onto the floor. Myung-jin approached him and asked,

“What should we do with them?”

At that, Seok-joo glanced over at the gambling hall employees. They huddled together, shrinking back like cockroaches fleeing the light, arranged in neat rows by job role.

Seok-joo’s gaze first landed on the line of large-built men.

The thugs who had guarded the gambling hall. Some of them were connected to the Jung-ho Gang as well. Staring at them, Seok-joo spoke in a low voice.

“Kill the thugs.”

It was a death sentence, cold and merciless. The thugs’ eyes widened in horror, but the Taehoe Gang was quicker. Their knives slashed across the thugs’ throats and stomachs in one swift move. It was a death without a scream. Each of them choked on their last breaths and collapsed.

Only those who remained let out short gasps of horror.

The Taehoe gangsters stabbed the fallen men’s necks and abdomens once more, putting a final mark on their deaths. Seok-joo shifted his gaze without even glancing at them further, turning toward the line where the women in short skirts and high heels stood, where Ajin was also standing.

Seok-joo’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He had noticed Ajin.

After all, it was hard not to notice a lone guy standing among the women, with his legs bare. His hair covered half his face, making him look rather disheveled—not at all the appearance of someone who’d receive “clients.” The way he stood awkwardly suggested his leg wasn’t fully functional either.

Would someone like him even sell?

Seok-joo pondered that, if only for a moment.

“Send the women away after warning them to keep quiet, and sell the men.”

It was a surprisingly lenient decision. Everyone sighed in relief. The men would be sold off, but for now, the relief of staying alive outweighed that fear.

But then Myung-jin interjected, oblivious.

“Boss, we’ll need workers for our new place. We can’t have our own boys scrubbing floors, can we? We also need someone to cook. Seoul food, damn, is so bland it barely goes down.”

“Fine, pick out the useful ones and bring them along.”

Seok-joo quickly changed his decision. Whether he was easily swayed by subordinates or simply unbothered, it contrasted with his imposing appearance.

After he finished speaking, Seok-joo pulled out another cigarette, and Myung-jin promptly brought a chair over to him. Seok-joo gave a slight smile and tapped Myung-jin’s shoulder. “Thanks, Myung-jin,” he said, and Myung-jin grinned like a pleased child, even lighting Seok-joo’s cigarette for him.

Meanwhile, the Taehoe gangsters approached the crowd and began to sort through them with a rough eye. The first to be chosen were the older women, whose rough hands showed the hard work they’d done and suggested they could cook and do laundry well.

“Ma’am, I bet you’re good at cooking, huh?”

“Ma’am, can you make gukbap? Not that red stuff with greens they sell in Seoul, but the one packed with pork—the white gukbap. That’s how we eat it in Busan.”

Surprisingly, the gangsters even spoke politely to the older women. The kitchen ladies, pale and tense, managed weak smiles and nodded.

Next, it was the men’s turn. Those chosen looked hardworking and sharp, though thin; they had strong hands, good for lifting heavy things, chopping wood, and handling household chores.

The young women—specifically, the prostitutes—received no attention at all. For them, it was a stroke of luck. Who knew what these killers, who sliced throats without a second thought, might do to them if they went along? Ajin, standing among them, was also ignored.

But Ajin’s face started to turn white.

If he was turned out of here, he had nowhere else to go. Though he wasn’t the best worker, he worked hard, never avoiding difficult tasks despite his injured leg. He wanted to stay here somehow.

Outside, if he went out there… there were cars. The same cars that had crushed his leg were everywhere now, outnumbering people on the streets. He couldn’t imagine wandering around looking for work and a place to stay in a world dominated by those machines.

Surely one of those monstrous vehicles would run him down. Its black, heavy wheels would crush his body and split his head open. Just like when it had run over his knee, it would grind him into the ground. His blood would pool on the bumpy cement like a stream.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to bleed. I don’t want to hurt.

“Uh…”

Ajin trembled so violently that his head swayed side to side.

Then, a rough hand grabbed his arm and yanked him forward.