I'm fucking pissed. I tried calling that stupid girl at least five times, but her phone is always off. What the hell is her problem? What's the point of carrying a phone if you're always unreachable? Might as well throw it in the toilet and go back to communicating with carrier pigeons at this point.  

I torture the inside of my cheek by biting it, trying to get rid of the irritation, but it's not easy. I have an anger management problem, diagnosed, and I have frequent outbursts, so this situation sure isn’t helping me keep my cool.  

And I wanted to be nice and warn her that she might be late tonight since I’ll probably be home after the agreed time, but in the end, what do I care? It’s her problem. I’ve done my part. She’ll be waiting outside like a beaten dog, and woe to her if she dares complain when she sees me arriving. Let this be a lesson to her.  

“Hyung, one kilometer left.”  

One of the agents calls my attention. Today I'll be on a special mission all day, and right now, I’m in a van with the rest of the team. The wheels roll silently over the black asphalt, stretching between the countryside like a strip of tar. Places like these seem to have been forgotten by God for decades — there’s not much, and what little there is, is run down, old. These are parts of Korea that the newspapers and TV never show, speaking clearly of a poor country that’s rapidly enriched, but in patches. There’s no sign of the impressive technology or luxury of Seoul here — just potholes in the streets, abandoned buildings, stray dogs digging by trash cans looking for something to eat.  

These areas aren’t exactly patrolled by the police, let alone special forces. We’re here only because we got a tip from a trusted informant: apparently, scattered throughout the countryside, there are dozens of seemingly abandoned warehouses. These warehouses, which look like they’re about to fall apart from the outside, actually hide makeshift clinics for organ trafficking. The victims are usually people who’ve gotten into debt with loan sharks and can’t repay it: they get kidnapped and brought to these places to pay off their debt by having a kidney, part of their liver, an eye, or God knows what else removed.  

I wonder if that girl decided to turn to prostitution to avoid ending up in places like this. I guess in the end, it’s better. At least she has sex in a safe environment and isn’t getting her guts cut open by so-called doctors in unsanitary conditions, risking her life.  

You really have to be an idiot to put yourself in the hands of scum like that: it’s obvious that the only reason they give you money and make you sign fraudulent contracts is to trap you in deals you’ll never be able to repay and steal an organ or two. Does anyone really believe that loan sharks make a profit from organs with interest? The real business is in black market organs. Obviously.  

Anyway, unfortunately, many of these organs are exported to China and Thailand, where it becomes impossible for us to track them or understand who’s running these operations: too much corruption, too many laws preventing us from moving and acting as we want. I know full well that catching small fish like those we’re hunting doesn’t help much: we lock one up, and another immediately takes their place. It’s a vicious cycle that will never end.  

Some might say our effort is pointless, but that’s not the case. We’ll keep catching these pieces of shit, hunting them down, ruining their plans, and throwing obstacles in their way so they never forget their time is running out. Their asses are already destined for some run-down cell in a third-rate prison down south.

When the van stops, it pulls over to the side of the road. The engine shuts off, and for a moment, silence falls — then we, the operation team, start leaving our seats. Agent Kim is the first to get up: he walks to the rear door and opens it from the inside, sliding it along the tracks. The sunlight blinds me for a moment — I had gotten completely used to the darkness inside the van.  

As soon as I’m outside, I slide a pair of dark sunglasses down my nose to shield myself from the sun's rays.  

The warehouse is a building made of corrugated metal sheets, eaten away by rust. It stands out against a nearly cloudless sky. From this angle, it almost looks like a postcard image, a backdrop that could’ve come straight out of a Ghibli film — but the magic ends there. The grotesque reality prevents me from fully enjoying the moment.  

“Guys,” I say, calling their attention. As the captain, my job is to give the clearest, most straightforward orders possible so that everyone can go home to their families, safe and sound, tonight. I explain the details of the strategy I’ve developed and fine-tuned over the past few weeks, making sure everyone is listening. As soon as I notice some doubtful looks, I repeat myself. I tell them that our top priority is, of course, the victims: if we have to choose between saving a life and catching a criminal, saving the life must come first.  

“If there are open patients, the surgeons need to secure them. We need to be careful. We don’t want innocents dying,” I repeat.  

I love my job. The action, the adrenaline, even the violence. I don’t do it to do good; I’ve never been a philanthropist or an empathetic type. For me, it’s like a drug, feeling like I’m in danger, not knowing what’s going to happen next. It’s a kind of pleasure that, in my priorities, is just a step below sex.  

If you think that’s wrong and immoral, then think again. The truth is, the agents who do this job for humanitarian reasons are often the ones who die first, ending up sacrificing themselves, or never make career advancements because their eagerness to save lives leads them to make stupid mistakes that hurt the team and cost points in the eyes of the commanders. I, on the other hand, have made it to the top because I think analytically, I try to have fun, I don’t let myself feel pity or soften up for anything or anyone. The victims are the priority, always, but I wouldn’t do anything stupid to save them, and I wouldn’t risk any of my men or the success of the operation. Does that mean sometimes someone dies who could’ve been saved? Sure — but my men stay on their feet, and at the end of the day, many victims make it home because the operation was a success. You can’t have everything in life. At this point, might as well go for the best.

***

It’s almost ten in the evening. I only realize it because, as I’m saying goodbye to my colleagues after a nice sushi dinner, I casually glance at my phone screen. Did I take my time? Absolutely.  

I’ve accumulated a delay of over an hour, at least compared to the original arrangements with the girl. I expected her to start bombarding me with calls and texts asking where I’d gone, but that didn’t happen. I wonder if she’ll even show up for the meeting or if she’ll bail — maybe after last night, she figured out that she’s not the kind of woman willing to do anything for money. I, however, never believed that.  

What a fool.  

She signed a contract, after all. Does she really think she can just disappear without any consequences? As the anger churns in my stomach, I try to think of what kind of punishment I could impose on her. Nothing comes to mind that wouldn’t end up breaking three or four different laws.  

I shouldn’t let myself get nervous, not after a day like this: we achieved the desired results, and that should be a reason to feel, if not happy, at least satisfied.  

The operation went smoothly, the prisoners are safe and sound, and finally free; as for the criminals, they’re already sitting on the cold floor of some damp cell. They didn’t even try to shoot, let alone escape. As soon as they realized we were from the special forces, they surrendered. You could read it on their faces: “I’m not paid enough for this. Fuck it. Let them catch me.”  

I raise my hand and catch the attention of a taxi driver. The white car slows along the sidewalk and stops a few steps away from me. I open the rear door and get in. I’m wearing a dark shirt, dark pants, leather shoes, and my hair is neatly styled. I probably smell good, an expensive scent. The driver notices immediately, and when he speaks to me, it’s with respectful gentleness, even reverence. He knows I’m someone important, and he probably likes to please those with power. Finally, a man who knows how to behave.  

“Where can I take you, sir?”

I pronounce the address of my apartment. Just a few words, said curtly, almost spat out. I don’t add anything else, and he doesn’t dare disturb me. I’m probably giving off a dangerous aura, considering how pissed off I am. I continue to stare at my phone, but there are no messages, no calls. I start to convince myself that this girl really isn’t going to show up.  

I pay at the door and slam the car door with a little too much force as I get out of the taxi, but whatever. I’ve tipped him too generously for him to even think about complaining. There are few things in this world that money can’t buy, and I’m rich enough to get almost anything I want.  

I step into the elevator and glance at my reflection. I’m not missing anything, in fact, I’m almost too good-looking. A kind of beauty that fascinates, yes, but also intimidates. A beauty that scares.  

The elevator doors open, and I storm out of the little box. I’m about to kick something in irritation when I stop in my tracks.  

There, sitting on the floor, is the girl. Her name completely escapes me, I realize, but a moment later I decide I don’t care what her name is at all. To me, she’s just a toy, a doll.  

“So you’re alive,” I say, almost with disgust.  

She jerks her head up, and I realize she’s been beaten. Her face is swollen, with a split lip and a dark bruise near her cheekbone. I raise an eyebrow, studying her. What the hell happened? I almost laugh. She’s not one of those girls who gets beaten by her boyfriend, is she? No, impossible. She said she was a virgin. Maybe her father’s the one who hit her.  

“Sir,” she mumbles awkwardly, getting to her feet. She lowers her head and waits in silence. I have to admit, her obedience turns me on.  

“You didn’t answer your phone,” I growl. “Why the hell should I let you into my house, huh? Do you think you can do whatever the hell you want?”  

“No, sir,” she says immediately. I can’t see her face, but I’m sure she’s uncomfortable. I couldn’t care less. “They stole my phone. I’m sorry if you tried to contact me and couldn’t...”  

“They stole your phone?” I ask, surprised.  

“Yes, last night, as I was coming home.”  

So that’s how she must’ve gotten hurt. She was robbed and beaten. This girl must be completely incapable of taking care of herself, huh? I’m not her babysitter, anyway. Her problems don’t concern me.  

I walk toward the door, and she moves aside. I swing it open and step into the apartment, she hurries to follow me and shuts the door behind her.

"Give me your new number," I order her.  

She flinches.  

"New number?"  

"Yeah. You must've bought a new phone, right?"  

When I turn to look at her, she's taking off her shoes. She really is dressed like a mess, but at least she doesn’t stink. Still, dressed like that, it’s hard to even look at her.  

"No, sir."  

"What do you mean, no? It's 2025. You can't go anywhere without a phone."  

"I don't have any money, sir."  

"Huh? I paid you generously last night."  

"The check was stolen, sir. They won’t be able to cash it since it’s in my name, but I can’t cash it either without having it in my hands."  

I inhale deeply while massaging the bridge of my nose. And then they say I’m impatient. They should see me now and change their minds. "Alright. I’ll make a transfer for the amount from last night. That should work, huh? And as for the phone, I’ll give you one. I should have thrown away last year's iPhone model somewhere around here..."  

I feel a light touch and realize she’s reached me. Now she’s looking at me with her big, wide eyes. "I can’t accept, sir."  

— Oops! Chapter too long (: part 2 is online! Keep reading!