Mishimoto Yoshiaki
Jo Taesung.
My people tracked down information about this boy in bustling New York. He is originally from Korea, but has spent his life in the United States.
Using all our extensive connections, they found out the name of the school he attended. They also found out the name of the café where he worked and the names of his close friends. They also found out about the Harris family, with whom he grew up.
The fight in the apartment wasn't a one-time thing. My men beat Harris for a long time — not to kill him, but to extract every detail that could be useful to us — until one of his younger sons appeared in the doorway of their cramped, dusty apartment. Seeing his beaten and bloodied father lying on the floor, he spilled everything he knew. We didn't have to threaten him, he did what was necessary to save his father.
Mr. Harris did reveal something to us, though. He never treated Taesung as his own son. To him, he was just a despised bastard belonging to another man.
This made me consider whether it was worth letting him live or killing him. I weighed up all the circumstances.
A living body that breathes and knows it is in danger of further blows is more powerful than a silent coffin. It would remain in Taesung's mind like a shadow. Knowing that this man still exists and breathes is subtle and invisible torture that works slowly and systematically, effectively undermining the soul.
Blackmailing him with Harris wouldn't work. I don't think Taesung cares about Harris, but I can't be sure. I can't rely on his feelings to help keep Harris alive.
What I do know is that I despise this man. He's completely worthless to me — not even worth killing. Letting him live would humiliate him deeply. Harris now knows that his life is not about mercy, but about control.
Death is not always the most effective tool. Sometimes it is more powerful to keep a person alive and use their existence to break those I want to defeat. That is why Harris is still alive. Beaten, broken and scarred, but alive. He is now our trigger, through him, I may be able to manipulate Taesung's feelings. Assuming he has any towards that man.
I sit at a heavy, shadowy table in a room where the light hangs low like a condemned man. Opposite me stands Nishimura, a slender, cold man with an icy face that reveals nothing. The air is dry and smells of tobacco and old documents.
„Oybun, why did you let him live?" Nishimura asks quietly and without emotion — more like a statement than a question. „It would have been easier to kill him."
I glance at the glass of dark, slightly cloudy sake. I turn it in my hands and answer him with icy calm. „Death is easy. Simplicity is harmful."
„Do you think there's anything left in him that we can use?" Nishimura sits down and folds his hands in his lap. „He's just an empty shell. He was a coward all his life. What can he give us?"
I smile slightly, but there is nothing human about it. „That's exactly why. Harris's emptiness is a tool. Right now, he's broken, humiliated and scarred, and it burns like sin. But he's still alive. He's a carrier." I lean forward. „A vessel for fear, memories and guilt. If that boy cares about him at all, he can be our insurance."
I stand up, my shadow falling across Nishimura's face as if to remind him who has the right to judge here. „Remember that," I add coldly. „Power isn't just about taking life. Power is about letting it be. It's about what this decision means to others."
Nishimura stands up and bows. „As you wish," he replies calmly. In that moment, a clear part of the world is irrevocably changed.
... ༺༻ ...
Without an invitation or knocking, I walk through the door of a shabby, smelly house in Seoul's worst and most neglected neighbourhood. The house belongs to Mr. Jo. The information from Harris's son was helpful.
I find Mr. Jo sitting at a crooked table in the kitchen, trembling as he holds his tea, looking frightened. I think to myself: Is this really the man from whose testicles Jo Taesung came?
I burst into his house — if you can call it a home — with force. From the look on his face, I can see that he is thinking about running away, but I don't give him a chance to move a muscle.
„Are you Mr. Jo Jung-su?" I ask, sitting down on a rickety, cobweb-covered chair at a rickety table.
„Y-yes. What do you want?" Mr. Jo stammers, and tea splashes out of the cup in his hands, spreading into a brown stain on the tablecloth.
„I've come to find out more about your son, Taesung." Mr. Jo averted his gaze, the subject of his son made him uncomfortable for some reason. He runs his fingers through his sticky, greasy hair, his eyes turning pale.
„I—I don't know anything." He tries to lie to me.
„But that's not entirely true, is it?" I say sharply, forcing him to look me in the eye. He cringes under my gaze. „You were looking for him. I spoke to Mr. Harris's son." Mr. Jo hesitates before beginning to tell me his story.
Getting into debt with the mafia never ends well. That's Mr. Jo's story. It's a story I now know in its entirety. It explains why young Jo Taesung ended up with Yoon of all people. The son is paying for his father's mistake.
I pull my chair closer until I can feel the coldness of his breath. I devour the details as though they are a debt owed to me. Each word and hesitation in his story reveals his injustice and weakness. This downtrodden man is ideal material for leverage.
A new plan forms in my head. It would have got us nowhere with Harris, though — letting him live was a mistake. I'll send someone to finish the job we started. However, Mr. Jo, despite selling his own son, could still serve as leverage against Taesung, albeit a slim and fragile chance.
I need Mr. Jo to be on my side now, so I'll make him an offer. I'll offer him money under the pretext of making him my debtor. I didn't have to persuade him twice — you can tell from his appearance that he's been in debt before.
I'll give him a small amount that seems generous — he'll squander it all and want more anyway. The smile on his face as he takes my money is ridiculously desperate.
Now Mr. Jo owes me, and I will collect on his debt.
I get up and prepare to leave. „And remember, Mr. Jo, I don't like surprises." I sow more seeds of fear in him. I walk myself out.
I head out into the night towards my black car, which is parked nearby. My mind is already plotting its next moves. This boy is a new variable that I intend to evaluate, measure and exploit. My plan has taken a new direction and I leave calmly, as though I have received another piece for my chessboard.
I get into the car and immediately order Mr. Harris's killing. He is of no use to me anymore — I should have had him killed right away.
When I give the order, I feel the familiar chill inside me. Economical, pragmatic decisions. Harris was either a tool or an obstacle. Now that Mr. Jo can be used as leverage, Harris is an obstacle.
Disappointingly, even before my meeting with Hyunjin, I receive information that Mr. Harris is dead, which makes me wonder if Hyunjin's people got to him.
I close my eyes for a moment and see the reflections of my thoughts in the fading strip of light.
... ༺༻ ...
BLOOD DEBT (피의 빚)