Min-jun woke up to the smell of industrial-grade bleach and scorched fabric. His head throbbed with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that matched the heavy vibration of a nearby washing machine.
He wasn't dead. That was the good news. The bad news was that his left arm felt like it had been chewed on by a woodchipper, and he was currently draped over a folding table like a discarded pair of jeans.
"Waking up already? You've got a thick skull, kid. Most people die when they hit the pavement from a second-story window."
Min-jun groaned, forcing his eyes open. Standing over him was an old man wearing a stained "World's Best Grandpa" apron and holding a half-eaten corn dog. The man's hair was a wild white mane, and he smelled faintly of lavender detergent and gunpowder.
"Where... where am I?" Min-jun rasped.
"'Sparkle & Spin Laundromat,'" the old man grunted, pointing to a neon sign flickering outside. "I'm Old Man Kang. I found you in the dumpster out back. You ruined a perfectly good batch of recycled cardboard with your blood."
Min-jun's memory surged back—the betrayal, Elena's cold voice, the heavy blow from Choi. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his ribs forced him back down. "They framed me. I have nothing left."
"Correction," Kang said, biting into the corn dog. "You have a $12,000 medical bill for the stitches I gave you using fishing line, and you've got a burning desire for revenge that's stinking up my shop more than those sweaty gym socks over there."
Min-jun looked at his shaking hands. "I can't do anything. I'm just an errand boy. I don't know how to fight. I don't have money."
Old Man Kang let out a wheezing laugh. He suddenly moved—a blur of motion so fast Min-jun couldn't blink. A heavy iron steam-press landed an inch from Min-jun's head, hissing with heat.
"I used to iron the clothes of kings and the souls of assassins," Kang whispered, his eyes suddenly sharp as glass. "You want to make them pay? You want that ice-queen VP to crawl at your feet? I can make you a god of this city. But first..."
Kang tossed a massive, heavy bag of wet blankets at Min-jun's chest.
"Wash these. By hand. If there's a single wrinkle left when you're done, I'm throwing you back in the dumpster."
"By hand? But you have twenty machines!" Min-jun protested.
"The machines are for customers," Kang smirked. "The manual labor is for the man who wants to learn how to break a rib cage with a flick of his wrist. Scrub, Errand Boy. Scrub until your fingers bleed, or go back to being a victim."
Min-jun looked at the mountain of laundry, then at his bruised reflection in the chrome of a dryer. The weak, pathetic intern died in that alley.
He reached for the soap.