Evening crept in slowly.
The sky bled orange into the first hints of gray, casting long shadows across the city's edges.
The address on the gray envelope was closer, so Yoon headed there first — a quiet, half-forgotten part of town where the buildings leaned inward like they were tired of standing.
The air was heavy.
Damp.
It clung to his skin — like it had soaked up too many secrets.
His bike rattled as he pedaled through narrow streets, the sound sharp against the hush.
A motorcycle engine growled somewhere ahead, then faded into the distance.
Somewhere, a dog barked once.
Then silence — as if warned.
He turned into the narrow street listed on the envelope.
The air shifted — faint exhaust, damp concrete, and something older beneath it.
Ahead stood a single-story building, squat and silent.
The address on the door matched.
Yoon stopped.
Kicked the stand down — clink — metal against pavement.
He pulled out the envelope, weighed it once in his hand, then walked to the door.
He knocked twice
No response.
He knocked again, but everything stayed silent—until a car horn sounded softly behind him.
Turning, he saw a hand motioning him over from the window of a black car parked a few meters ahead.
Yoon hesitated, looked around, then walked over.
"That's mine," said the man in the driver's seat, his voice smooth.
He wore an expensive suit, the fabric catching the light just so.
A soft smile played on his lips.
Yoon looked from the envelope to the man and hesitated.
"Right," he then muttered, holding it out.
The man didn't take it immediately. He glanced around first, still smiling, then accepted the envelope with deliberate calm.
"Give me a minute," he said, rolling up the window.
Yoon stood there awkwardly, watching his own reflection ghost on the dark glass. His fingers still hovered in the air where the envelope had been.
A cool, damp breeze brushed past, carrying the scent of exhaust and rain-soaked concrete.
Minutes later, the door opened.
The man stepped out, his black polished shoes clicking softly on the concrete.
He glanced around — once, twice — then handed Yoon a thick packet. Still smiling.
Yoon took it hesitantly.
It was heavier than he expected, the paper stiff and cool against his fingers.
He peeled back the flap and peeked inside.
Cash.
Stacks of it.
Crisp bills, tightly packed, edges aligned like they'd never been touched.
The scent of ink and paper rose faintly — clean, sharp, almost metallic.
Yoon held his breath.
His fingers tingled as he gripped the envelope, the weight of it pressing into his palm.
He stared longer than he meant to, eyes tracing the neat folds, the quiet promise of value.
He'd never seen that much money in one place.
He raised his gaze to the man.
The smile was gone — replaced by a cold, clinical indifference that chilled the air between them.
Yoon froze.
Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
The man stepped closer.
Too close.
Yoon caught the sweet scent of his cologne — something expensive, cloying, out of place in the alley's damp air.
The man leaned in, his breath warm against Yoon's ear.
His voice was a hoarse whisper, low and deliberate.
"None of this ever happened," he said.
"You didn't deliver anything that wasn't listed digitally. Which means this exchange? It never took place."
He paused.
Then leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a thread.
"If anything about this gets out…"
A beat.
"I don't think the lives of your little family of four can pay for it. Yoon"
He straightened slightly, moving his coat aside — just enough to draw Yoon's eyes downward.
A sleek black pistol rested in a holster at his waist.
Tucked. Ready. Inevitable.
The message was clear.
These weren't empty words.
Yoon's heart slammed against his ribs, loud and uneven.
He looked up — to the man's face, now wearing a smile that felt painted on, brittle and wrong.
Then his gaze flicked higher.
The thread.
One end was dark, pulsing with something thick and slow, like oil.
The other — his side — was a thin, trembling silver line.
His fear.
The envelope in his hand felt suddenly heavier, the cash inside like lead.
The man's smile didn't change.
But the thread between them said everything.