The smell of cigars mingled with the scent of leather furniture and the faint bitterness of morning coffee. The blinds were halfway drawn—narrow strips of light cut through the space, as if putting it in a cage. The CEO's office was too quiet, too clean to be just a workplace. It looked more like a cage where even the air knew not to say anything extra.
Yoon Seung-ho stood by the window, his fingers barely touching the cold glass. The city stretched out below—straight lines of roads, reflections of neon, smoke above the rooftops. He didn't smoke, but the smell of cigars lingered in his office—a memory of others, those who liked to display power with smoke and vapor rings.
The door opened softly. — Mr. Yoon, the directors have arrived, — the assistant reported quietly.
Seung-ho nodded without turning around: — Let them in.
The door closed again, and the air grew heavier. Three men entered the office—Director Park, always overly confident, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes; Director Lee, silent, with a nervous gaze; and a young man from the finance department, whom Seung-ho was seeing for the first time.
He sat down at the table, his movements measured, cold. — Let's begin.
Park was the first to speak: — We need to discuss the deliveries for line "A-49." Clients are awaiting confirmation.
The word "delivery" sounded almost affectionate, but Seung-ho knew what lay hidden behind that softness. He tilted his head, as if examining the document before him. — "A-49"... — he said, as if casually. — Isn't that the same line that passed through the private warehouse in Yonghyeon-gu?
Park hesitated slightly, then nodded: — Possibly the same one. The warehouse is rented by a third-party company, "Instinct Logistics." They work on outsourcing. — A strange coincidence, — Seung-ho said. His voice was almost polite, but that politeness sounded like a warning. — That company already appeared in the reports regarding the club.
He looked at Lee. Lee flinched, pretending to search for a pen. — Perhaps a documentation error. Accounting might have mixed up the codes, — he quickly replied.
Seung-ho smiled slightly. — Errors don't repeat three times, Mr. Lee. Especially not in a system where everything is automated.
The air grew thicker. Even the ticking of the clock seemed loud. — We have no reason to doubt "Instinct Logistics," — Park interjected. — They provide flexibility in deliveries. We need partners willing to work without excessive bureaucracy.
Seung-ho leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers. — "Flexibility"... a dangerous word, don't you think? — It's business, Mr. Yoon. — Sometimes too much is hidden behind that word, — he said calmly. — And too many people.
Park tensed up. Lee looked away. The young employee behind them pretended to take notes, although the pen in his hand didn't move.
The meeting continued, but Seung-ho was no longer listening. He wasn't catching the words—he was catching the pauses. Not the numbers—the breathing. He saw Park clench his fingers when the "new batch" was mentioned, and saw Lee blink too frequently when the word "delivery" was spoken.
All of it formed a pattern. Clear, dangerously familiar.
— And one more thing, — he said when the conversation was almost over. — Why does transport from the club continue to use the private warehouse branch, and not the central base? — It's more convenient, — Park replied too quickly. — The club is a special structure; the logistics are separate. — Convenience rarely goes hand-in-hand with safety, — Yoon stated.
A pause. No one answered.
When the doors closed behind the directors, the office plunged into silence. Seung-ho sat, staring at the folders before him. Everything was too clean, too correct.
He took one of them out—a stamp, a signature, an impeccable table. And the batch number: A-49. On the bottom margin, a small-print note: Contract by L.H. Lee Hyunjin. Director Lee's assistant.
Seung-ho ran his finger across the line. The paper was slightly damp—the ink had only recently dried. He noticed a tiny mark in the corner, like a scanner print. He had seen the same mark in the club archives, on documents related to the disappearance of the last waiter.
A coincidence? No. He didn't believe in coincidences.
He stood up, walked to the window. The city beneath him flickered with dull light; the streets slid by like living veins. In the reflection—his face: calm, but his eyes were darker.
His phone vibrated. A message from Do-yun: "You're not answering. Is everything okay?"
Seung-ho smiled faintly, wiping the moisture off the glass with his finger. "Yes. Checking something. Will be back later."
He wanted to add, "don't leave the house," but didn't. Do-yun would feel the anxiety anyway—even through the screen.
Seung-ho looked at the folder one more time. Instinct Logistics. Code A-49. Signature L.H. And next to it in parentheses—a designation that shouldn't have been in documents of this category: Ω-13.
He froze. Pheromones broke free from his control—a dull wave, barely perceptible, but steeped in anger. There was no doubt about the code: "Ω" always meant one thing—Omega.
He extinguished the lamp, leaving only the faint glow from the windows. He put his jacket on his shoulders. His fingers instinctively found the folder, thin, almost weightless.
The club. It all started there. And it must end there.
He left the office without looking back. Behind him remained the smell of cigars, the dim light, and those who hid behind their smiles.
***
The club looked different during the day. Without music, without lights and laughter, it resembled an empty stage after a performance. The air was thick—smelling of alcohol, dust, and something metallic, barely discernible. Yoon Seung-ho walked past the bar, where one of the security guards stood, and headed toward the back rooms.
— Mr. Yoon, accounting is checking the reports right now, — the manager said hastily, rushing after him. — There's a slight mess; we didn't expect you today… — Good, — Seung-ho replied curtly, without slowing his pace. — I didn't come to give notice.
The manager fell silent.
The club's accounting was downstairs—in a semi-basement room that smelled of damp paper and old coffee. Seung-ho entered, looking around. A few desks, stacks of folders, scattered dust on the windowsill. The accountant—a short man with tired eyes—got up upon recognizing him. — Mr. Yoon… I… didn't think you yourself… — Where are the reports for the last three months? — Seung-ho asked calmly. — They are… here. — The man pushed a stack toward him.
Seung-ho took off his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair, and began flipping through the documents. His fingers moved quickly; his gaze latched onto the numbers, signatures, and markings. He was looking for something specific, not knowing what to call it himself, but sensing internally that he would find it.
On the second dozen pages, he froze. Marking: I-49 / Instinct Logistics. Next to it, a date—a month ago. And a signature: L.H.
He frowned. The paper looked new, as if just printed. In the corner—a barely noticeable smudge, like a fingerprint that someone had tried to erase. — Who prepared these reports? — he asked, without lifting his head. — I received them already in this form, Mr. Yoon, — the accountant replied quietly. — The documents were handed over by Director Lee's assistant.
Seung-ho looked up. — Personally? — Yes. He came in the evening. Said Lee instructed him to give them to you for signature.
A sting hit his chest. He set the sheet aside, pulled out the next one. On it—a consignment note, and again the familiar marking: Ω-13. But now the word Specimen was added to it.
He breathed in slowly, as if tasting the air. — This is not our category of delivery, — he said, showing the sheet. — Who added this code?
The accountant stammered. — I don't know. Everything came through an internal channel. The sender is the logistics department.
Seung-ho ran his finger across the stamp. The ink was slightly shiny. It had been stamped recently. He recalled the same mark on the documents from the office.
He flipped through the folder further. On one of the last pages—a scan of a pass: a photograph of a young man. The former waiter. Do-yun had mentioned his name—the one who witnessed the disappearance. Signature at the bottom: Access granted – 12/06. The date matched the day he disappeared.
Seung-ho closed his eyes for a moment. The paper in his hands trembled. Not from fear—from anger.
— Mr. Yoon, — the accountant said hesitantly, — are you… are you looking for something specific? — Yes, — he replied.
He put the documents back into the folder, stood up, and only then noticed that someone had recently been standing by the door. A trace on the floor—a wet sole, a dark print, as if left in a hurry. He took a step forward, opened the door, but no one was there. The corridor was empty. Only the light of the flickering lamp and the hum of the air conditioner.
Pheromones erupted involuntarily—a short, sharp burst, a warning, like the smell of a storm before a lightning strike. He felt that someone was watching. A reflection flashed in the mirror opposite—a shadow, barely noticeable. Not a face, not a figure, just movement. Seung-ho quickly turned around. Empty.
His phone vibrated. A message from Do-yun: "I think I'm being followed. A strange car is parked below the house."
Seung-ho exhaled slowly, his lips tightened. He glanced at the accounting door—the shadow was gone, but the feeling of presence remained. "Don't go out. Lock the door and wait." he replied.
He grabbed the folder, pressed it to his chest, and cast a brief look at the papers sticking out of it. Instinct Logistics. Ω-13. Specimen. Now there was no doubt. The web was woven too finely. And somewhere inside it—a man whose hand he shook yesterday.
Yoon Seung-ho went up the stairs. With every step, the silence grew thicker, as if the walls were listening. He emerged into the club hall, now empty, without music, without light. Wires hung from the ceiling; reflections of bottles shimmered under the sparse lamps.
He stopped in the middle of the hall, inhaling deeply. Pheromones dissolved into the air, mixing with the smell of tobacco and metal. This place held too many voices. And none of them were safe anymore.
At the exit, the guard opened the door for him, but his gaze flickered. — Is everything alright, Mr. Yoon?
Seung-ho looked straight ahead, unblinking. — No, — he replied quietly. — But it will be soon.
He stepped out into the rain. The cold drops immediately fell on his face, as if the city itself wanted to erase the tracks. The folder in his hand felt heavier than it should have been.
He walked toward his car, and only one question pounded in his head: How many of them knew? And—who else is hiding behind this network?