The hotel lobby, which should have been bustling for the Chuseok rush, was eerily quiet. The staff’s morale had plummeted along with it. The long lines of guests they’d handled before even lunch service on Lunar New Year felt like a lifetime ago.
Another loud roar came from the manager’s office. A few front-of-house staff had gone to argue. They were red-faced and furious, while Yang Jin-man sat silent. His answer was always the same.
“If you hate it, quit.”
Ever since the crackdown weeks ago, no Omegas wanted to come to work at regular rates. Hotel occupancy had fallen to a quarter. They’d reduced dining service to weekends only, and on weekdays the rooms were booked sporadically by out-of-town business travelers.
With no dining service, half the front-of-house staff were placed on unpaid leave under some excuse of shortened operations. Those who’d gone to demand reinstatement ended up empty-handed and slammed the manager’s door as they stormed out.
“Fine, I quit, damn it!”
They’d called him “boss” just moments before, but money changes everything. They’d scraped and clawed their ways to this point; they had no patience for petty treatment.
Other employees gathered at the end of the hall patted their comrades on the back.
“You did well.”
“Let’s look elsewhere. Who says there aren’t other jobs?”
“What if we all hand in our resignations at once? You think he’d keep weekend service running?”
They tossed around barbs to dissipate their frustration, but none had anywhere else to go.
There were few bidding-style Omegas projects nearby; most in Daejeon and other cities operated on fixed-rate systems. Regular hotels wouldn’t hire experienced Omegas on staff.
But the real reason they stayed was the tips. Guests slipped cash to have staff arrange bids; whispered endorsements raised their chances. Sometimes generous patrons even slipped extra pocket money.
Yang Jin-man knew how precious that money was. So he’d placed them on unpaid leave and pretended ignorance. With reduced expenses, he’d repeat, things would normalize eventually, so everyone just needed patience.
He’d even settled with the provincial office: a forty-million won fine, with ten million set aside for the official. It’d cost more than expected, but at least they’d avoided a suspension. Yang Jin-man congratulated himself.
The problem was the prosecutor’s indictment—no leads. He tried probing whether the prosecutor wanted something specific, but no one would open a line to him. It seemed there was no line at all.
“That guy’s no ordinary person. I heard he’s filthy rich, not wanting for anything. They say being a prosecutor is his hobby.”
An executive from Dongyang Liquors, seconded here, rummaged a black bag on the sofa. Inside were two ten-thousand-won worth of tangerines the dismissed staff had brought the boss. They’d at first tried to stay in his good graces, but when that failed, they’d cursed him out and left.
“Hobby, my ass. He comes asking about that as if it’s intelligence.”
Frowning, Yang Jin-man sat before his desk, collecting receipts. There was no revenue stream, just pointless expenses. The gangster’s food bills, sauna fees, coffee tabs—typical examples.
“Still, who’s truly lacking? Even if you earn a trillion won, you’ll still want two. He must have some ulterior motive. What did he say at his prosecutor’s appearance?”
Nearby, a friend from the transport business—who’d coordinated with them during police checks—leaned in. He frequented the hotel and listened to Yang Jin-man’s complaints. They both glanced at Marvin, arms crossed against the wall.
“He didn’t say much. Just asked what was necessary and left, but damned if he didn’t put on a show. I thought I’d pee my pants.”
“You think he’ll really indict?”
“I don’t know. Just seeing how he probes seems odd.”
“The boss is scaredy-cat—business types so timid they can’t even handle this?”
The Dongyang Liquors exec chimed in.
“This isn’t usually indictment material. Judges get furious if you drag it to trial when a fine would suffice. When a prosecutor goes this far, they’re waiting for something. He’s expecting some picture to emerge that hasn’t yet.”
He laughed and popped another tangerine.
“Hey, Director Kim, come eat one. These are good.”
Peeling a perfectly ripe tangerine in one motion, he waved it at Marvin.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Really tasty. Stop standing there like your legs hurt and sit down. Or come spar with me at the gym up front.”
Yang Jin-man glanced between them. That broad-shouldered thug had been hanging around the hotel, trying to recruit Marvin into their ranks. Sometimes Marvin handled rowdy guests personally, and Yang Jin-man was impressed by his efficiency.
“I’m sorry. It’s work hours.”
Marvin’s reply was polite yet absent-minded.
The guards said as much: he commanded respect instinctively, even from intimidators. Director Kim had that effect, so Yang Jin-man praised his staffing choice.
It was ridiculous. These clumsy fools must think this a manager’s gig. He warned them mentally, but even he secretly thought the same.
A shame—at first he’d expected Marvin to return to Seoul in a month or two, so he hadn’t cared. But no word from HQ, and seasons had passed with no movement.
It suited him well: fools everywhere, and here was a rare talent to exploit. He gave him a department head title and even an apartment.
Marvin didn’t look meek, but having leverage made him easy to handle. The juniors followed him, too.
He wanted to offer him a permanent position, but had yet to broach it. To make such an offer, he needed something to give him in return.
Even if he paid a salary, he wasn’t sure what level suited him. He could threaten to cut off his suppressants, but then Marvin might die without a sound.
This was an intelligence-bureau agent—Deputy Director Choi Hyeong-il personally recruited him. Rumor said these “special-forces crows” handled the dirtiest work, and even murder was covered up by the government. A hopelessly ambivalent existence.
Great… so great… but terribly burdensome.
“Since you have nothing else to do, what do you care? Let’s go. Spar with me.”
The Dongyang Liquors exec tossed the tangerine intended for Marvin into his own mouth and brushed off his hands. He stood abruptly. Marvin looked to Yang Jin-man as if passing him the decision.
“No. Go alone. I’ll cover your bath—hit the sauna. He’s management; the juniors go to him.”
“They said half the staff’s on leave, though.”
“Still no. And I’m in a meeting with him now.”
“What meeting? I said turn the dining hall into a regular club—pour liquor for the young crowd. When they bring Omegas, you provide the service. Rumor spreads fast. They’ll book rooms, take drugs—perfect.”
Yang Jin-man’s face twisted. Of course they only cared about their own profits. The gangsters were so unethical they’d just delivered 50 more cases of beer today, forcing the order under threat of breach of contract.
Now they planned to sell their drugs here, too. A sober employee had already died because of that. He wanted nothing more than to overturn every sponsorship and arrangement in rage.
“Can just anyone open a club? If something happens, will Vice President He be held responsible? And where are these young people around here? They’re all too lazy to even walk—a bunch of old farts glued to their seats. Who’s going to dance?”
“But the performers here are too cheap-looking. They bring in nobodies singing twenty-year-old hits.”
“Our guests like that.”
“Nostalgia only goes so far. It’s the same faces, the same songs—boring for anyone watching…”
“Ah, that’s why they come here! Shut your damn mouth and stop meddling in other people’s business!”
Yang Jin-man exploded in a rant, his voice sharp with anger. To outsiders, he must’ve seemed a man with a pathological temper.
The atmosphere shattered. The transport-business friend next to Yang Jin-man offered an awkward laugh, “Haha, why so worked up?” reaching out uncertainly.