Boss Yang Jin-man didn’t arrive at the station until well after 5 AM. Marvin guessed why—it took time to decide whether to fight or fold. Marvin hoped he’d choose the easier route. With enough pull, it could end in a fine. But Yang, ever stingy, leaned toward the hard way.
“Well, it’s all on the bar tab,” he said.
The bustling station fell quiet. Only three remained: the guest insisting he’d only paid two million won in drink charges and nothing extra for Omega entertainment, Yang Jin-man, and Marvin.
The guest, a man in his fifties, insisted the Omega fees were at fixed rates. Yang nodded and explained.
“I admit the drinks are pricey, but that’s all there is. Honestly, the Allocation Omegas are just a service—part of the hotel’s amenities.”
“That’s right,” the guest chimed in. “Think of it like a convenience store: they stock stuff for your convenience, not to turn a profit. If you think they’re running a prostitution ring, you’re wrong.”
“Exactly. Our boss here explains it well.”
They nodded in mutual support. Marvin stayed silent, watching.
“Hotels now bundle services: Allocation Omegas, liquor sales, performances. But our boys prefer high rollers. So they wait to enter the rooms of big spenders. You know how it is—if an Omega refuses, you can’t force them in.”
“Of course not. You’d get reported in a heartbeat.”
“Right. Check our ledger—everything’s at fixed rates. Not a single extra won. Spotless.”
Yang produced the hotel’s revenue printout. But everyone knew these venues launder earnings through drink sales. Guests were encouraged to outbid one another on bottles. Those so-‘fleeced’ guests had already signed statements and left. Lacking evidence, they chose to deny everything.
The detective skimmed the printout and returned it without interest.
“All right. We had to do a preliminary investigation after the tip came in. But this isn’t really our domain. The administrative office in charge will contact you. Talk to them.”
“Understood.”
Yang folded the printout and slipped it into his file. His confident demeanor suggested talks with ‘them’ were already done.
The detective leaned back, exhausted. Two colleagues beside him looked equally worn—over twenty detainees in one night was taxing. The sun was about to rise.
“Anything else you want to ask?”
Yang weighed whether he could leave. The detective glanced at his partner for clearance; the partner nodded.
“You’re free to go.”
Yang brightened and stood. The fifty-something guest also got ready to leave. Marvin rose and shook off his jacket.
Yang’s late arrival had been wise—the detectives weren’t in the mood to reignite the now-dormant uproar.
“Boss, don’t make more trouble—settle this nicely,” another detective said idly from across the desk, watching the three leave.
“If he’s the complainant, and a prosecutor too, he’s setting traps. Try to provoke him, and they’ll haul you in together,” he added, tapping a blue business card against the desk.
“Even if he’s a prosecutor, we did nothing wrong. How could they charge us?” Yang scoffed.
The detective chuckled at the performance. He understood the charade but played along.
“Hotels are just bait. Catching you changes nothing for him. If he wants favors, he’ll squeeze a shipping company and get called back to Seoul. Any bribes involved?”
This detective spoke more freely—perhaps a higher rank. Yang didn’t mind; he knew when to crouch.
“None. I barely know the guy. Director Kim, right—no issues?”
Yang looked to Marvin. Marvin’s sweat-drenched face betrayed his condition, but he remained composed as if this were routine.
“None,” Marvin said.
“See? Nothing.”
“Good enough. Let’s get out. Hey, let’s grab some hangover soup—I'm starving.”
The detective lit a cigarette and led them out. As the other two stretched and tidied up, the three left in single file.
“Damn.”
Once outside, Yang sighed. The fifty-something threw a reassuring hand on his shoulder—they were evidently acquaintances.
“Who the hell just snuck that on us at dawn? That prosecutor has no decency.”
“Have you reached Manager Jo?”
“No—too late. But I know Oh Pil-seong, an old buddy from back home. He’ll smooth things over by tomorrow. Jo owes me one—there’s no way they’ll suspend my license.”
A spark flickered as cigarette smoke curled in the pale dawn.
“Damn my luck,” Yang muttered, inhaling deeply.
“With the spot sorted, let’s eat. Near the office.”
“Is it open already?”
“Driver’s café doesn’t close. You stayed up too long and forgot?”
He invited Marvin along.
“You worked hard here—eat a bowl.”
This man, Yang’s taxi-service friend, had been holding the line throughout. He’d been pre-notified before Yang arrived and stayed to help play along. His easy manner suggested strong people skills.
“All right, thanks. Let’s eat.”
“No, I usually skip breakfast… I’ll head back.”
“Aha, that’s why you’re so slim—a model. But you look terrible—hurt?”
Yang, cigarette in mouth, looked Marvin over. He guessed the hit had arrived. The suppressant was in the car, so he handed over the keys, though reluctantly.
“Drive my car. Can you?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re unwell, rest today. Business’s gonna sputter until this blows over.”
By morning, rumors would fly: feds raided Daegyeong. Everyone would owe fines. Locals would steer clear of Allocation Omegas until calm returned—still better than suspension. Yang flicked his butt and, with his taxi friend, strode off.
Marvin walked alone to the parking lot. Saturday morning meant no visitors. He found Yang’s black, old-model sedan parked alone.
“Haah…”
He slumped into the driver’s seat and exhaled. The investigation had dragged on—Yang talked too much. He’d spent thirty minutes baiting the trap; Marvin nearly wanted to shake him by the lapels to shut him up.
It was over now. Once he dosed himself, the fever would subside.
He tried to start the car but realized his condition was worse than he’d thought. He’d never postponed dosing this long. His fever burned so fiercely it felt like his throat would melt.
He yanked open the glovebox and rifled through it. Only gas station tissues and receipts lay inside—but also a hangover remedy box. He tore off two pills, popped them in his mouth, and chewed the chalky tablets.
Crunching the pills, he pressed the accelerator. He had to move while he still could. Twenty minutes would get him there. Murmuring the destination like a prayer, he turned the steering wheel.