His hands trembled so badly he couldn’t bring himself to rummage deeper into the sack.
Cheong-yeon had survived everything Cheonghwajin could throw at a man, but he did not have the stomach to touch a mutilated body.
Still, he couldn’t walk away. Not if the sack might contain trash from the smuggler captain’s ship.
Just as he reached again, his heart dropped. With a sudden kick, the bag toppled over.
“Ah—right. I’m drunk.”
Startled by the sight of the severed wrist, he hadn’t noticed who had come out the back door.
A man dropped into a crouch and sneered, “A thief?” — apparently mistaking him for someone scavenging the trash. Cheong-yeon scrambled up and bowed his head low.
“Cleaner,” he said, hoping the man would lose interest and go.
The stranger straightened slowly and flicked Cheong-yeon’s cap up with a casual motion. The light touch sent the hat flying; Cheong-yeon’s face was exposed. Only then did he look up at the tall man.
He was stunningly handsome—piercings that swung from his ears were almost lost among his striking features. He wore an extravagant suit and no umbrella, even as the drizzle soaked the expensive cloth.
“Name tag?”
Cheong-yeon opened his mouth to lie and froze. His gaze had landed on the dried flower tucked into the man’s pocket.
“I don’t have a name tag,” the man said, as if to say, See? Look at this.
The man’s lips curved. Cheong-yeon fought to hide his agitation.
“I was… hired for the day. They said there was too much trash,” he offered.
A sharp smell of alcohol clung to the man; his eyes were slack, as if he’d been drinking. Maybe that was just how he always looked.
“Name.”
“It’s just—there was so much trash…”
Cheong-yeon kept trying to steer the conversation back to that flower. If he’s this drunk, what if I just snatch it and run… The thought skittered across his mind and died. He couldn’t risk it. Everyone in Cheonghwajin knew who this man was.
“Fuck it, just call yourself Trash,” the man said suddenly and shoved his bloody hand forward, the motion almost like a handshake.
He made an exaggerated face, then pushed his hand further into the rain.
“Well then… I’ll be going—”
He paused, withdrew the dried flower from his pocket, and held it out. Cheong-yeon’s eyes snapped to it.
“Pretty trash,” the man said, smiling with rain on his face. “It’s you, isn’t it? The one who stood me up.”
It was Tae Mu-won of the Peira.
He held the flower toward Cheong-yeon like an offering—like he was waiting for him to take it.
If this was only drunken mischief, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. Mu-won’s cold, golden gaze—reptilian and unreadable—fell on him.
“I don’t know what you mean, but… if it’s trash, shall I throw it away?” Cheong-yeon asked carefully.
As he reached, Mu-won snatched the flower back. Cheong-yeon’s heart hammered.
For a second, he’d thought he might actually get it—then he told himself to calm down. To anyone else, it was just a dried bloom.
He bowed slightly, as if to say Forget it, then.
“Then, since my work’s done, I’ll be going.”
But when Cheong-yeon turned toward the sack, Mu-won stepped in front of him.
The man brought something out from the inner pocket of his flashy suit. A Zippo clicked open; the flame flared bright, fierce against the rain. For a heartbeat, Cheong-yeon thought he’d light a cigarette—there was no cigarette.
Instead, Mu-won pressed the flame to the petals.
“Hold it tight.”
Cheong-yeon’s shaking made the flame falter. Mu-won cupped his hand over the bloom like a tiny umbrella, leaning close, head tilted. He watched Cheong-yeon with an unblinking stare while the smell of fuel singed the wet petals; they blackened and curled.
Cheong-yeon clutched the stem and barely breathed. The man’s unblinking gaze seemed to examine every flinch, every pulse.
‘Does he… think I’m one of the smugglers?’
By the second petal, his hand was trembling so violently that he thought it would fail him. But who wouldn’t tremble before Mu-won? No one.
“From the outside, it might look like we’re up to something filthy, huh?” Mu-won said.
Hidden in Mu-won’s shadow, Cheong-yeon met his eyes.
“Just playing with fire,” Mu-won added lightly.
By the time the third petal had shriveled into nothing, the seconds had felt like lifetimes. Mu-won snapped the lighter closed, straightened, and said, suddenly—
“Fireplay’s over.”
Cheong-yeon nearly asked, ‘What?’ but kept his mouth shut and bowed instead.
“…Have a good night.”
He picked up the cap from the ground, shook it dry, and turned away like a cleaner whose shift had ended.
“But why are you working at a trash heap?” Mu-won’s voice curled around Cheong-yeon’s ankles like a snake. Ignoring it would be dangerous; he forced himself to turn back.
“A medicine shop(1),” he said.
His shoulders jerked. This felt less like conversation and more like an exam—one where a wrong answer cost more than pride.
“It’s hard to get by running only an herb shop. I also work part-time at a tavern,” he said. If Mu-won decided to drag him in and check, there would be no escape: no one had actually hired him as a cleaner.
“At the Dandelion,” he added for emphasis.
Mu-won made no immediate reply; then he frowned, a short distasteful sound escaping him.
“Fuck, absurd.”
‘Was that the wrong answer?’ Cheong-yeon’s heart lurched.
“You want me to boost your sales?”
Mu-won was clearly drunk—only a drunken mind could twist the words like that.
“No. It’s a cheap dive. Not the kind of place you’d go,” Cheong-yeon said.
“Cheap,” Mu-won muttered, his golden eyes passing over him.
Cheong-yeon braced for whatever move would come next. To his relief, Mu-won only turned and walked through the rear door.
Cheong-yeon let out a long, shaky breath. Thank God—he’d lost interest.
He hurried to his bicycle and only then noticed the stem still clutched in his hand. How long had he been holding it without realizing? He tucked it into his basket, swung into the saddle—and the back door creaked again.
Mu-won had stepped back outside, now carrying an umbrella despite being soaked through. Each stride sent ripples through the puddles; his reflection fractured and snapped with every step.
A sudden urge told Cheong-yeon not to show his back. He set his foot on the pedal. Mu-won closed the gap between them in a long, effortless stride.
‘If he sees I kept the stem, he might think strange things.’ He’d at least hidden it under the wet cap.
When Mu-won reached him, Cheong-yeon squeezed his eyes shut. The man passed by without a glance.
“Ah.” Mu-won hesitated, then turned with a crooked smile.
“I like cheap places,” he said, adding with a grin, “Even better when something expensive looks cheap.”
Cheong-yeon kept his thundering heart in check and watched him walk away, praying he wouldn’t look back.
*******
(1): The Korean word in the text was 약재상 (yak-jae-sang). 약재 (yak-jae) = medicinal ingredients, herbs ; 상 (sang) = merchant, dealer, or shop. So 약재상 literally means a shop (or seller) of medicinal herbs. “Apothecary” and “Medicine Shop”, Both words are technically correct, but they carry slightly different connotations: Apothecary → old-fashioned, historical, often used in fantasy or period settings (sounds more like a classic novel). Medicine shop / herbalist’s shop → more modern, straightforward, and closer to the literal meaning (a shop selling herbal medicine). Since we are in Modern Fantasy, I’ll be using either medicine or herbalist’s shop.