The air was so saturated with moisture it felt more than merely cool—it was downright dank and oppressive. Every sensation against the skin was as unpleasant as the breath of a vengeful spirit. And the flickering lamp, broken so it brightened then dimmed in endless repetition, was just the icing on the cake.
All around, except for a rusty metal door, the walls were solid concrete, and beneath the lamp sat an iron table.
It was, by any measure, the perfect setting for something terrible to happen.
There were three people inside.
First: Heo Seongman, head of finance, his hands bound by heavy handcuffs. The chain that bit into his wrists was hooked to a sharp peg on the table. He bore the marks of repeated beatings—his lips split and crusted with blood, one eye swollen nearly shut, his clothes dirtied and stained by footprints.
“Ah—hello…” he croaked.
Across from him sat Winter, sitting perfectly straight as she greeted him—hardly the kind of “hello” you’d offer someone in such a sorry state.
“I told you I threw it in the sea. How could I possibly run off with that much money when they were chasing me to the death? Right?”
Seongman shrugged, as though the reason for this meeting was obvious. His tone and manner were unremarkable in their sleaze—Winter sized him up in an instant, noting the misplaced confidence on that beaten-up face.
“Where exactly?” she pressed.
“What?”
“In which sea did you throw it—in the West Sea? The East Sea? Three billion won weighs over a hundred kilograms. How did you move it? You’d need a truck to haul that much—and yet you brought it out to sea? Where in the sea did you dump it? How did you rent a boat?”
Winter had placed her laptop on the table and was typing away like a detective filling out a report. She’d done her homework before hunting him down. The questions themselves were meaningless—but Winter was who she was: better to be overprepared than caught off guard.
“What kind of idiot are you? I don’t know, okay? I know nothing—figure it out yourself.”
Unsurprisingly, Seongman clamped his mouth shut. No matter how much he’d been beaten, he wasn’t going to talk. Winter leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“You shouldn’t do that. You don’t know—someone’s life could be at risk…!”
It was reasonable advice. At least as far as Winter knew, In Juhan would have no hesitation killing someone. After all, Falling Flowers was an adult romance in which countless people died. Winter was just making sure there’d be no new fatalities.
“Ha! What the hell, you idiot! Kill me? You think you can kill me? Go on—kill!” he barked. “You’ll never find that money again, so let’s all go to hell together!”
“But you said you threw it in the sea?”
“You’re an idiot, aren’t you? Who’d believe that story?”
“So you do know where it is?!”
Winter’s expression brightened. If not even the man who handled the money knew where it lay, they’d all be in trouble. Thankfully, Seongman did know something.
“And what if I do? You want me to tell you? If you want to talk, first get me and my family to a safe country—and then we can talk… Oh—uh…?”
Seongman faltered midsentence, his mouth hanging open as if stunned by something unseen.
“I’m relieved,” Winter breathed. “I was so worried you really didn’t know…”
She rifled through her bag and set something unfamiliar on the table. Pushing her laptop aside, Winter laid out a strange contraption in front of him.
“Wh-what’s that…?”
“Oh, it’s nothing special—just a little gadget. Mind giving me a finger?”
Winter grabbed Seongman’s thick, rough hand and placed one of his fingers between two metal plates, each looking like a blunt saw blade. Then a razor-sharp blade hovered just above the top plate. One wrong move and his finger would be sliced.
“This is a small cutter—like a mini guillotine. Press the lever, and the blade drops, cutting whatever’s beneath in one clean slice. It’s normally used for slicing tough herbs… But that’s not the important part.”
He didn’t need the rest of the explanation. It was a miniature version of the butcher’s block guillotine: a chilling device that slammed down and chopped anything below it to pieces. Seongman’s spine went cold as he realized his finger was helplessly trapped.
“Human fingers have twenty-eight segments—same for toes. One segment at a time,” Winter said, pressing the lever gently. Seongman trembled, knowing that any sudden movement would mean blood.
“It can cut fifty-six times.”
Only then did Seongman grasp that Winter was utterly deranged. He’d mistaken her innocent appearance for weakness—but the confidence on her face said otherwise.
“If you move, it won’t slice through in one go—you’ll feel each cut. Best stay still.”
“Wait—wait a minute!” Seongman blurted, panic in his voice. This lunatic would really chop off his finger—and keep going. Like a runaway train with murderous intent.
Winter twitched at his shout, responding.
“Yes?”
“I didn’t ask you anything!”
“…Ask what?”
“Where you hid the money! And yet you start with my finger?!”
Winter’s eyes rolled back as she tried to remember. He was right—she hadn’t asked.
“Oh, that’s right. Take all the time you need. When you’re ready, just raise your hand!”
The callousness of it—no questions, just torture—was horrifying. But that expression on Winter’s face said it all:
What’s the difference between torturing then questioning, and questioning then torturing?
In truth, Winter’s brain was nearly fried from nerves—but to Seongman, she looked perfectly composed.
“So…” she exhaled, drawing in a deep breath as she lifted the lever high.
“Wait—no, hold on!”
His pleas went unheeded. With his eyes screwed shut, Winter swung the blade down with no hesitation.
“Argh! You crazy bitch! Argh!” Seongman’s screams filled the room, like meeting a real-life psychopath.
Clang.
A sharp slicing sound rang out. Winter pried her eyelids open just enough—and saw something she did not expect.
“Mr. In?” she stammered.
As noted, there were three people in the room: Seongman, Winter, and In Juhan. The man who’d silently watched from behind was now standing right in front of them—holding Seongman’s arm, his finger perfectly intact.
Winter realized what had happened. In Juhan must have yanked Seongman’s hand free at the last moment, missing his finger entirely. Instead, the only thing the blade had severed was the sleeve of In’s jacket. Had he hesitated a fraction later, his hand would have been lost.
“Are you all right? How—how did you…!”
Winter leapt to her feet, examining In Juhan’s hand from every angle. Seeing no scratch or stain, she let out a relieved breath.
“Thank goodness you’re unhurt.”
“In Juhan’s gaze fell on Seongman, slumped unconscious over the table, drool—or was it sweat?—dripping from his mouth. He’d soiled himself in terror.
Winter recoiled.
“Is he…dead?!”
“Don’t worry. He’s fainted.”
“Oh…what a fright.”
“There’s no need to cut off the finger of someone who’s unconscious. That’s why I stepped in.”
Winter’s lips trembled. “I’m sorry… I should’ve been more careful—I’ve never actually used this on anything but herbs… I got nervous…”
In Juhan remained silent, his expression darkening.
Winter’s face fell; she was sure she’d doomed herself. She’d seen how reliably In Juhan disposed of secretaries who failed him. One day, they simply vanished—never again mentioned, as though they’d never existed. Winter feared her turn had come.
He spoke at last:
“Your hand.”
Winter, head bowed, raised her eyes at the command.
“In which position do you intend to keep your hands?”