Should I grab the meat mallet from the kitchen?
Or the small revolver in the nightstand by the bed would do. The barrel’s short for the size of the rounds, so the recoil’s nasty—one shot and my palm bruises…
Stay calm.
Caesar forced his body—ready to spring up any second—back down onto the sofa.
Above all, Jeheon Han didn’t even consider this bastard’s proposal.
Saying, “I’ll bring out some snacks,” Caesar went to the kitchen and returned with a few slices of prosciutto, cheese, bread, and a pat of butter. He set a butter knife on the edge of the plate to spread it.
Setting the spread in front of Joshua, he asked evenly,
“Did he agree to the casting?”
“No. I tried sweet-talking him, but he wouldn’t bite. Little bastard’s got good instincts…”
Joshua picked up a slice of prosciutto, rolled it, and popped it into his mouth.
“But it’s fine. When I told them he’d never say yes, they asked me to sell them info at least.”
“Info?”
“Yeah. Like his address… You can figure that out through a couple old classmates, so I’m working on it.”
Another chunk of cheese disappeared into Joshua’s mouth.
“Wanting his address isn’t exactly a good sign. You realize the man could end up dead?”
Joshua snorted.
“Of course I know. But that’s karma. If he’d lived straight back in college, would I be doing any of this? It’s his own fault. Nobody told him to go around making enemies.”
I see.
So that’s it.
He knew—and felt no guilt.
A faint smile touched Caesar’s lips.
Picking up the butter knife, he murmured,
“Good job…”
Joshua turned, thinking, What’s that supposed to mean? In that instant, he was staring into eyes black as pitch.
They weren’t black, not really. The pupils had blown so wide they swallowed the irises—like a tiger before the pounce, or a cat that’s spotted a mouse.
A sharp curve cut across Caesar’s mouth. So much for “facial muscle issues.”
“Uh…”
A cold, animal warning crawled up Joshua’s spine.
Something’s wrong.
The very next moment, the butter knife flew.
Its tip—sharpened to cut through cold butter—slid into human skin far easier than expected.
Soft classical music drifted through the first floor of the department store.
I vaulted over a man lunging in for a tackle and thought,
My joints… I’m twenty-nine, but I burned through my knees and hips young. I’m a used-up old-timer in a young body…!
The cause of this mess was obvious: my history as a player from high school through college had spread all over the internet.
Damn it. People are disgustingly obsessed with other folks’ pasts!
With the public already fired up, tossing “former quarterback” on the bonfire meant big, beefy guys started dropping by to see if we could “spar” for fun.
And the kicker? They don’t even care about shopping—zero-value customers.
Thanks to them, I was wrecked before lunch was over.
I clung on with a ragged body, and the second my break hit I fled into the locker room. Half a dozen coworkers lay around like dried fish in a breeze—same condition as me.
I nudged Noah, who was starfished on a bench.
“Move. Let me sit.”
Noah oozed down to the floor and muttered,
“Why’s the captain gotta be handsome…”
“Paint me gold, you still won’t get anything.”
Judging by the vibe, their athletic pasts had leaked too.
I felt a tiny pang of guilt… but we had another job to deal with.
Looking over the faces, I opened with a sigh,
“Guys.”
“Don’t say anything.”
“Please, captain, let us rest.”
“It’ll be even busier this afternoon.”
“Damn.”
“God help us.”
I cracked a sports drink and handed it to McQueen.
“So no matter how beat we are, let’s take turns sweeping the upper floors this afternoon. Word is a bunch of creeps are prowling the floors where the girls work.”
At the word “creeps,” their expressions settled into a mix of pain and grim resolve.
McQueen muttered,
“Yeah… even if we’re dying, we gotta look out for our sisters.”
“Those fucking pervs never know what’s appropriate and what isn’t.”
“They always strike when we’re stretched thin.”
“Exactly. So let’s patrol.”
Whether it was chivalry or just a pack of ex-athlete machos, nobody pushed back with “Why do we have to look after the girls.”
Guess I drilled the right values into them.
I cast a proud eye over the sprawled idiots, then pulled energy bars from the locker and handed them out.
“Eat up. Back to work.”
With that, our short break ended and we went back on the floor.
I didn’t clock out until just before nine.
Limping home on blistered feet, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. Caesar was calling.
I slipped inside fast and picked up.
“Speaking.”
I answered in my tired, boilerplate tone, and on the other end a soft sigh leaked out. Then his voice came, edged with concern.
—Rough day? Why do you sound so down?
At once, something pricked in my chest. My nose stung; my eyes went hot. It wasn’t like something terrible had happened, but that little bit of comfort almost made me cry.
So I really did have a hard day. And it wasn’t even that bad… Maybe it’s the gloomy weather—seasonal depression?
I kept quiet for a moment, then spoke once my throat eased.
“It’s nothing. Work was just hard.”
—You sound more than “a little” tired.
Come on, man. Read the room and let it go. You usually pick up cues fast!
I repeated myself.
“I’m really okay. Thanks for worrying.”
He answered, steady as ever.
—You said it’s nothing, so I’ll trust you. But if there’s a serious problem, call me.
“You’ll…talk me through it?”
—No. I’ll fix it.
…Wow. Someone’s confident.
Well, he has the specs to back it up.
I let out a small laugh instead of answering.
He nailed it down, voice firm.
—I’m not joking. If anything happens, tell me.
This time I didn’t even have a laugh left.
Beating on my chest to keep it from going numb, I forced out,
“Got it… So, why’d you call?”
—To say thanks.
“I sent you a link,” Caesar said, and began to explain in a calm voice.
—You told me not to hire Joshua Martin.
“I did.”
—I put the decision on hold because of that.
I switched to speaker and tapped the link he’d sent.
A news article loaded.
—That was the right call.
The page showed a mosaic-blurred shot of a crime scene and Joshua’s passport photo.
[Stuntman J found dead in drug-induced delirium…]
[Drug addiction: a problem we can no longer ignore.]
So he finally did it…
—Whether it was fentanyl or ecstasy, I’m not sure, but they say those drugs make your skin itch.
“Itch?”
—Yeah—like bugs crawling under it.
In a low voice, Caesar murmured,
—So I suppose he did that to “pull the bugs out.” The autopsy showed drug levels near lethal dose.
Even hearing it made my skin crawl.
“If he’d done that after transferring to FromA, it would’ve been catastrophic.”
—Exactly. It’s awful for the dead, but it’s a relief the problem hit before the transfer was finalized.
Yeah… Sorry for the dead, but for Caesar it really is a relief.
I wavered between “thank goodness” and “shouldn’t I be mourning a bit more since someone died,” then shook my head. If I’d died, that guy wouldn’t have shed a tear—why should I?
I ditched the useless thoughts and answered Caesar instead.
“I’m glad I could help.”
It was just something people say. Then his voice came through the speaker, a notch brighter.
—You helped a lot. Which means it’s my turn to repay the favor.
“…Huh?”
Sounding genuinely happy, Caesar said,
—Do you have a wish or a request? I’ll grant anything.