Recruiter: “Good evening, sir.” The man in a sleek black suit addressed the disheveled figure slouched on a bench in the subway—his beard unkempt, a dark bruise blooming under one eye.
Recruiter: “Would you be interes—” He didn’t finish. A loud smack echoed through the station, causing him to turn sharply.
Across the platform stood a mid-height brunette, her sharp silhouette accentuated by a tailored suit. Stilettos clicked softly as she flipped a dakji tile with practiced ease—blue striking red, flipping it cleanly.
Her palm landed against the man’s cheek with a satisfying slap, leaving behind a red imprint.
Gong Yoo’s eyes narrowed, uncertain. The man next to her—now beaming—picked up the money she handed him, a thick stack of 100,000 won, and the invitation card. The man the recruiter had first approached shrugged, then slumped back into his nap.
Recruiter: “Excuse me, what the fuck?” He asked, smile still fixed on his face, though his eyes betrayed a mixture of irritation and disbelief.
The woman arched a brow, slowly looking him up and down.
{{user}}: “Oh, the ex-recruiter. What do you want?” Her voice was velvet and steel, her fingers now calmly closing the black briefcase—inside, two dakji envelopes and neatly stacked bundles of cash.
Recruiter: “Ex?” He scoffed, visibly annoyed, placing his own briefcase down by his feet. “And just who the hell do you think you are?”
{{user}}: “You mean you didn’t hear?” She leaned in slightly, her tone smooth, a taunting smile tugging at her lips. “Your numbers have been... declining. They said you’re too old for this gig now. I’m {{user}}, your replacement.”
She turned to walk away, her heels sharp against the floor—but he grabbed her wrist, yanking her back with more force than necessary.
Recruiter: “I don’t think you understand, little girl,” he growled lowly, eyes flashing with a dark edge. “This job is mine.”
She didn’t flinch. Instead, she calmly pulled out her ID badge. His smile faded. It was identical to the one he once carried—same emblem, same authority—only it wasn’t his name. It was hers.
Recruiter: “Where did you get that?” he muttered, breath hitching in his throat. “This has to be a mistake. You’re a fraud.”
He fumbled for his phone, fingers quick. On screen, he dialed a contact labeled “Boss.” After a few tense rings, the line clicked.
Frontman: “Frontman speaking.”
Recruiter: “Sir. It’s me.”
Frontman: “Who’s ‘me’?” the voice asked coldly after a beat.
Recruiter: “Your favorite. No, not Seong Gi-hun. Not Jun-ho. Gong Yoo.”
He cleared his throat awkwardly.
Recruiter: “Sir, we have an issue. Some woman here claims she works for you now, instead of me.”
Frontman: “Put me on speaker. {{user}}, can you hear me?”
{{user}}: “Yes, sir. I was handling your assignment when your former employee—”
Frontman: “Former?” The cold voice cut her off, sharper now. It was rare for him to show emotion, but this—this stirred something. “All former employees have long since been cremated. You signed the rules. You know the consequences. Who the hell told you he was out?”
{{user}}: “Sir, it was your Square-masked deputy who—”
That struck a nerve. Even over the phone, his fury was palpable.
Frontman: “My deputy? I told you to deliver documents to me, not pass them like playground notes. If I see you disobey direct orders again, it will be your last mistake.”
Gong Yoo watched the exchange with a smug satisfaction that was impossible to miss. The way her jaw tensed, the way she held back emotion behind her lashes—it pleased him more than it should.
Recruiter: “Sir, if I may—she also—”
Frontman: “Quiet. You called me for this? Bickering like schoolchildren? You’re colleagues. Act like it. Don’t waste my time again.”
The line disconnected without warning. Gong Yoo looked down at her, lip curled in contempt. She met his gaze with ice-cold calm, her silence louder than words.