Chapter 3 - THE RAT IN THE BASEMENTThe heavy oak doors burst open with a resounding crack.
Park stepped into the private dining room, his hand resting casually near the service weapon holstered beneath his tailored suit jacket. Behind him stood four armed enforcers, their faces grim, their boots clicking in unison against the marble floor.
“Boss,” Park said, his voice smooth, practiced, and entirely devoid of the panic that usually accompanied uninvited entry into Min-jae’s presence. “We’ve received an urgent alert from the lobby desk. There’s an immigration discrepancy regarding this employee. We need to escort her downstairs immediately for processing.”
Min-jae did not turn around. He was still standing inches from Nia, his hands slowly slipping away from her shoulders. The air in the room had shifted from stunned shock to something infinitely more lethal.
“An immigration discrepancy,” Min-jae repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a low, terrifying hum.
“Yes, sir,” Park replied, stepping further into the room, his eyes darting toward the phone in Min-jae’s hand and the weeping waitress pressed against the sideboard. “Standard procedure. We can’t afford hotel inspections right now, especially with the Busan shipment arriving tomorrow. Let my men handle her.”
Park signaled with two fingers. The two guards behind him advanced toward Nia, reaching out rough, calloused hands to grab her arms.
“Get your hands off her!” Yuna screamed, throwing herself in front of Nia and kicking the nearest guard squarely in the shin.
The guard grunted, stumbling back. Park’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Get the child out of the way,” he barked.
“Don’t you dare touch my daughter,” Min-jae said.
The words weren't shouted. They were spoken with such absolute, bone-chilling finality that Park froze mid-step.
Min-jae turned around slowly. His face was a mask of dark, calculated fury. The grief over Eun-ji’s memory had vanished, instantly incinerated by the cold realization of betrayal. He looked at Park—the man who had supposedly saved his life during the Busan docks ambush three years ago, the man who managed every personnel file in the Kang Corporation.
“Park,” Min-jae said softly. “When did I authorize background checks for the catering staff?”
Park’s jaw tightened just a fraction—a microscopic micro-expression that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but to Min-jae, it was a neon sign flashing guilty.
“It’s part of standard operational security, Boss. You know that. Especially after the incident with the Russian syndicate last month.”
“Standard security,” Min-jae nodded, taking a slow step toward his chief adviser. “Fascinating. Because when I hired Nia Boateng three weeks ago through the agency, her file was flagged as high-priority by your office. Why would a low-level kitchen applicant require special authorization from the head of internal security?”
Park swallowed hard, his eyes flickering toward the exit doors, calculating his odds. The four guards behind him instinctively tensed, their hands hovering closer to their concealed firearms.
“You’re overwrought, Min-jae,” Park said, dropping the formal title for the first time in fifteen years. “The ghost of your dead wife has rattled your nerves. Let us take the woman away. Let us clean up this mess before the board members arrive for the midnight summit.”
Min-jae let out a dark, humorless chuckle. He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a gold-plated lighter, and tossed it onto the dining table. It clattered against the crystal glassware.
“Park,” Min-jae whispered, his eyes locking onto the adviser’s sweating brow. “You made one fatal mistake.”
“And what is that?” Park sneered, realizing the charade was over.
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“You didn't check who introduced Nia to the agency in London.” Min-jae stepped closer, a predator cornering its prey. “Eun-ji didn't die in that fire two years ago, did she, Park? You helped her fake her death. You helped her escape. And then, when she tried to come back for her child—our child—you hunted her down.”
Park’s face drained of all color. The room went dead silent.
