The Hunt

Choi Jeong-woong woke up from his sleep.

The light that had seeped through the curtain cracks was gone; the sky had turned pitch black.

Before he fell asleep, it had been broad daylight outside.

An entire day had passed just like that.

He hadn’t fallen asleep willingly—it was just that when his nerves were stretched to the breaking point, his body took over, and his brain pulled the plug, whether he liked it or not.

Choi Jeong-woong sat up from the sofa, his neck stiff as a rusted door hinge.

He rolled his shoulders a couple of times, his joints cracking audibly, then began checking everything one by one.

His phone SIM card was removed and stored in a waterproof bag inside the toilet tank.

The computer’s ethernet cable was unplugged, and the router’s power was cut.

The blackout curtains were drawn tight, not letting a single sliver of light escape.

For internet access, he used a jump server routed through three layers of proxy before connecting to a public WiFi—the kind used by thousands of people in a large shopping mall. No one could trace him out of that noise.

But whether all these precautions actually worked, he couldn’t really say.

Choi Jeong-woong walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet. Several large bags of instant noodles remained, enough to last three days. After three days, the heat outside should die down a bit.

The word “should” felt pretty ridiculous used here.

This was nothing like the scale of his previous reports.

But this time was different.

YJJ Corporation.

A major entertainment company, with an intricate web of connections spanning politics, finance, and media—all twisted together.

What he had exposed was enough to put several people behind bars.

And enough to make someone want him dead.

So he had to be careful, extremely careful.

Choi Jeong-woong crouched in front of the refrigerator, the cold light illuminating his face. He was boiling instant noodles, his expression dazed.

He had no parents, no wife, no kids anyway.

So he had nothing to lose.

But to be fair, if he could stay alive, that was better.

If he died, everything was gone. Those exposés would be buried with him, forgotten in less than six months.

He had to stay alive—only by living could any of it mean anything.

Just as he was thinking this, there was a knock at the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Three raps, steady and unhurried.

In an instant, Choi Jeong-woong held his breath.

He immediately unplugged the cooker, covered the pot with its lid, and concealed the rising steam. Not a sound. He crept toward the bedroom.

Knock, knock, knock.

Another three raps.

This rented room was leased under a fake identity, an address he had told no one.

So who was knocking?

He didn’t let himself think. He flipped the mattress aside.

Beneath it was a loose wooden board. Open it, and inside was a space just big enough for a grown man to lie down.

He had modified the room on the very first day after renting it, covering the tool marks with old sawdust and dust so that unless someone got down on their hands and knees to inspect, they’d never find it.

Choi Jeong-woong climbed in, tugged the corner of the mattress back into place, and slid the board closed from inside, restoring the original look as best he could.

The space was tight, his shoulders pressing against wood on both sides.

He adjusted his angle and peered through a gap he had prepared in advance.

His view was limited, but it was enough to see a small patch of the bedroom doorway.

Cowardice? So be it.

A living coward is more useful than a dead hero.

Then—

Boom!

The front door was kicked open. These guys knew how to pick locks—they unlocked it and walked straight in.

“Aish, where the hell is he?” a gruff voice barked.

“Search inside,” said a second voice, deeper than the first.

Heavy footsteps landed on the cheap floorboards—leather shoes.

Choi Jeong-woong saw a shadow charge into the bedroom through the gap. The man scanned the room, which was so small he could take it all in at a glance. He didn’t even bother bending down before stepping back out.

“Nothing in the bathroom either.”

“Kitchen?”

“Are you blind? It’s barely a closet.”

There were several of them standing in the living room, not leaving.

Choi Jeong-woong heard someone dialing a phone, twice before it connected.

“Hey, something’s off. There’s nobody inside.”

Choi Jeong-woong couldn’t make out what the other end said.

“Alright, I’ll check again.”

Sounds of ransacking began. The wardrobe was flung open, its contents spilling out with a clatter.

Drawers were pulled out one by one and tossed on the floor.

Someone entered the bedroom.

Through the gap, Choi Jeong-woong saw a pair of black leather shoes stop next to the bed.

The sheets and blanket were all ripped off.

Then the man bent down—and lifted the corner of the mattress.

Choi Jeong-woong’s whole body went rigid as a steel cable. He even stopped breathing—not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t dare. Both hands clamped over his mouth and nose, his eyes fixed motionless on that pair of shoes beyond the gap.

The man stared for two seconds.

Then he dropped the mattress back down.

“Nothing here.”

“Ah, aish, forget it. Can’t find him. Let’s go.”

“Yeah.”

Footsteps moved toward the door.

The door was pulled shut with a light click.

Choi Jeong-woong slowly exhaled the breath he’d been holding—soundless, little by little.

But he didn’t move.

He counted down in his head.

One second, two seconds, three.

One minute, two minutes.

Five minutes passed.

Ten minutes.

Still, he didn’t move.

When he was a kid in the countryside, he had caught snakes. His grandfather had taught him: when a snake plays dead, don’t touch it. Wait long enough, and it’ll move on its own. But if you lose patience and reach out too soon, it’ll sink its fangs into your finger.

People were the same as snakes. Hunter and prey alike.

It all came down to who broke first.

Fifteen minutes.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded from the living room.

One step, two—heavy, with a hint of irritation.

Then a voice rang out, laced with reluctant respect and impatience.

“Aish, you’ve really got some patience.”

They hadn’t left.

They had only pretended to close the door.

Choi Jeong-woong nearly bit through his tongue from the pressure. His mind raced—these guys knew he was inside the house but weren’t sure exactly where.

The earlier search might have been a bluff—a feigned exit to lure him into bolting.

One thought surfaced: stay still. Bet that the man hadn’t spotted the exact spot. Bet that he was just bluffing.

But the man was clearly done waiting.

Footsteps charged straight for the bedroom.

The mattress was flipped away, hitting the wall with a thud before bouncing to the floor.

The wooden board was yanked open.

Light flooded the darkness, making Choi Jeong-woong squint.

“You really thought we wouldn’t find you, huh?”

A hand grabbed Choi Jeong-woong’s collar and hauled him out of the crawlspace like a sack of rice.

The grip was freakishly strong—his hundred-and-two-pound body lifted as easily as a bag of flour.

He finally saw the room was packed with five men standing there.

Each one had a brutal look on their face.

Choi Jeong-woong’s voice instantly shifted.

“What are you talking about? I don’t know anything. If you want money, I can give you everything I have.”

Even now, Choi Jeong-woong tried to bluff his way through, pretending to be an ordinary guy.

But they weren’t about to give him that chance.

“Choi Jeong-woong.”

They called his name.

The man holding his collar leaned in, a grin spreading across his face—the grin of a hunter who had confirmed his prey. “Chairman Shin of Cheonglok Group asked me to send you his regards.”