It was a rainy evening. In an office on the third floor of a shabby building deep in an alleyway, Jo Kwon-ung sat leaning back on a sofa, smoking a cigarette under the yellow glow of fluorescent lights. On the table lay a single document and a bottle of liquor.

The door opened and a man walked in. Hair soaked by the rain, a slender frame. His face looked a bit young for a twenty-year-old. Kwon-ung exhaled a long trail of smoke as he looked him up and down.

You're finally here.

He gestured toward the opposite chair with his chin. Once the man sat down, Kwon-ung tapped the document.

Your father's debt is quite substantial. But well, it doesn't seem like he has any intention of paying it back.

He took a sip of the liquor and curled his lips into a smile. A dimple faintly appeared.

So he sent you instead. As collateral.