709: 555 really isn’t much 709: 555 really isn’t much “Creak.”
A regular tavern he occasionally visited.
Che Changmin, leaning on his crutch, pushed the door open and entered.
As a man, his self-discipline was exasperating, devoid of lust, gambling, and greed for money; even the number of tis he drank could be counted on one hand.
He had devoted nearly all his ti and energy to defending the dignity of the judiciary, only to receive an indifferent disciplinary notice in the end.
“Prosecutor Che.”
Because he had been there a few tis before, as soon as he entered, the tavern owner hurried over, very enthusiastic.
To ordinary people like them, a prosecutor was an intimidating figure of authority.
Before the owner’s eager smile had fully ford, he suddenly noticed Che Changmin’s limping leg and the crutch he was leaning on.
“Prosecutor Che, what happened to you?”
The tavern owner’s smile froze, his face showing surprise and doubt.
“It’s nothing, just took a fall.”
Che Changmin said nonchalantly.
The tavern owner sensed the insincerity in his words, but of course did not dare to inquire further.
He nodded and led Che Changmin to a table.
“Are you alone?
Where’s He?”
He.
That was the na of the assistant.
It was this tavern that the assistant had brought Che Changmin to when he first joined the office.
Back then, he was young and ambitious, filled with aspirations for the future, but now…
In Daegu.
When the paradics carried the mangled body out from underneath a car and passed by him, even with Che Changmin’s fortitude, he quickly looked away.
“He…”
Che Changmin’s lips quivered, and facing the tavern owner’s curious gaze, for so reason, he didn’t finish his sentence.
“He’s on a business trip out of town.”
“That explains it.”
The tavern owner smiled knowingly and made small talk, “He often told how much he admires you, Prosecutor Che, saying that he wants to be like you one day.
But it’s not an easy feat.
He still lacks steadiness.
You need to work him hard, Prosecutor Che.
Young people need to be toughened up.”
Che Changmin sat expressionless, silent.
Seeing his reaction, the owner did not dare to pry any further and awkwardly said, “Prosecutor Che, would you like sothing to eat?”
It was then that Che Changmin suddenly realized he barely knew this place; previously, it was the assistant, now lying dead without a complete body, who had made all the arrangents.
“Bring a pot of soju and just a couple of dishes.”
“Alright.
Prosecutor Che, one mont, please.”
The owner did not dare to linger and turned to leave.
This was a very ordinary tavern, whose clientele was mainly young people.
That kid often told him he was too serious and should co to places like this more often.
Their laughter and faces still seed to be right before his eyes.
“We ca here first, why did he get served before us?”
A young couple at the next table complained unhappily.
“Prosecutor Che, I am sorry about this.
I’ll go explain to them.”
The owner apologized.
Che Changmin nodded, it was probably the first ti he felt fully entitled to enjoy the privileges his status brought, picking up a disposable plastic cup to pour himself a drink.
The tavern owner’s apology to the young couple could be heard nearby.
Che Changmin paid no heed, occasionally taking bites of food with his chopsticks, drinking alone.
Although he did not drink often, he had a good tolerance for alcohol, and since the locally brewed soju here was targeted at a younger clientele, the emphasis was on flavor rather than potency.
“Another pot.”
The owner quickly ca over, glanced at Che Changmin’s injured leg, and kindly suggested, “Prosecutor Che, you are injured.
Maybe you should drink less?”
Che Changmin did not pull rank, as amiable as ever, and simply smiled, “It’s fine, bring another pot.”
The tavern owner didn’t dare to persuade him further, but he had a vague feeling that sothing was off with the prosecutor today.
“Tsk, business seems good, eh?”
A group of n barged through the door.
Each strutted arrogantly, their deanor blatantly thuggish—as if they clearly belonged to no good.
“Table 13.”
Handing over Che Changmin’s drink to a staff mber to deliver, the owner, with a forced smile, hurried over to greet them.
“Are you here to eat, gentlen?
Please co this way.”
He greeted them warmly only to be t with their sarcastic tones.
“No rush to eat, boss.
It’s about ti for this month’s protection fee, isn’t it?”
The already uneasy tavern owner felt his heart sink at once.
“Protection fee?
I already paid that at the beginning of the month, didn’t I?”
“To whom did you pay it?”
The leader of the group, smirking behind sunglasses and dressed in baggy pants, asked with a sneer.
“To Brother Wan Kui.”
“Who can vouch for you?”
The owner was taken aback.
Ever since his business started, a gang had co knocking, demanding a monthly sum under the pretense of “protection money.”
He was well aware of what these people did.
He dared not oppose them, as all the rchants on the street were in the sa boat.
In other districts, the sa held true, each collecting “protection money,” likely from various gangs.
As a powerless commoner, how could he contend with such criminal forces?
With the mindset of buying peace, he had been dutifully paying the so-called “protection money” on ti—only to find himself being squeezed for more money when he had just paid at the start of the month.
“I’ve always paid Brother Wan Kui; you can ask him, and he should know.”
The owner spoke submissively.
This street had always been under one gang’s control, though he had never seen these people before, they must belong to the sa group.
“Hey!
Can’t you talk properly?!”
One of the lackeys chided, wearing an extravagantly tacky gold necklace and a gaudy floral shirt, as if afraid others wouldn’t realize he was part of the underworld.
User Comments
0 comments from readers