Chapter 249

“It’s not too late even now. I should be the one to play Yoon Siron.”

Baekgyeong, driving, side-eyed Siron, who had stuck his head between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.

“Yoon Siron can’t find his way.”

Siron bared his teeth and scrunched up the bridge of his nose.

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not directionally challenged! I did delivery work for years!”

“Can you tell north, south, east, and west with your eyes closed?”

“Who can do that?”

“I could.”

“You don’t need any of that crap. As long as you can tell left from right, you can go anywhere.”

At Siron’s irritation, Baekgyeong rubbed his forehead.

“No matter how I look at it, I can’t trust Yoon Siron. I’d rather do it myself.”

“A two-meter-tall East Asian waiter doing service. You might as well carry a spotlight around.”

Isaac snorted.

Deep down, Baekgyeong agreed with him. East Asians were uncommon in Helso, and those approaching two meters were rarer still. On top of that, even a sloppy disguise wouldn’t keep people—anyone who had seen the nationwide reports and his missing-person photo—from feeling an inexplicable sense of déjà vu looking at him.

“Fine. I get that there’s nothing here I can do. But if the plan goes sideways... even if it costs your life, you protect Yoon Siron. Don’t treat that naive kid like a chess piece you use up and toss.”

Baekgyeong turned to Isaac and stared straight into his eyes as he issued the warning. The mood inside the car iced over. Like beasts recognizing the other as an enemy, the two fixed each other with muted breaths. Competition and contempt, acknowledgment and jealousy, all tangled and burned cold in those pairs of eyes—and neither side yielded first.

“Excuse me. Can you please keep your eyes on the road? I’ll have you know I’m practically a human weapon—black belt in taekwondo and three months at action school—so I can take care of myself.”

At Siron’s irresponsible remark, Baekgyeong ground his teeth and shook his head.

The Elm Hotel was the only five-star hotel on the south end of Baggers City, equipped with a two-Michelin-star restaurant and other luxury amenities. On B1 were a fitness center, spa, and indoor pool; on the first floor, a marble-finished main lobby, a large convention center, and a VIP reception room were connected.

Half the guest rooms, starting from the fourth floor, faced the beach, giving a western view of a sea flushed red by sunset. The Elm’s ocean view had a reputation for being spectacular, but Isaac chose a comparatively quiet city view instead: Room 460 at the end of the fourth-floor corridor. It was the room closest to the emergency stairs and overlooked both the main entrance and the underground parking entrance at a glance.

Isaac walked Siron through the operation once more. Siron would wait in the bathroom, change into the waiter outfit Isaac had obtained, enter the banquet hall through the server station on the first floor, and approach Warden Malcolm. Then he’d head straight down to the B2 parking lot and link up with Baekgyeong, who would be on standby. Depending on the warden’s reaction, they would adjust the next step on Isaac’s instruction.

It was an extremely simple plan. Don’t get careless, but don’t tense up too much either. They put in earpieces for comms and moved to their positions.

In the last stall of the restroom, Siron held his breath and listened to the sounds outside. After about ten minutes, Isaac’s voice came through the earpiece.

— Secured.

Siron let out a quiet breath of relief. Cracking the door and confirming no one was outside, he whispered,

“I’m in the last stall.”

About the time the second hand had made two full circuits, someone knocked on the stall door. He eased it open and met eyes with a tall, ordinary-looking man carrying a duffel. Dressed like a day laborer going around looking for work—Isaac in disguise.

“Take this.”

Isaac handed over a paper bag with a takeaway coffee chain’s logo printed on it. Siron grabbed it quickly and grinned up at him through the crack, but Isaac didn’t smile. Studying Siron’s unfamiliar face with seriousness, he said,

“If anything unexpected happens...”

“Right. I’ll run without looking back.”

Siron nodded hard, bracing himself. He wanted to tell Isaac not to take any risks either, but someone came into the restroom and he hurried the door shut. Isaac left without hesitation as well.

A little more than ten minutes later, Siron, now in waiter garb, hurried in through the emergency exit and entered the server station. It was a whirlwind, with no chance to catch a breath. The kitchen sent out food without pause, but empty glasses and plates were returning from the banquet even faster. Without a moment to glance aside, the servers carried trays and carts laden with food and drink into the hall.

After going broke in Korea, Siron had done all kinds of jobs to make a living once he returned to the U.S. He’d been dispatched as hourly staff to many large hotel events, so blending into the site wasn’t hard.

“General admission coming in! Move fast, everyone!”

A manager with neatly tied hair cut through the prep room with a sharp voice. Following the stream of servers leaving the station, Siron pushed a cart loaded with champagne flutes into the banquet hall.

The hall was an entirely different world. Light flowing from the fixtures hanging under the high ceiling softened the room, and a small chamber ensemble played familiar classics. The general attendees, whose names had been added to the invitation list through advance reservations, seemed to be finishing their entry; the atmosphere brimmed with life.

Carrying a tray with two flutes in both hands, Siron swept his eyes around quickly. The seats near the stage seemed reserved for VIPs; everyone there was dressed formally and properly. On the central left wall by the stage stood a large panel with the charity’s name and the event’s purpose, and in front of it a photo zone had been set up.

Hands reached from all sides, and the champagne ran out fast. Siron refilled his tray and circled the hall looking for Warden Malcolm Knox. Even after general admission had ended and the performance begun—the mood ripening—he couldn’t find a shadow of him. Breathless from combing the hall, Siron ducked behind a pillar to catch a moment’s breath. Conscious of the manager’s daggered looks at anyone idling, he’d been hustling out champagne and food as well, and his energy was draining fast.

— Have you met the warden?

At Isaac’s voice in his ear, Siron grew anxious.

“I don’t see even a hair. Not in the VIP reception, not in the hall. Maybe he’s not coming?”

Baekgyeong cut in from the other end.

— No way. The press release said Warden Malcolm was attending.

The organizers’ press release included an attendees list: everyone from high-ranking Corrections officials like Malcolm Knox to politicians and figures in the arts. General attendees were essentially buying tickets to meet the prominent names and listen to a few blues numbers for a donation.

“I’ll wait until nine. If he still hasn’t shown by then, we’ll—”

“...Could you bring it by our table?”

Siron flinched at the voice behind him. Regaining himself, he turned and met eyes with a middle-aged man.

“...Pardon?”

Not catching it, he asked blankly. The pleasant-looking man smiled gently and pointed to Siron’s empty tray.

“You’re short on champagne. It would be nice if you could bring two bottles, in an ice bucket, to our table. Is that asking too much?”

Without thinking, Siron raked the familiar man with a swift glance from head to toe. His hair was neatly brushed back from his forehead, silver streaked with black; his eyes were a pale sky blue that would sting even under fluorescent lights. He wore well-kept, if aged, handmade shoes and a classic tailcoat whose sheen had dimmed, though it was crisply pressed without a single fine wrinkle.

He pointed toward the center table in the second row before the stage—the VIPs’ table. Siron needed a pretext to move around and watch the situation near the VIP seats, so he accepted the request at once.

“I’ll bring them right away—two bottles on ice in the bucket. Please wait just a moment.”

With a professional smile, Siron cut across the hall and slipped into the server station. After explaining and getting two bottles set into a bucket of ice, he stepped back out and tried to place where he’d seen the man. It came back easily. He’d seen him not long before he was abducted to the island.

When Siron had gone to “Adams Bike” to buy a used motorcycle for work, the man had been at a support group meeting behind the shop. And at the Homeless Support Center. He was a psychotherapist from the Baggers City group therapy program.

Mulling it over, Siron murmured, half unsure,

“Was it... People Who Hold Back Their Grief?”