One night, Dae-seong tracked Mr. Choi to a karaoke bar in a rundown district. He didn’t go as Yoon-jae. He went as the Crow. He walked in, sat down opposite the burly loan shark, and placed a single item on the table: a small, rusty pocketknife.

Then, blinding light.

Seok froze. How could this loser know that?

But in the chaos, Min-ho pulled a knife. He lunged.

So-ri leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’d like that.”

“I said,” Dae-seong stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper only Seok could hear, “that your father’s secretary, the one with the mole on her neck, she’s been skimming from the Incheon site for three years. I’d worry about that, not my shoelaces.”