Chapter 23

Often, Kangho Yang thought he had rarely been a detective. Well, not in the truest sense of the word. He had the rank, but did he really have the experience? His most intensive investigations had involved tracing which pimps controlled the brothels he was assigned to shut down.

Even then, it hardly mattered whether he found them. The crackdowns came and went with the seasons, usually when an international conference rolled into town. During the G20 last year, the business districts had been scrubbed clean overnight. Seoul presenting its wholesome face to the world.

Yang had never understood the performance. Foreign businessmen wanted the same things as local ones. The trade didn’t disappear—it just paused, quietly, until the spotlight moved on.

He never questioned it. People who asked questions didn’t move up.

He turned to the scene in front of him.

Why had he asked for this case? Why had he thought this would be his moment?

Tracking down pimps was easy. Ask the right girl the right question, slip her the right incentive and the names followed.

This was something else.

A hole in a conglomerate headquarters. Forty-eight photographs cut clean from their high-class Apgujeong frames. And now this.

He had been the first to connect the first two crimes. That had felt like an advantage. Standing here, it didn’t feel like one anymore. Seeing the pattern was one thing. Knowing what to do with it was another. The scene in front of him offered no answers. Only more confusion.

Yang pushed air through his lips until they buzzed, a small, private expression of disbelief.

Another hole. Actually, holes.

This time he was staring at three of them.

Not stone. Not canvas. But MDF.

And not a plastic bubble or a gallery, but a VIP booth in Eluui, one of Seoul’s premier nightclubs.

The three holes aligned almost perfectly. From booth four, he could see straight through to the identical couch in booth one.

Until a few hours ago, the booths had been sealed off from each other. Each contained the same black leather horseshoe sofa wrapped around a chrome table bolted to a black marble floor.

Now sawdust covered everything.

Leather. Metal. Marble.

A fine yellow layer, like icing sugar on a black cake.

The scene felt rushed. Messier than the others. He sensed the man had worked faster here.

The booth he stood in had been less disturbed.

“Clearly, he started at this end and moved through,” said the club manager.

Yang glanced at him. Young. Immaculate. Blow-dried hair, fitted suit. The kind of man who sold the illusion of exclusivity. Two steps removed from the pimps Yang was used to dealing with.

“Leave the police work to us.”

“Right. It’s just—”

“No one heard anything?”

“I should hope not. These rooms are fully soundproofed. Customers pay for privacy.”

Yang looked up. The ceiling was lined with black acoustic foam, jagged like stalactites.

“And he booked all four rooms?”

“He paid for all four. Cash.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall. Well-built. Not fat. That’s about it.”

“Why not?”

“He was wearing a mask.”

“A mask?”

“It was Halloween. Everyone was.”

“What kind of mask?”

“Frankenstein’s monster.”

“What else?”

“Black suit. White shirt. Black tie. You can see him on the CCTV.”

Yang turned slightly.

“Get the footage to Woosung.”

“It’s all recorded on our laptops.”

Yang paused. “Then give Lieutenant Jeong the laptops. There are no cameras inside the rooms?”

“People pay for privacy.”

“Is it normal to give all four booths to one man?”

“No. Usually guys take one room. Thirty minutes. Maybe an hour.”

He gestured toward the booths.

“They bring a girl in, order drinks, maybe fruit. We knock after an hour. The shutters stay down. No one sees inside.”

Yang said nothing.

“They want to show they can spend,” the manager continued. “Most still live with their parents. Girls don’t want motels. This is… safer.”

“But someone paying cash for all four rooms all night didn’t concern you?”

“Concern me how? That he’d saw through the walls?”

Yang looked at him.

“What time did he arrive?”

“Ten. Early. We don’t get busy until midnight.”

“And all the rooms were free?”

“There were inquiries. But he paid cash. For the whole night.”

“And you didn’t ask to see his face?”

“No. Like I said—everyone was in costume.”

“Did Frankenstein pay for all of this?”

"Actually, like I said, the mask was Frankenstein's monster, in the book…"

Yang intensified his stare. The club manager stopped talking. Yang motioned to the four tables. Each was laid out identically: an unopened bottle of gin, two shot glasses, two beakers, an ice bucket with tongs, three bottles of tonic, and a platter of fruit.

In three of the booths, the beakers were filled with sawdust. The fruit was untouched—but now inedible beneath a fine yellow coating.

“Yes,” said the manager. “He paid for everything. In tens. Pulled them from a money clip. Dolce & Gabbana. Black. Very classy. Most people wouldn’t notice, but I’ve seen that one—”

“You can’t tell me anything about his face,” Yang cut in, “but you can describe his wallet?”

“It wasn’t a wallet. It was a clip.”

“When did he leave?”

“Just after 2 a.m. Came out of booth four.”

“He only came out once?”

“Yeah. I checked the cameras.”

“We’ll need all your footage. Every camera. Inside and out.”

The manager hesitated, then leaned in slightly.

“Is this the same guy from the gallery? Because that would be… something. If he was here. Good publicity, actually. Might help offset the cost of fixing—”

Yang exhaled sharply. “There’s nothing more you can tell me about our Frankenstein?”

“But there’s a connection, right?” the manager pressed. “Holes in the photos, holes in our walls. No one hurt, nothing taken. It’s the same guy. I spoke to a journalist friend—she thinks so too. Said it could be some kind of sta—”

“Journalist?”

Yang’s finger jabbed into the boy’s shoulder before the detective could stop it.

“Yeah. Old school friend. She wrote about the gallery. Hankyoreh.”

“Don’t talk to her. Do you understand?” Yang said. “Every word you give her makes my job harder. You want this place open again? Then stop speculating and start being useful.”

Yang let the silence hang.

“You’ll be closed for at least three nights while my team goes through this place. Keep talking to your journalist friends, and that becomes four. Maybe five.”

The manager’s confidence slipped for the first time. Yang turned away.

“One thing…” he said. “He spoke a little strangely.”

“Strangely? An accent?”

“Yes, an accent, like he wasn't Korean. His Korean was really good. I understood everything. It just… didn’t sound natural. Like it wasn’t his first language.”