CA | Chapter 1.1

At 4 a.m., folks who treated the sea like a god scrambled up like hungry beasts to snatch the food it spit out. The pitch-black ocean looked ready to gulp down the boats, its waves curling like a monster’s tongue.

They crashed high enough to block out the horizon. Among the crowd waiting for the boats, Kwak Sang stuck out like a sore thumb.

It wasn’t just his giant frame—easily clearing 190 centimeters—or his rough, chiseled looks. His rolled-up sleeves showed off forearms so thick with veins they could’ve been tree roots.

The tacky, bright red apron he had on did nothing to hide his massive, solid chest.

Spring showed up late by the coast, but Kwak Sang was out there in just a thin tee and that apron, his pecs looking so juicy you’d swear they were begging to be bit.

Every time he hunched those broad shoulders, it was like the sky itself squeezed tight and then stretched back out. His eyes, with their big whites, and his coarse, jet-black hair were dark as the deep sea.

Like the ocean itself. Just like everyone else here, it was proof Kwak Sang was born and raised in this place.

“Sang’s here, huh.”

Crazy thing was, the locals loved this guy. Even old folks with backs so bent they barely reached his waist got all giddy, chattering about Sang showing up.

Kwak Sang didn’t even glance at them, his eyes locked on the boat coming in from the distance. A faint, misty light flickered. He twitched his salt-crusted nose.

Once the boat docked, everyone got to work. They scooped up the caught fish with nets, tossed them into basins, and loaded them onto carts.

Ripped from the calm embrace of the ocean, the fish flopped around in the grip of another species, their eyes wide with terror. But nobody gave a damn. They were too busy chasing down any fish that slipped loose.

The auction was about to start. Kwak Sang quietly helped the captains haul the fish. No matter how big the catch, in his hands, it looked like a toy. His scarred hands, nicked up from countless knife cuts, made his already rough grip look even wilder.

“Grab this, Sang.”

Kwak Sang did as he was told, moving stuff around.

Every time he hoisted a crate, red veins popped out along his neck, making his sun-baked skin look even more tempting in the dawn light. You could almost press a finger to those pulsing lines and feel them throb.

His thick thighs, packed with hard muscle, showed under his big hips. Each step in his boots sent water splashing across the ground. For a second, the water held the shape of his soles before spilling back, sliding across the floor.

It was like the people here—leaving a small mark, only to get washed away by the waves. Like the hazy fog of dawn.

While moving fish, the auction kicked off.

The auctioneer, cap pulled low, brought the mic to his mouth and called out bids with the fish lined up in front. Merchants stood in rows, arms crossed, then raised both hands to flash signals.

The auctioneer’s sharp eyes caught every move, jacking up the bids like it was nothing. A folded middle and ring finger, a clenched fist, an extended index.

Deals closed right there. Trucks from up north lined up to haul the catch.

Kwak Sang stood in the middle of it all, his eyes darting around, scanning the crowd. That bright red apron made him blend right into the hectic scene.

Old ladies waiting for the auction to wrap up rolled up their pant legs, eyeing the fish with antsy looks. The fish thrashed in water-filled basins, flailing like they’d been speared, clueless about what was coming.

“Sang not bidding today?”

“You ever seen Sang at an auction?”

“My memory’s shot. Am I getting dementia already?”

“Oh, quit your nonsense… you’re still sharp as ever.”

The fishy stink was thick. Kwak Sang caught a whiff of something else, like a drifter swimming under the surface.

He tilted his head, water dripping from his jaw. He flexed his fingers, the joints bending red against his tanned skin. Didn’t care that his hands felt like they might freeze.

As the auction wound down, Kwak Sang got back to moving fish. These were the ones headed far from the sea. No point getting attached.

Still, he quietly wished they’d come back as something else in their next life. Go well, you who leave your home. His shoulders felt heavy.

“Thanks, Sang.”

Even without a peep from Kwak Sang, the locals looked at him like he was their grown-up kid, their eyes all warm and gooey. Only outsiders got confused.

What was a guy with such a mean mug and huge build doing here? But when their curious stares met Kwak Sang’s, they’d look down quick, scared he might swing.

“Catch any fish yesterday, Sang?”

After the auction, the auctioneer strolled up and asked. Kwak Sang nodded.

The auctioneer, tugging his cap lower, cracked a pleased grin. His sunken eyes and twitching lips, framed by a wrinkled forehead, showed he’d seen some years.

Even in front of this giant, he chuckled, pulling a stack of 50,000-won bills from his pocket and counting them out.

One, two…

“Here ya go.”

Kwak Sang gave another nod, took the twenty 50,000-won bills, and stuffed them in his apron pocket. That was it.

The auctioneer gave his shoulder a light pat and walked off. Kwak Sang stood there, staring at the pooled water on the ground, then split.

He slipped into an alley. Among the aunties just setting up their market stalls, he stood out like a sore thumb. But nobody treated Kwak Sang like an outsider.

He paused for a sec by a flickering bonfire, then headed deeper into the shadows. The lively chatter faded into quiet.

A beat-up container, barely held together by slapped-on planks, came into view. Somewhere nearby, a puddle of carelessly spilled piss sat stagnant.

Kwak Sang pushed deeper into the secluded spot and opened a creaky old door. It looked smaller than his massive frame.

Inside, the place was covered in plastic—sink, fridge, icebox, table, floor, everything. Clearly, it was to keep something from splattering.

With slow moves, Kwak Sang peeled off his clothes. His thick, almost dry-looking skin showed more, his dark brown nipples stiffening in the cold air.

Ignoring his dangling bits, he threw the apron back on over his bare body. His clothes were neatly folded and set on the table.

He grabbed a knife from the rack—one with a rounded top and straight bottom. A deba knife. He ran his fingers along its edge.

One touch, and it’d slice his skin, blood dripping fast. His index finger already had a straight scar from past run-ins.

With a slight head tilt, he stepped toward the bathroom.

Then he stopped dead.

A sound. Water running, mixed with someone breathing.

Kwak Sang sensed it. His muscles tensed like a panther eyeing prey. His chest heaved with a deep breath.

There were two people in the bathroom, but only one was alive—that was the problem.

His grip tightened on the knife.

“Come out.”

His low, heavy voice rumbled. No answer. His eyes sharpened. Slowly, he reached out. The bathroom door creaked open.

First thing he saw was the dead guy’s face. Already old and rough, it was drained of blood, frozen blue.

Dry lips and wide, shocked eyes like a dead fish. A big hole gaped in the neck, drained dry, the body stretched out below. Water kept pouring from a hose jammed in.

The corpse was so stiff from rigor mortis it looked shriveled and twisted.

Then he saw something else—shiny, spotless white brand-name sneakers.

A guy was sitting on an overturned basin. Black slacks, formal jacket, but perched on a tacky floral basin, chewing an unlit cigarette.

Slick, with thick double eyelids, he clearly wasn’t from around here. His greased-back hair and narrow brown eyes rolled to meet Kwak Sang’s stare.

They locked eyes for a long while, sizing each other up. If one was a panther, the other was a snake.

The pretty-boy didn’t even flinch in front of Kwak Sang. Anyone else would’ve been screaming for mercy at the sight of him with a knife.

“You?”

In the silence, the guy in the white sneakers spoke first, tossing out a question with no clear subject.

When Kwak Sang stayed quiet, he flashed a grin, showing off teeth so white they clashed with the moldy green ceiling.

“Did you kill him?”

The guy, perched on the basin, gave the corpse a casual kick, his voice all calm and easy.

Kwak Sang nodded.

The guy let out a dry chuckle, spitting his cigarette onto the floor and pointing at the body. His eyes glinted sharp enough to make your head spin.

“You know how much this bastard owed?”

“…”

“One-point-eight billion, you son of a bitch.”

“…”

“What, got your mouth glued shut? Say something, asshole.”

Kwak Sang slowly opened his lips, which had been clamped shut like a clam.

“Wanna die?”

“What?”

His beastly eyes flashed.

“Why the hell are you poking into my business?”

“Killing people’s your job, huh?”

Kwak Sang didn’t deny it. The guy let out a hollow laugh.

“What kinda psycho bastard…”

“Move.”

“Nah, fuck that. Hey.”

The guy stood up from the basin, and their height difference became glaringly obvious. His head barely reached Kwak Sang’s nose, but damn, it was round and kinda pretty. Kwak Sang caught himself thinking that. The guy leaned in close, face inches away.

“You pay it.”

“What…?”

“The debt of the guy you killed. You pay it.”

Kwak Sang twitched his fingers slowly. The joints cracked, one by one.

Even then, the guy’s gaze didn’t waver. His slick eyes scanned Kwak Sang’s body—bare except for the apron—from toes to head, like a snake sizing up prey.

From the long, ugly big toe sticking out, to the muscled calves, the thighs the apron couldn’t fully cover, the glimpse of his ass, the chest that looked like it was begging to be grabbed even through the fabric, the jutting collarbones, the sharp jawline, and thick brows framing a ruggedly handsome face.

Long lashes, pitch-black eyes.

The slick guy seemed to like what he saw, shoving his hands in his pockets as he spoke.

“Dead guy’s done for, so you, the killer, gotta pay up. I’ll let this slide.”

He jerked his eyes toward the corpse. Kwak Sang let out a scoff at the ridiculousness. A guy like him, all stoic, laughing like that was rare. The other guy didn’t know, but that low, gravelly voice scraped out like it was hooked.

“Spouting some damn nonsense…”

And then he swung, hard.

Kwak Sang’s massive, pan-sized hand was plenty to slap the guy across the face.

A loud smack rang out, and the guy staggered. It was such a hard hit, the guy’s ears rang with a high-pitched whine. Honestly, it was a miracle he didn’t go down—Kwak Sang’s strength could lift grown men like they were nothing.

But then shit got weird.

The guy, wobbling and struggling to stay upright, suddenly snapped. He drove a fist into Kwak Sang’s solar plexus. The force from this skinny, pretty-boy type was so insane Kwak Sang’s eyes went wide. His back bent on instinct.

The guy, one ear and cheek red from the slap, knocked the knife from Kwak Sang’s hand, grabbed his reaching arm, and twisted it. A heavy groan tore out.

The two men tangled, Kwak Sang’s bare skin rubbing against the guy’s smooth suit.

For Kwak Sang, who nobody around here could match in strength, to go down so helplessly was a rare sight. Even he was thrown, feeling the shock himself.

With a loud bang, Kwak Sang’s body crumpled, his head slamming into the floor.

The guy was on him in a flash, straddling him. His thighs pressed tight against Kwak Sang’s rock-hard chest, staring down with a predator’s eyes.

Then, out of nowhere, he spit out, “Gu Pyunghwa. Call me Pyunghwa.”

Gu Pyunghwa threw that out, then clenched a fist and cracked Kwak Sang across the cheek.

Strength-wise, Kwak Sang should’ve had the upper hand, but no matter how hard he thrashed, he couldn’t break free.

Some tricky-ass technique—Gu Pyunghwa’s way of pinning him was no joke. Kwak Sang had no choice but to take the violence.

He bit his tongue, blood bursting in his mouth. Breathing was like drowning, desperate gasps for air. And those vicious eyes glaring down at him.

“We’re gonna be seeing each other for a while, yeah?”

But Kwak Sang didn’t stop fighting.

Gu Pyunghwa gave him a look—half-amused, half-impressed—and grabbed his throat with one hand. No way that thick neck could fit in one grip, but it was enough to press the carotid.

Kwak Sang’s vision blurred, and he spat curses, snarling.

Gu Pyunghwa just giggled.

Gu Pyunghwa had a real sadistic streak. Didn’t matter how twisted it was—he was chill with his own vibe, so he threw around violence like it was nothing.

Especially now.

Look at this guy, wriggling like a pinned bug. Kinda pathetic, but Gu Pyunghwa felt himself getting hot.

And who could blame him? That thick chest, barely fitting in a hand, tanned dark but with lips so red they puckered like a fish, begging to be messed with.