HYDP C11

Chapter 11

Sanhong wrapped a well-cooked piece of meat in lettuce and pushed it straight into his mouth. With every chew, the juices burst, and for the first time in a while, his appetite stirred, putting him in a good mood.

“Personally, I think it turned out well. That bastard borrowed money from me and never paid it back.”

“Why’d you lend money to a bastard like that?”

“He said his mother was sick, so I lent it to him on the spot! Then I happened to hear his mother died years ago.”

“Stepped in shit. Screw him.”

The men each claimed to have their own tales of lending money, everyone tossing in their story. Quietly listening, he slid the pile of meat from his side plate into his mouth. Then one of them changed the subject.

“Anyway, they say that bastard’s coming back?”

“Who? You call so many people ‘that bastard’ I can’t tell who you mean.”

“Seo Kang-jo.”

At the name “Seo Kang-jo,” everyone turned to look at him.

Just then, he shoved a well-cooked cheese rice cake into his mouth. It was so hot his hands trembled. Noticing all eyes on him, he cocked his head and gave a small shrug.

To their eyes, he looked pitiable. A sturdy young man living hard day by day and pretty to boot—he collected the town’s trash like a magnet. Before long, they were planning his future.

“Hey, Sanhong. You seeing any Alphas?”

“Me? Out of nowhere?”

“At your age, that’s prime time, isn’t it?”

“Come on. Aren’t ‘age attacks’ and ‘when are you getting married’ banned?”

With a faint smile, he chewed on enoki mushrooms offered by the man beside him.

“I’ll just keep the pawnshop and live my life. Pawnshops are fun.”

“How is that fun?”

“Mm, it’s most fun when drawing up pawn-loan contracts.”

“Do you charge interest?”

“No. I don’t.”

A legal pawnshop should charge interest under the lending laws, but his was an illegal operation—he could name any rate he liked. Simply put, he ran things however he pleased.

“A philanthropist? You lend money and don’t collect… You’ve no intention of recovering it, do you?”

“No. I do, sometimes. Not often….”

Letting his words trail, he kept eating.

“Anyway, when that bastard Seo Kang-jo shows, the neighborhood’ll get loud again. As if it isn’t already crawling with punks….”

He didn’t react much. He just laid a piece of meat on lettuce and quietly made another wrap.

“Hey, if anything happens… just tell us, okay? We’ll handle it quietly.”

“Sorry?”

“I mean… just saying. Whatever happens, don’t bottle it up alone.”

Deliberately avoiding eye contact, they fidgeted with water cups or piled scallions on the grill, feigning distraction.

Each seemed to have something to say, but they were careful, afraid that saying it out loud might hurt him.

“Sanhong.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t… really… don’t go anywhere. Without you, this neighborhood gets colder.”

Expressionless, he downed a shot of soju and nodded.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be here.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

Cheered by his answer, they raised a final toast. Just as the meal was wrapping up nicely, the man who’d met him today for the first time fixed on a certain section of the street.

“What’s that?”

“Oh. If you’ve got money, go try your luck. Gambling den.”

“Gambling den? All of that?”

“We call it the ‘Gambling Street.’”

Seeing him stare fixedly at the alley, they showed unusual generosity.

“We’ll let you have a look. Come on!”

He was roped in. It wasn’t enough to get dragged to a barbecue joint on the way home; now he was being hauled to a gambling den. Left alone at the pawnshop he got bored anyway, and he was low-key craving some stimulation, so there was no reason to refuse. Casually tagging along, he couldn’t hide the faint anticipation inside.

Before he knew it, his steps were headed to Gambling Street, not the pawnshop.

He passed a narrow, trash-strewn dark alley and stepped into a gambling house under a yellowed sign. The sign read “Majaktu.”

As soon as the door opened, a sour mix of cigarette smoke and mold hit his nose. In the humid air, the rattle of a battered HVAC unit grated on the ears.

In one cramped corner, a handful of men sat at a table running a small-stakes poker game with bills pulled from their pockets. Most of it was half-baked, with no flashy technique.

Cigarette butts carpeted the yellowed floor; the clock on the wall had been dead forever, but no one fixed it, so the people here lived at 11 p.m. eternally.

It soured his mood.

A stew of metallic tang, sweat, and oil mingled with the buzz of alcohol, and voices layered until small commotion broadened into big commotion.

In one corner, men were fighting.

With a rough scuffle, a table flipped and coins scattered everywhere. Curses flew, and it was getting more violent by the moment.

Right in front of them a beating was underway, but the people around were strangely indifferent. With fatigue on their faces, they treated a fight like nothing; no one stepped in.

Here, this happened daily, and if it went a tad too far, the house guards stepped in, so there was no need to meddle. All that mattered was winning money.

This was a gambling den where money was everything.

He was used to this kind of atmosphere. Unbothered, he blended in, took a seat, and watched.

With the entire place a smoking zone, stale smoke wrapped his body. With all sorts of nobodies gathered, the cigarette brands were diverse.

Strong smokes dominated, yet he didn’t cough once—he just sat calmly, smiling, watching them.

Occasionally a whiff of marijuana drifted by, but he wanted no part of it. And though he felt the eyes around him, he never met them first.

“Your toes must be cold.”

“I’m fine.”

One of the men he’d come with worried over his slippers. Smiling, he said he was fine and split off.

He found the ambience quietly pleasing. It was interesting to think there were all kinds of people, to watch them fight over some topic and then return to gambling—it was worth a look. But staking money and joining in? Absolutely not.

“Hey, you want in?”

“Yeah, we’ll seat you. Come here.”

The butcher and his friend, with whom he exchanged nods in passing, coaxed him. He only shook his head politely and declined.

The butcher asked if he stank like rotten fat; he kept shaking his head. Then the house gofer, “San-tt,” met his eyes.

He was from Thailand, and every time their paths crossed he showed him some inexplicable hostility; he always wondered why. The guy seemed to dislike him.

“Drink.”

San-tt handed him a tray with a drink. Silently, he took the glass and stared at its contents. Bubbles rising from the bottom suggested it was likely dosed.

Only a hunch, but not something to let slide.

“San-tt, did you drug this?”

He asked point-blank. San-tt’s eyes went wide; in fluent Korean he demanded to know if he was accusing him. The ruckus drew eyes from tables mid-game.

“Yes. I’m accusing you.”

“Are you crazy? Why are you slandering me?”

“Then drink it first. I don’t trust it.”

“…Fuck.”

When he kept pressing, San-tt snatched the cup from his hand and dumped it on the floor. The emptied cup went back on the tray.

“Yeah. I drugged it. What are you going to do.”

“……”

“Was hoping you’d drink it and die.”

Then he stalked off, cursing openly. He couldn’t help but laugh. Why the hatred—he had no idea; maybe it was because they were both Omegas.

He was the only Omega here originally; when he showed up and drew attention, maybe jealousy flared. San-tt sometimes slept with gamblers who came through.

He also rolled with townsfolk, but only during his heat cycle. He took it as a childish tantrum from someone younger.

With no one speaking first, a man tipsy on liquor broke the silence.

“That little shit… good in bed, maybe, but what he does….”

Told to hush by those nearby, he only got more riled, and soon others chimed in.

“Hey, why hush. You all saw it. That punk tried to hand him a spiked drink.”

He also found it laughable—the men who watched a drugged drink being handed to him and pretended not to notice.

Footnotes:

1. “Majaktu” sign: A stylized name suggesting a mahjong/poker dive; “-tu” evokes gambling dens in Korean slang.