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“Someone inside the Baekho Pa. Someone like the Baekho-je himself.”

Her fingers touch her lips in shock. “You think your boss betrayed you?”

“I think,” I muse aloud, “he knew I never carried out the hit. And instead of confronting me, he hired the Bulgeomhoe to do it for him. It would kill two birds with one stone. I would kill the Bulgeomhoe and the Bulgeomhoe would retaliate against someone he views as a threat to his power. They burned my apartment to the ground. They tried to take you today. All at his behest.”

“Oh shit, Jin… what are you going to do?”

My answer doesn’t come right away. I stare at the road as it bends ahead, taking us through a financial district with bank buildings and investment firms. The golden light of dusk slants across the windshield and makes our dark eyes look brighter.

“I’m going to get a little even,” I answer finally.

We drive the rest of the way in silence. The golden hues transition into pastel pinks and purples as we reach the street the Claw Lounge is located on. I pull us through a side alley, then brake to a halt.

The lounge itself is across the street, a shell of its former glorious peak. The old wood and faded golden trim look dull pitted against more modern establishments on the block. At the front is the large emblem of the white tiger, peering down with a ferocious, predatory stare.

I twist off the car engine. “Remember, you do exactly as I say. No improvising or going rogue. Not tonight.”

Monroe’s pretty face lights up with a smirk. “Yes, Jin-tae.”

I roll my eyes, then lean over, sliding a pistol from the glove box. I check the magazine and tuck it into the waistband of my pants.

“C’mon,” I say. “Time for some trouble.”

The Claw Lounge is oddly quiet on the inside.

On a weekday evening, the lounge should be buzzing—cigar smoke hazing the air, laughter thickened by soju, lieutenants playing cards at the back tables, scantily dressed girls roaming the floor for our entertainment. All the usual fanfare you’d find in the Claw Lounge.

Instead, only a few scattered bodies are present. A pair of junior members lounge in tufted chairs near the far wall, sharing a murmured conversation over a bottle of soju. Another man slumps at the counter, swirling a half empty glass of whiskey, watching us with dull eyes. One of the servers, dressed in abackless emerald dress, pauses mid-stride with her tray to eye us as we pass.

“Stay with me,” I whisper under my breath. “They’re not used to seeing anyone not affiliated with the syndicate.”

Monroe drifts closer to my side, almost grabbing hold of my arm.

We step into the elevator at the back of the lounge. I jab the third-floor button and the doors roll closed with a mechanical lurch. We’re taken up two floors, where the doors snap apart and we enter a hall bathed in an amber-hued light. The carpet is deep red velvet, stained and worn from years of spilled liquor and blood. The Baekho’s gaudy gold trim that can be found in almost every corner of the lounge and lines the walls. So does the tiger emblem on the wallpaper.

I rap my knuckles on the door belonging to the Baekho-je.

Inside, a voice slurs, “Enter!”

At the nudge of my hand, the door creaks open for us.

As always, Kim Jae-hyun lounges like an emperor on his leather throne. A woman kneels on either side of him, one at each of his feet. Their hands knead over the ball and arch of his foot in tiny circles. Both wear miniskirts and painted-on smiles.

Yet another porn film plays on the big screen TV—an orgy of men and women groaning, panting as their sweaty bodies slip and slide together in pleasure.

Monroe stiffens uncomfortably beside me.

Jae-hyun grins, blowing out cigar smoke. In his other hand, he clutches some soju. He booms, “Ah, Jin-tae! And you’ve brought a guest! I think I recognize this one. Has she come back from the grave?”

“I’m not here for games,” I say coldly. Then I pin both girls at his feet with a chilling glare. “Both of you—OUT!”

The girls flinch at the volume of my voice, then scurry like mice, their heels clicking.

The grin drops from Jae-hyun’s face. He pauses the movie using a remote, then slams down his glass of soju. He rises from his chair, face flushed from heat and alcohol. The smell of soju seems to rise from his pores, he’s drank so much of it.

“How dare you?” he growls. “It is not your place to order my girls from the room! Or to barge into my office and act like you have rank to throw around. Have you forgotten who you are? Have you forgotten who I am? Do you need a reminder of your place?”

His bleary eyes flick to Monroe.