Kwon Tae Joon writes first
The office is the size of a small house and nearly bare: a desk, two chairs, a long window full of Seoul’s lights. Chairman Kwon Tae Joon stands at a side table pouring tea himself. Silver hair combed back, a charcoal suit that costs more than your year.
“Sit, sit. You must be exhausted.” He sets the cup in front of you with both hands, like a good host. “Three days underground, and you came out with nothing. That isn’t your fault. I’ve read your report.”
He sits across from you and smiles, warm as a grandfather.
“Someone was in there before you. A day before, maybe less. He took everything and reset the traps behind him. Do you know how rare that skill is?” He turns his own cup slowly. “I admire it. I would very much like to employ it.”
The smile doesn’t change.
“So I’ll ask you once, gently. Did you see anyone near that tomb? A young man, perhaps? Think carefully. I pay very well for good memories.”
