Chapter 3

The Math

The envelope was on the desk.

I'd slept with it in my inside jacket pocket all night, then taken it out when I got to the office in the morning. Putting it in my bag felt like accepting it, I couldn't put it in the trash, so I just left it in the middle of the desk. A white envelope. The flap slightly open, Shin Saimdang half showing.

I sat in front of it and made a coffee mix. Cup one.

I should have given it back to Gap-dol yesterday. That was the right thing. If I had to list reasons I didn't, there were about three. One: if I refused there, Gap-dol would get wary of me. Two: if he got wary, I couldn't dig up information. Three was Kim's two periods.

One and two were excuses. Three was the real one. I knew that. And knowing it, I drank my coffee without putting the envelope away or going to return it.

At ten, the bride from 307 came in.

One day after Mrs. Park passed along her number. When the bell on the door rang, I reflexively grabbed the envelope and shoved it under a binder. Then I realized what I'd just done and my hand stopped for a second.

"Hello. Mrs. Park told me to come here. I'm Han Soyeong."

Shoes, hands, eyes.

Low-heeled gray flats. Worn only on the outer edge of the heel. Someone who walks a lot in a day. In her hands, one clear file folder. The papers inside were organized down to the index tabs. Her eyes weren't red. Instead, there were dark circles under them. The eyes of someone who'd cried all she was going to cry and had now started calculating what to do next.

"Have a seat. Can I get you a coffee?"

"No, I'm fine. May I get straight to it?"

Han Soyeong opened the clear file as soon as she sat down. Page one, a copy of the jeonse contract. Page two, a copy of the state-certified appraisal. Page three, the deposit transfer record. Page four, screenshots of her texts with the lessor. On page five, a handwritten timeline of events by date.

"...Do you do bookkeeping, by any chance?"

"Accounting, at a small logistics company. How did you know?"

"The index tabs."

Han Soyeong let out a small laugh. It seemed like her first of the day.

I turned through the contract. Sillim 4-11 Dungeon, underground type, listed grade C. Deposit 60 million won, two years. Lessor: Cha Gapdon. Same stock stamp. The appraiser's seal on the appraisal had the same name as on Cheolho's. Heo Wijeong.

"I heard you and your husband saved this together."

"We saved for three years while getting ready for the wedding. Taking a dungeon jeonse before a jeonse for our first home was my idea. My husband was against it. I insisted—that with a C-rank, we could sell the resources every month and still have money left after paying the interest, and in two years we'd get the deposit back and find a place."

Han Soyeong's expression didn't change as she said it. She said it like it was someone else's story. That made it easier to hear.

"So this is something I have to take responsibility for. That's why I came."

I told her exactly what I'd told Cheolho. I can't promise. People like this have probably already sunk the money somewhere else. Even if you win the lawsuit, if there's no money to collect, the judgment is just paper.

Han Soyeong nodded as she listened. She didn't interrupt once. When I was done, she asked.

"So what are you going to do?"

"...First, find where Gap-dol—I mean, Mr. Cha—has sunk his money. If any of the dungeons he owns is actually worth something, we can put a provisional seizure on it."

"Isn't that a lawyer's job?"

"A lawyer files the seizure. But even a lawyer doesn't know which dungeon is actually worth something. Everyone just looks at the appraisal, and there's no way to double-check whether it's wrong."

"And you know?"

Instead of answering, I drank my coffee. Cup two. Han Soyeong watched that silence for about two seconds, then closed her clear file.

"What's your fee?"

"If you get it back, ten percent. If you don't, zero."

"Ten percent of sixty million is six million."

"Yes."

"Make it seven percent."

I set down my coffee cup. Han Soyeong was looking at me without changing her expression one bit.

"I looked into a legal aid group for jeonse fraud victims. The realtors affiliated with them take a five to seven percent success fee. What can you do for me that they can't?"

I had an answer. The realtors at that group couldn't tell whether an appraisal was fake. I could. But I couldn't say that. If I told her I saw listing windows in front of my eyes, she'd take her clear file and walk out on the spot.

"...Eight percent."

"Seven."

"Missus—I mean, Soyeong. I'm behind on rent this month, too."

The moment I said it, I knew I'd slipped. Talking about my rent, in front of a client. Han Soyeong looked at me for a moment. Then, for the first time, she lowered her head a little.

"...Seven and a half. No higher. I have to explain it to my husband too."

"Seven and a half."

We shook hands. A handshake worth seven and a half percent of sixty million: 4.5 million won. Add Cheolho's eight million and it was 12.5 million.

My head did the math first again.

Before leaving, Han Soyeong stopped at the door.

"Have you met him, by any chance? Mr. Cha?"

I thought of the envelope under the binder.

"...Not yet. I've reached out, though."

The lie came out easier than I expected. I can't say I've never lied to a client in ten years of this. This listing will go fast. You won't see this price again. That stuff was the business's way of saying hello. But this wasn't a hello.

Han Soyeong nodded and left. The bell rang.

I lifted the binder and took out the envelope. I looked at it for a long time, then set it back in the middle of the desk without putting it anywhere.

At twenty-four, I'd stood in front of a sales office holding a clear file too. The pre-sale contract, the payment records, the loan papers. No index tabs. Back then, nobody took my file.

I folded that thought there. If I returned the envelope, Gap-dol would get wary of me, the information would dry up, and neither Cheolho nor Han Soyeong would get their money back. Then there'd be no 12.5 million either. It was the same math I'd done that morning in a different order, and Kim's two periods still sat at the very front of it.

I shoved the envelope back under the binder, grabbed the key, and left the office.

I skipped lunch. I opened 4-11 with the key Han Soyeong had left me. The very back of a villa's underground parking lot, where a bike rack used to be. Someone had marked a square around the hole in the floor with yellow tape, and inside it the cement was cracked like a spiderweb.

I crouched in front of the hole. The way I look at a commercial listing—with eyes that see location, structure, and defects.

【Listing】 Sillim 4-11 Dungeon (Underground type)
Listed grade: C │ Actual grade: F
Deposits: Slime gel (trace amount)
Defects: Grade appraisal forgery history ×1 / Same appraiser (Heo Wijeong)

Exactly what I expected. The expectation was right, and it still didn't feel great. What came out of a 60-million-won hole was a trace amount of slime gel. Mine it all month and it wouldn't come to one month of Han Soyeong's salary.

I looked at the yellow tape around the hole. Han Soyeong must have put it there. Probably the first day she came into this dungeon. My dungeon. From here to here. Someone who uses index tabs lays tape straight too. The corners were perfect right angles.

That made Gap-dol's listings three for three on F. Cheolho's 7-2, Bongcheon 2-8, and 4-11. The appraiser's name on all three was Heo Wijeong. One person stamped a C three times, and all three were F.

I took a photo of the inside of the yellow tape, then wrote a small 3 in ballpoint next to Heo Wijeong's seal on the copy of the appraisal.

At three in the afternoon, Landlord Kim came up in person.

It was the first time he'd come in person instead of texting. A man past sixty, a little out of breath from climbing to the second floor. Hiking vest, hiking boots. Every building owner in this neighborhood wears hiking clothes. Nobody knows why.

"Mr. Bong."

"Oh, sir. You didn't have to come up. Can I get you a coffee?"

"I'm fine."

Kim didn't sit down. He looked around the office once. The realtor's license on the wall, the worn sofa, the water dispenser with mineral stains—with the eyes of someone counting what he'd have to throw out to turn this office into a café.

"You know I'm not doing this because I dislike you."

"I know."

"My son says he wants to use this office. For a café. Kids these days open cafés, even knowing they'll go under."

"...Right."

"By Friday. Three point six. If not all of it, give me half. If it's not even half, then there's nothing I can do."

Kim said only that and went down the stairs. The sound of his hiking boots faded one step at a time.

According to the calendar, today was Tuesday. Three days to Friday, and half was 1.8 million.

On the desk was the envelope. Five hundred thousand.

1.8 million minus 500,000 was 1.3 million.

I tore open another coffee mix. Cup three. While I poured the water and stirred, my phone buzzed. A text. Not a single period, and two tildes.

Boss~ When are you sending clients?? Another listing's coming up near 4-11 this week~

☾