Chapter 1 — Passing Around

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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"This—what the hell is this, babe? Did you dump bleach in here? I can't live with this!"

"Yeah, why?"

"Why?! The water's completely drained out!"

When you spend enough time in a laundromat, you see all kinds of clueless newlyweds doing idiotic things.

They buy clothes that don't need dry-cleaning—fine, smart move—but then end up ruining them at the laundromat anyway, turning perfectly good fabric into something utterly ridiculous.

Though, to be fair, most aren't actually newlyweds.

They're couples in contract marriages or whatever trendy, unheard-of arrangements kids these days come up with—pretending to be emotionally enlightened while clinging together out of sheer convenience.

"We're always free to split at any moment—our hearts can go their separate ways anytime," they proudly declare, heads held high.

"This one's yours, then. Perfect for rags. Ugh. All those years of hand-washing clothes, and this is what you end up doing?"

Most of the clothes people abandon in laundromats—worn-out, ruined, not even worth tossing out themselves—are left behind by women.

And honestly, compared to struggling with a cramped apartment, limited budget, and a landlord breathing down your neck every time you run the washing machine, using a laundromat is kind of a smart move.

Which is how I ended up with a mountain of these absurdly stained garments.

On slow days, I wear them head to toe and strut outside, basking in the whispers of passing women.

"Hey, look at that guy's outfit. Did you see that collar? How is it so perfectly faded? Must be designer."

Designer, sure—but a one-of-a-kind collar, with a pastel tone so uniquely bleached, no factory could replicate it.

People's taste has been getting weirder for a while now.

Ripping up perfectly good jeans? Suddenly it's "sexy," "edgy." Bare midriffs because "so-and-so" wore it.
These days, fashion drags the human body into the strangest corners—taste so warped, it's impossible to understand.

The clothes I pick up as trash are usually half-bleached—wearing them would instantly get you labeled as someone who ruined their clothes with bleach.

But I've got a secret.

Since the fabric's already ruined, I channel my artistic passion—fill a spray bottle with bleach, hang the clothes, and mist them like a luxury fabric finish, rotating them like a tailor's dummy.

But that's not the real trick.

The hidden secret? A second spray bottle—filled with plain water. I soak the surrounding area thoroughly.

That way, the bleach's whitening effect spreads slowly, pulled by the moisture, like watercolor bleeding across rice paper—
soft gradients forming, flowing in a single direction.

Still, the final step depends on two variables.

Depending on the fabric's original color and depth, I adjust the drying process.

Light tones? Dry them completely.
Dark tones? Leave them slightly damp before the final wash cycle.

This technique came from trial and error.

If you leave light-colored fabric damp during the wash, the fading loses all aesthetic subtlety—ruined, plain and simple.

But if you over-dry dark fabric after bleaching, then wash it, white blotches appear like bruises—useless, a total mess.

After countless experiments, I've created over ten perfect dress shirts.

And pants? Seven tight-fitting pairs I wear to nightclubs, where the lighting makes them glow.
More than eight pairs of jeans—each one a masterpiece.

People talk about acid-washed jeans, stone-washed jeans—thinking fading is just about removing color, preserving the original pattern.

But no one's seen my half-tone jeans—colors subtly blended in ways only I know.
I stand out. I get noticed.

When fading a shirt, I predict the color harmony, then wash it together with a bleached pair of jeans.
The result? A mysterious new tint seeps into the denim—perfection. A true designer piece.

Oh my god.

Every time, I can't help but whisper:

"Lord… did I really make this?"

---

"Welcome. Would you like a seat by the window?"

The café is quiet at midday.

After handing over the 24-hour laundromat to the next shift, I instinctively come here every morning—whether I have plans or not.

No one's around.

Then the door opens.

A woman walks in—just past thirty, maybe. Sunglasses. Elegant three-quarter-length pants that hug the curves of her lower body.
A worn cotton T-shirt on top. For a divorcée, she's damn tempting.

She stops in front of me.

A brief, tense silence.

I speak first.

"Doraji…"

Before I can finish, she quickly slides into the seat across from me.

"You're Doraji? You look way younger than I expected. I thought you'd be some old bastard—I was ready to walk if you were."

"No, that's not—Doraji."

"I know, I know. You're the Doraji who messaged me yesterday, right? My ID's Ahwa. You know me, don't you? My eyes don't lie."

Inside, I'm thinking: No, that's not it. My code name for this meet is Dorajin.
But what are the odds? If she's the contact, then where's Haengwha—the other operative?

I did arrive a bit early, but only to gulp down a bitter cup of coffee.

"Come on, let's go. Why stay here? The world's busy. My friends are waiting."

Friends? What friends?

If this meet goes sideways, Central Command will reprimand me.
Worse—if they think the safehouse is compromised, they'll issue a purge order.
What now?

What now? Follow her to Gangnam.

Like some low-level grunt, I trudge after her.

"You're such a smooth talker. I've seen you in the chat a few times, but your manners—my friends are completely smitten."

"Ah… yeah."

Then, from far away, a balding old man walks in.

As we stand and brush past him, a thought flashes: That guy… could he be Haengwha?

Another man enters behind us, asking for the restroom. He spins around sharply and mutters, "Haengwha!"

The bastard, acting like some dog desperate to find a toilet, yells "Haengwha!" at the old man.

The old man snaps back, "What the hell's wrong with you? Annoying me first thing in the morning, some random flower peddler tagging along. Ugh, damn diarrhea. Life's hard enough. If even this kind of business needs pimps now, we're doomed."

A chill runs down my spine as I step out of the café.

---

Back in the day, crossing the border or infiltrating like the old spies—those reckless fools—was rare unless it was a special mission.

No more rowing like idiots to the coast.
Now we take submarines, surface near shore, snorkel in like tourists.

And if we're lucky, land at a beach packed with people under the bright midday sun—
what we call "slip-in infiltration"—the new trend.

But even that's risky. The defense turns infiltrators into fish food too often.
So Central Command proposed a new method.

First, blend in with North Korean defectors fleeing to China.

We know the risks—if caught by Chinese police, we're shipped straight back.
So instead, we move to local cells in Yanbian, receive forged documents and funds,
then enter South Korea legally—as Yanbian Koreans—flying in on airplanes.

Back then, agents struggled to master Southern dialects and habits—said their tongues cramped from practice.

But now? With that comedian—whatever his name—sparking a "Yanbian bachelor" craze,
any odd accent just gets laughed off.
People don't care. The world's gotten easier.

And so, riding the push to fix generational imbalance,
infiltrators are getting younger.
Sometimes kids like me—already seasoned—
screw up meets, skip protocols, and make cell leaders turn pale with rage.

No wonder watching certain movies didn't feel like fiction.

Today? I've tossed protocol into the sewer.
I'm chasing her straight to Gangnam.

---

"Hey Doraji, let's skip names and ages. We'll use IDs only, okay?"

The thought of wasting the day on this damn code name makes me grimace—but what can I do?

What am I supposed to say?

"See that Western-style house over there? That's my friend's place. We're here. Honestly, you didn't even try to hold my hand on the way. I guess I should respect that—you're a gentleman."

My mouth waters.

Walking inside, my tongue feels so dry I think it'll roll down my throat.

What the hell? Two women, dressed in elegant evening robes—waiting for me.

"Well? What do you think of my friends? Girls, I brought him. This is Doraji. Say hi. It's just the three of us—is that okay? You said five was fine, right?

One's passed out drunk in the back room. Honestly, we've all been divorced for a while—but she just got out, so don't mind her."

Just as expected—no real introductions. Just IDs exchanged.

Their delicate hands examine my shirt and jeans, each commenting.

"Look at this—built like a model. Move aside, Kwon Sang-woo."

"Check these arms. Terminator's got nothing on him."

"Look at these thighs. If he wraps them around my waist—ah, just thinking about it…"

No wonder. My physique—honed from mountain-hopping at night, no lights, scaling three or four peaks in special mountain training—
was exactly what South Koreans called a "body god."

I glance down at my clothes—how much I've changed since coming to the South.

"Doraji… can I get to know you better?"

"Go ahead, no problem!"

Another weapon I've learned in the South? English.

Drop random English words mid-conversation, and South Koreans think you're cool.

And these women? They think my Yanbian accent is sexy—they're engaged just from my humor.

All three stare, mouths gaping, at my confident stance—standing tall, like a monument.

"Just gonna stand there and stare?"

Ahwa—the woman who brought me—steps forward with purpose.

Jasmine—her ID—rushes to the sofa, climbs onto my lap, and shoves her tongue into my mouth.

Haebanghwa—Sunflower—bends down, gently circles my nipples with her tongue, teasing.

With my free hands, I embrace the soft curves beside me, caressing tenderly.

Like this, the three women surround me—each sharing intimate moments, passionate and unrestrained.

No fighting. No jealousy. Just taking turns, relentless.

They grow flushed, their skin sensitive from my touch, but they're ecstatic.

"Alright. Everyone, stand in a circle. You know how we connect in Yanbian?"

They all shake their heads.

I answer: "Ever heard of the old stories? How leaders connected with many? Line them up, close together—"

I command them to draw near, pressing close together.

Three women, side by side, fully present.

Each unique, but all equally captivating.

Slowly, I savor each one—my attention, twice as intense as a normal man's, reaching all the way to their hearts.
Like a snake, I explore their depths, probing, savoring, devouring.

My hands aren't idle—caressing, holding, connecting.
Before anything else happens, all three are already lost.

"Ahhh… god! I thought you were confident—but your presence? Holy shit…!"

"God… this intensity… it's like there's another person inside you…!"

"Girls… ugh… I've never… never felt this way before… damn… so good…"

They praise my presence—but the final strike is always genuine.

"Now I'll go full-on. If you can't handle it, it's not my fault."

They tense. My whole body is a weapon—but my passion? That's the grand slam home run.

Back in the North, in Yanbian—women were overwhelmed before I even started.
Three? Ten? I could drop them all before release.

The secret? The moment.

When my intensity hits that inner gate—like a slap to the cheek—
their eyes roll back. Instant knockout.

Just as expected—no one here's tasted this.
The ones who begged for more are gone. Only women screaming in ecstasy remain.

"Ugh… ahh… I feel completely undone… ugh…!"

"Ah… can't… can't even talk… how… how are you doing this without coming?"

"Fucking hell—who suggested bringing him?! Where else can you find this?! ugh… ugh… what if I get addicted? What then?!"

What then? Get lost in the moment, obviously.

Jasmine and Haebanghwa collapse first.
Sweat pours down my back—but Ahwa? She won't fall.

She's tight, and she's determined as hell.

"Hmph. Think I'll pass out? No way. No fucking way.
You think I'd pick up some random person just to experience this?
You think I'll let you enchant my friends?
No… ugh… not… until I've had mine…"

"Ugh… damn… what a way to experience this… ugh… ugh… ugh…"