There were only three people in South Korea who knew how to contact the Cleaner. Two were in prison. The third was Yoochan.
He stood outside an unassuming pojangmacha tucked into a Busan alley. Steam curled from bubbling pots. Locals ate in silence, heads bowed under flickering bulbs. The scent of soju and grilled squid curled in the humid air.
Yoochan entered without a word.
The ajumma behind the stall didn't even look up. She pointed to the red plastic stool at the far end of the counter. It was a signal.
He sat.
Three minutes later, a figure emerged from the back.
She looked like no one of importance—gray hoodie, no makeup, and a face so ordinary it blurred in memory. But Yoochan recognized her instantly.
Ha Yerin. Alias: The Cleaner.
"You look like shit," she said, sitting across from him.
"Better than my brother," Yoochan replied.
She smirked. "Which one?"
"All of them."
---
She poured herself a drink. "So. Why'd you dig me up?"
"Jiwoo," he said.
Her hand paused mid-pour. "That ghost kid?"
"You've heard of him?"
"Heard of a hacker that leaves Kang server corpses everywhere. I thought it was a code name."
Yoochan shook his head. "He's real. My blood."
"Of course he is," she muttered. "All Kang bastards crawl back eventually."
"I need to find him."
"And do what?"
"End this."
"Funny," she said. "That's what your father said when he hired me to clean up his last mistake."
---
Yoochan's fingers curled around the shot glass.
"You worked for him?"
"Everyone works for him. Even if they don't know it yet."
He didn't argue.
Yerin lit a cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking sign above her head. "I'll find your ghost. But not for cheap."
He slid a black USB across the table. "Encrypted financials. Ten crypto wallets across five shell corps. Plus, clean IDs for three lives."
She raised a brow. "You really came prepared."
"You were always the best," Yoochan said. "And I don't have time to play safe."
She exhaled smoke into his face, then grinned. "You're starting to sound like Daehyun."
---
While she worked, Yoochan returned to Seoul.
The Tower's walls were thinning—everywhere he looked, there were cracks in loyalty. Executives whispering in bathrooms. PR chiefs talking to press under aliases. Half the board was circling like vultures, waiting to see if he'd fall.
And worst of all: Joonho had returned.
Not to the office. Not even to the country.
But digitally.
A livestream.
In front of a cathedral in Zurich, dressed in black, he declared Yoochan mentally unfit to lead.
"I love my youngest brother," he said, eyes glassy with crocodile tears. "But ever since the accident, he's changed. He sees threats where there are none. He's become… a tyrant."
The press went wild.
They played it on every screen.
---
Yoochan watched it from his private suite, Sooyoung at his side.
"You have to respond," she said.
"No," he said. "Let him dance. The more he performs, the more desperate he looks."
"But the board—"
"They won't move unless they smell blood. I won't give them mine."
Just then, his burner buzzed.
He picked it up.
A single text: "Found him. 27B, Shingang District. You have 48 hours before he moves." – Cleaner.
Yoochan looked at Sooyoung.
"Cancel all meetings," he said. "I'm going hunting."
---
Shingang was one of Seoul's dying neighborhoods—sandwiched between luxury condos and abandoned textile plants. The apartment complex was decaying: paint peeling, balconies sagging, the elevator broken for a decade.
He took the stairs.
Floor 27. Room B.
He knocked once.
Silence.
Then: a voice.
"You're early."
He froze.
The door opened.
And Jiwoo stood there.
He was taller than Yoochan expected. Lean. Face thinner. Same nose. Same chin.
But his eyes—
His eyes were mirrors.
"I wondered when you'd come," Jiwoo said.
Yoochan stepped inside.
The room was nearly empty. A mattress. A laptop. Walls lined with post-it notes, wires, and torn photographs. In the corner, a small shrine: a photo of a woman Yoochan didn't recognize, with dried chrysanthemums laid beside it.
"Who is she?" he asked.
Jiwoo followed his gaze. "My mother."
Yoochan nodded. "She was… one of ours?"
"She was no one," Jiwoo said. "That's what they made her believe. Then they used her. Like they use everyone."
Yoochan looked him over. "You've been hitting our servers. Releasing footage. Organizing protests."
"Yes."
"You poisoned my sister."
"No," Jiwoo said flatly. "I saved her. She was going to kill herself that night. I scared her into choosing life."
Yoochan's fists clenched. "She almost died."
"Better than being owned."
They stared at each other.
"You want the empire?" Yoochan asked.
Jiwoo shook his head.
"I want to burn it."
---
Yoochan moved first—grabbing Jiwoo by the collar, slamming him against the wall.
"Try that, and I'll erase you."
"You already did," Jiwoo said calmly. "In a past life. You just don't remember yet."
Yoochan froze.
"What?"
Jiwoo smiled, slow and eerie. "You think you're the only one who came back?"
The words struck like thunder.
He stepped back, heart pounding.
"Liar."
"Check your dreams," Jiwoo whispered. "Check the headaches. The mirror flashes. You know I'm telling the truth."
And Yoochan did.
Suddenly, it all made sense.
The ticking clocks.
The déjà vu.
The dreams of being watched—
By him.
---
"You were there," Yoochan whispered.
"Always."
Jiwoo stepped forward.
"You want to save the Kang name. I want to bury it. But neither of us is innocent."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"And we're not the only ones playing this game."
Before Yoochan could reply, the laptop on the floor beeped.
Jiwoo bent down, checked the screen.
He smiled.
"They found me," he said. "You led them here."
Yoochan's blood ran cold.
Outside, tires screeched.
Men shouted.
Sirens howled.
"Run," Jiwoo said.
Then everything exploded.
---