A regular tavern he occasionally visited.
Che Changmin, leaning on his crutch, pushed the door open and entered.
As a man, his self-discipline was exasperating, devoid of lust, gambling, and greed for money; even the number of times he drank could be counted on one hand.
He had devoted nearly all his time and energy to defending the dignity of the judiciary, only to receive an indifferent disciplinary notice in the end.
Because he had been there a few times before, as soon as he entered, the tavern owner hurried over, very enthusiastic.
To ordinary people like them, a prosecutor was an intimidating figure of authority.
Before the owner’s eager smile had fully formed, he suddenly noticed Che Changmin’s limping leg and the crutch he was leaning on.
"Prosecutor Che, what happened to you?"
The tavern owner’s smile froze, his face showing surprise and doubt.
"It’s nothing, just took a fall."
Che Changmin said nonchalantly.
The tavern owner sensed the insincerity in his words, but of course did not dare to inquire further. He nodded and led Che Changmin to a table.
"Are you alone? Where’s He?"
That was the name of the assistant.
It was this tavern that the assistant had brought Che Changmin to when he first joined the office.
Back then, he was young and ambitious, filled with aspirations for the future, but now...
When the paramedics carried the mangled body out from underneath a car and passed by him, even with Che Changmin’s fortitude, he quickly looked away.
Che Changmin’s lips quivered, and facing the tavern owner’s curious gaze, for some reason, he didn’t finish his sentence.
"He’s on a business trip out of town."
The tavern owner smiled knowingly and made small talk, "He often told me how much he admires you, Prosecutor Che, saying that he wants to be like you one day. But it’s not an easy feat. He still lacks steadiness. You need to work him hard, Prosecutor Che. Young people need to be toughened up."
Che Changmin sat expressionless, silent.
Seeing his reaction, the owner did not dare to pry any further and awkwardly said, "Prosecutor Che, would you like something to eat?"
It was then that Che Changmin suddenly realized he barely knew this place; previously, it was the assistant, now lying dead without a complete body, who had made all the arrangements.
"Bring a pot of soju and just a couple of dishes."
"Alright. Prosecutor Che, one moment, please."
The owner did not dare to linger and turned to leave.
This was a very ordinary tavern, whose clientele was mainly young people. That kid often told him he was too serious and should come to places more often.
Their laughter and faces still seemed to be right before his eyes.
"We came here first, why did he get served before us?"
A young couple at the next table complained unhappily.
"Prosecutor Che, I am sorry about this. I’ll go explain to them."
The owner apologized.
Che Changmin nodded, it was probably the first time he felt fully entitled to enjoy the privileges his status brought, picking up a disposable plastic cup to pour himself a drink.
The tavern owner’s apology to the young couple could be heard nearby.
Che Changmin paid no heed, occasionally taking bites of food with his chopsticks, drinking alone.
Although he did not drink often, he had a good tolerance for alcohol, and since the locally brewed soju here was targeted at a younger clientele, the emphasis was on flavor rather than potency.
The owner quickly came over, glanced at Che Changmin’s injured leg, and kindly suggested, "Prosecutor Che, you are injured. Maybe you should drink less?"
Che Changmin did not pull rank, as amiable as ever, and simply smiled, "It’s fine, bring another pot."
The tavern owner didn’t dare to persuade him further, but he had a vague feeling that something was off with the prosecutor today.
"Tsk, business seems good, eh?"
A group of men barged through the door.
Each strutted arrogantly, their demeanor blatantly thuggish—as if they clearly belonged to no good.
Handing over Che Changmin’s drink to a staff member to deliver, the owner, with a forced smile, hurried over to greet them.
"Are you here to eat, gentlemen? Please come this way."
He greeted them warmly only to be met with their sarcastic tones.
"No rush to eat, boss. It’s about time for this month’s protection fee, isn’t it?"
The already uneasy tavern owner felt his heart sink at once.
"Protection fee? I already paid that at the beginning of the month, didn’t I?"
"To whom did you pay it?"
The leader of the group, smirking behind sunglasses and dressed in baggy pants, asked with a sneer.
"To Brother Wan Kui."
"Who can vouch for you?"
The owner was taken aback.
Ever since his business started, a gang had come knocking, demanding a monthly sum under the pretense of "protection money."
He was well aware of what these people did. He dared not oppose them, as all the merchants on the street were in the same boat.
In other districts, the same held true, each collecting "protection money," likely from various gangs.
As a powerless commoner, how could he contend with such criminal forces? With the mindset of buying peace, he had been dutifully paying the so-called "protection money" on time—only to find himself being squeezed for more money when he had just paid at the start of the month.
"I’ve always paid Brother Wan Kui; you can ask him, and he should know."
The owner spoke submissively.
This street had always been under one gang’s control, though he had never seen these people before, they must belong to the same group.
"Hey! Can’t you talk properly?!"
One of the lackeys chided, wearing an extravagantly tacky gold necklace and a gaudy floral shirt, as if afraid others wouldn’t realize he was part of the underworld.