RR 03
[003] A Servant’s Life – Part 3
After a 16-hour flight via Vienna, I landed at Chișinău International Airport—where the unexpected happened.
“Manager Yoon. You must be exhausted.”
Two men materialized.
Sunyang’s “secretarial staff.”
Muscles bulging under starched white shirts. Eyes like shards of ice.
Why are they here?
My legs buckled.
The vice chairman’s words had been true—except for one detail.
“The prosecutors will close the case once the money vanishes.”
Let me rephrase that:
“The funds were withdrawn by Sunyang Group’s Future Strategy Manager Yoon Hyun-woo—then disappeared. These were earmarked for Moldova infrastructure investments, not embezzlement by the owning family… blah, blah…”
That would be the official statement.
And when public interest faded, a tiny footnote would appear:
“Former Sunyang manager Yoon Hyun-woo found dead of overdose on French Riviera.”
These two men hadn’t come to greet me.
They’d either plunge a knife into my heart or blow my brains out with a Moldovan pistol.
Thirteen years.
Thirteen years of dog-like loyalty, only to be discarded like trash—with death as my severance.
I’d dreamed of rising to division head, maybe even a subsidiary VP, once the vice chairman inherited the throne.
But a servant never becomes a butler.
Not without the right bloodline or pedigree.
The class system never died—it just swapped aristocracy for elite degrees and connections.
Damn this world where even servants need prestigious alma maters.
.
.
.
Under their watchful eyes, I checked into the hotel.
“Rest well, Manager. The bank opens at 9.”
I hadn’t slept on the plane—too busy fantasizing about my butler’s promotion and gilded future.
Now, staring at the ceiling, terror replaced excitement.
By tomorrow, my “fervently lived life” ends.
Around midnight, I crept toward the elevator—wallet and passport in hand.
“Going somewhere, Manager?”
The voice sent vertigo through me.
“Just a nightcap. Jet lag.”
“Let me join you.”
When I insisted on going alone, the man’s lips curled.
“Cut the act. You know tomorrow’s your funeral.”
Hearing it aloud made my heart stutter.
“Let’s talk. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“What? Split the money? A trillion won for us?”
Bastard read my mind.
“Take it all. Change your lives.”
He laughed. “The chairman said you’d say that.”
The chairman? Not the vice chairman—the patriarch himself ordered this?
I escorted his mistresses to abortions. Took slaps from nightclub girls cleaning his messes.
Shouldn’t that earn me a pardon?
“A trillion won? What would I even do with it?” the man mused. “My salary’s 200 million. The company gave me a Benz, a 1,300 sq ft apartment. At 33, I’m living the dream. Why risk that?”
“You stupid f—”
“We’re dumb—but not dumb enough to bite a poisoned cake.”
I screamed into the hollow hallway: “I didn’t steal! This is just killing the errand boy!”
“Shut up. We’re servants too. We follow orders.”
“Let me call the chairman!”
“A manager? Dream on.”
“Then you call! Say I’ll vanish—hide in Eastern Europe, never resurface!”
He sighed. “Pathetic. Go die quietly. Think of your parents.”
That word stabbed me.
They’d taken hostages.
My marriage was already dead—my wife, who’d married my “promising” Sunyang title, now despised the reality of my work.
But my parents?
If I didn’t take the fall, their deaths would be arranged: “car crash,” “fire,” “disappearance.”
.
.
.
The next morning, the men frowned at my corpse-like face.
“Cheer up. You’re a trillion-won man now!”
At the bank, I made sure CCTV caught my face clearly, withdrawing the funds onto a MasterCard.
“Your family will be taken care of,” they lied. “Generous compensation for your parents. Your wife gets a new life in America.”
Bullshit.
Sunyang never shows mercy—not even to widows of loyal employees. I’d seen them fight over $800 compensation for a worker’s death.
They escorted me to a secluded beach.
Is this my grave? Or the cerulean sea?
When I turned, one drew a pistol.
I thought I’d accepted death—until survival instinct kicked in.
“Please! I’ll disappear! South America, Africa—anywhere!” I begged on my knees.
The man grinned. “Ever see Wanted? Angelina Jolie was hot in it.”
“I didn’t fucking do anything! Just report me missing!”
“The hero always says this before killing someone.”
He pressed the barrel to my temple.
Of all the last words to hear—
“I am sorry.”
Bang.
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