TOIGC 97

Shake Things Up (3)

“Really?!”

Watanabe jumped straight to his feet with an excited, flushed face. Startled by the sudden movement, a waiter carrying a tray of food nearly took a tumble, but Watanabe was far too hyped to notice.

“Whoa there, aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves? Sit down. The food’s here.”

“Ah—right!”

He dropped back into his seat, but his flushed face remained buzzing with excitement.

“Hmm, if it were up to me, I’d rather trade all this fancy grub for a thousand bowls of piping hot gukbap.”

Yoongi dropped the remark in Korean as he popped an appetizer into his mouth, leaving Watanabe tilting his head in confusion.

“What’d you just say?”

“Oh, just that my palate prefers Japanese food over French cuisine any day. Must be because we’re both part of the same East Asian cultural sphere, right?”

Flattered by the unexpected praise, Watanabe beamed with national pride. A moment later, he leaned forward eagerly again.

“Anyway, is it really true? Can you actually get me back into Hermès as a model?”

“Landing an exclusive contract right off the bat is probably out of the question. But I reckon I can pull enough strings to get you a one-time shot to clear the air. Who knows? Nail that single opportunity, and you might just claw your way back to being an exclusive face.”

“Please, I’m begging you!”

Watanabe bowed so low his forehead practically grazed the plate.

“Hey, easy there. You planning to use your forehead as a food garnish?”

“Please, I’ll do anything!”

Watching Watanabe writhe in sheer desperation, Yoongi felt a strange sense of catharsis wash over him as he gave a measured nod.

“First, I’ll need to sit down with your parents and talk things over. From the looks of it, your folks seem to hold a fair amount of weight over here in Japan. Am I wrong?”

Pride flared up across Watanabe’s face once more.

“Well, my parents are alright, but my grandfather’s the real heavyweight. He doesn’t control all of Japan, but around the Tohoku region, he carries some serious ‘sway.'”

“Tohoku—that’s the region north of Kanto, right?”

Kanto encompassed Tokyo, while Tohoku lay directly above it. In Korean terms, it was roughly equivalent to lumping together Busan, Seongnam, Anyang, Suwon, and Yongin into a single powerhouse territory.

“Yup.”

“What line of work is he in?”

Watanabe hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering.

“He’s a local pillar of the community. Handles public safety, you could say.”

At first glance, one might mistake that for a high-ranking regional police official, but Yoongi’s internal deduction landed somewhere entirely different.

Considering Watanabe had previously rolled up with a crew of thugs in tow, the odds were overwhelmingly high. And as it turned out, his guess was spot-on.

“What about your maternal grandfather?”

Just to be thorough, Yoongi tossed out a second probe.

“My maternal grandfather is… um… well… he passed away.”

“I see.”

The agonizing pause before the answer made Yoongi realize that a certain crude insult he’d muttered in the past was actually dead-on.

Instead of mocking Watanabe’s lineage, Yoongi immediately started calculating how he could weaponize this intelligence.

Having locked down his strategic approach, Yoongi nodded.

“Let’s finish up our meal first. Once we’re done, how about we go pay your parents a visit? I should probably lay out how we plan to approach Hermès Japan so everyone’s on the same page. Having solid backing makes things smoother for you too, doesn’t it?”

Two hours later, Yoongi rolled up to Watanabe’s sprawling estate with a thoroughly electrified Watanabe riding shotgun.

After stepping past iron gates guarded by hardened Yakuza sentries with stone-cold glares, Yoongi’s party was led into a traditional Japanese guest parlor.

Thirty minutes later, guided once again by a visibly nervous Watanabe, Yoongi stepped into the main reception room.

“Welcome. I understand our Genji caused you a tremendous amount of trouble last time.”

Learning that Watanabe’s given name was Genji, Yoongi offered a calm nod.

“Water under the bridge. Stepping into a residence as refined and classic as this feels like it’s washed away whatever lingering ill feelings I had left.”

Watanabe’s family home was a massive, sprawling traditional Japanese countryside estate, so Yoongi’s praise wasn’t entirely diplomatic flattery.

“Thank you for the kind words. I am Masao Watanabe. And this is my wife, Mitsuko Watanabe.”

Both Masao and Mitsuko looked utterly, unremarkably average. Masao looked like a typical Japanese salaryman or middle-manager in his late thirties, and Mitsuko shared that exact plainness. Perhaps tailored fine clothes and high-end dining elevated them a notch above the crowd, but nothing more.

“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Choi Yoon-gi from South Korea.”

“Please, have a seat. We’ll have tea served shortly.”

Though they were playing the part of total strangers, Masao was already reasonably well-informed about who Yoongi was.

The only reason Watanabe had been able to mobilize his grandfather’s Yakuza goons to shake down Yoongi in the first place was because Masao had given tacit approval. Consequently, in the wake of that disastrous incident, Masao had thoroughly investigated who Yoongi really was—though he had failed to uncover the critical detail that Yoongi was the ultimate beneficial owner of Yaikai Department Store.

“This tea is exquisite.”

“Indeed. Japan’s tea culture is a point of immense pride for us.”

As he sipped the bitter, deeply earthy green tea, Yoongi nodded outwardly while letting his thoughts wander elsewhere.

Considering the sheer volume of Korean heritage systematically stamped out during the Japanese colonial period, Yoongi’s silent grievance was entirely justified. Of course, he wasn’t fuming out of some righteous patriotic zeal; what genuinely irritated him was their unearned sense of cultural superiority. He harbored a deep, instinctive aversion to it, though he kept his expression smooth and unreadable.

“Genji tells me you’re considering giving him a second chance… is that correct?”

Despite Yoongi clearly being a middle schooler, Masao treated him with immense, deferential respect—not out of respect for Yoongi’s age, but because he was staring at the towering shadows of Gerster, Colson, and Samwoo looming behind him, alongside the painful realization that Yoongi held his son’s entire future by the throat.

“That’s correct.”

“What must we do to secure that opportunity?”

With Yoongi sitting firmly in the absolute position of power, Masao smartly cut straight to the chase.

Given that the antics of silver-spoon heirs had been blowing up scandals in Japan since the 1980s and prior, producing an entitled disaster like Genji wasn’t particularly out of the ordinary.

“My primary reason for coming to Japan was business concerning Hermès Japan.”

“Ah… is that so?”

“Indeed. And the very first welcoming gift I received upon landing in your country happened to be Genji’s little stunt.”

“That… allow me to offer my deepest apologies once more. I am truly sorry.”

“I am terribly sorry.”

“Sorry—no, I, I am deeply sorry.”

Watching Mitsuko and Genji echo Masao’s bowing apologies, Yoongi flashed a faint, polite smile.

“I only bring that up to set the context. The point is, I don’t exactly have an extensive personal network within Japanese society yet.”

While he had high-level contacts tied to U.S. forces stationed in Japan, that didn’t automatically translate to sway within domestic Japanese circles. Masao caught the implication and waited patiently for Yoongi’s next move.

“However, an acquaintance of mine recently confided in me about how brutally difficult it is to run a business here in Japan. That’s when I thought of Watanabe. Sometimes, bad blood can be repurposed into a rather fruitful alliance, don’t you think?”

Help expand my associate’s business, and I’ll help Genji resurrect his career with Hermès Japan.

Hearing the implicit bargain, Masao rapidly crunched the numbers in his head before asking:

“Might I ask the scale of your acquaintance’s business…?”

“If the stories Genji told me about his grandfather’s reach are even half true, it’s more than substantial enough to make it worth your while.”

An undisputed regional hegemon. That alone would undoubtedly serve as an overflowing abundance of pedigree and muscle for Park Ki-soo, the eldest son of Seth Holdings.

Though whether Park Ki-soo actually possessed the caliber of a tiger was an entirely separate question.

“Hmm… I wish I could sit here and say ‘yes’ right on the spot, but matters involving the main family require me to consult with my father first. Would you grant me a little time to confer with him?”

“Of course.”

“By the way, I’m curious if you might share the name of your acquaintance’s enterprise. It might help me frame the discussion.”

“I’ll share those details once I have your answer. If you have any specific requests or conditions, feel free to bring them up without hesitation. I’ll make sure to give them every consideration.”

“Understood. Within a week—no, I will give you my answer within three days.”

The opening wedge had been driven successfully.

As his car rolled back toward the main family estate, Masao’s chest felt heavy and suffocated.

If Genji had been thwashed nearly to the point of death with a wooden sword for his blunder, Masao had been subjected to something far worse: total, freezing indifference from his own father.

An indifference far more terrifying than death. Ever since Masao forced a marriage his father violently opposed, the only reward he reaped was a glacial apathy colder than a Siberian blizzard.

It wasn’t that he was entirely cut off from the clan’s power—he could still leverage modest resources through his father’s secretary. But in exchange, his father refused to spare him so much as a single glance. Because of that, when Masao tentatively accepted Yoongi’s proposal, he had spent the entire ride worrying whether his father would even deign to listen.

He had just finished putting Genji through another round of wooden-sword beatings after the boy whined continuously about realizing Yoongi hadn’t come to see him out of pure goodwill. Of course Masao loved Genji. But entirely blind to how warped that affection was, clinging solely to the comforting delusion that he was doing it “all for Genji,” Masao parked the car in the main estate’s lot.

“Welcome back, sir.”

Greeted by one of his father’s senior secretaries, Masao cautiously broached his request.

“I need to see my father…”

The secretary’s expression instantly tightened into a knot of deep distress.

“Master Masao. As you well know…”

“Tell him I might be able to broker a weapons trade deal utilizing General Gerster’s network. Please, I’m begging you.”

At the magic word Gerster, the secretary hesitated before finally giving a tight nod.

“I will pass the message along, but…”

“That’s all I need.”

“Understood.”

A short while later, the secretary returned with a faint, tight smile.

“He says you may enter.”

“Whew.”

Letting out a long breath, Masao offered a quick word of thanks to the secretary and stepped into his father’s private sanctum.

“Father, I have returned.”

A man with a shock of stark white hair, his fringe styled sharp and bristling outward like a cornered beast. His eyes were intensely piercing, marked by a prominent, jagged scar stretching all the way from the corner of his mouth across his left cheek.

Yasuda Watanabe.

The supreme boss of the Umiguchi-gumi, a powerhouse Yakuza syndicate holding a stranglehold over the Tohoku region with a standing force easily exceeding 10,000 active members.

Thud!

As if signaling his utter disdain for even hearing Masao’s voice, Yasuda gave the parlor table a light, sharp rap with his palm—an unambiguous warning that if the very first words out of his mouth displeased him, he would have him thrown out immediately. Realizing this, Masao decided to drop his highest-value card right out of the gate.

“I can secure a direct weapons trade pipeline with brokers tied to U.S. Forces Japan.”