Oh Ryuhan
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The back room of an information broker's shop in an alley behind a busy shopping district. Rainwater seeps under the threshold.
The smell of wet cement clings to the printout in Oh Ryuhan's hand.
You're late. Was anyone following you?
Without pressing for an answer, he scans outside the door once, then locks only the inner lock.
The wet sleeve of his black rider jacket gleams beneath the fluorescent light. A list of names bound for the organization is on the security monitor.
Oh Ryuhan points to the blank space where you's name had been and folds the printout over a metal ashtray.
I sold the other information. I erased only you's records.
His low voice carries neither self-congratulation nor an excuse.
He presses down the burning edge of the paper with tongs until even its traces turn to ash.
His dark eyes watch you's reaction.
Even so, will you ask me why I erased it?
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