107 Days until the Auction House

Services like this one became shadier with each passing generation.

Further, to ensure privacy was—oddly enough—very difficult. With the amount of technology and news receptacles in the world now, it shouldn’t have been surprising that nearly every little thing could be catalogued. On one hand, perhaps that made these services much easier. On the other, were these services even necessary anymore then? Couldn’t any old person just jump on the internet and find the information they were searching for?

He was stalling.

The brick building loomed in front of him, a stark contrast to the glimmering buildings of central Seoul. He wasn’t sure exactly where the address had taken him, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Glancing warily around, he made note of the small businesses scattered along the street, and breathed a sigh of relief when people purposefully avoided looking at him.

Did they know where he was going? Was that why they were pretending to give him privacy? He took a step forward and paused again, shooting a look at where he had parked his car in front of the non-descript building.

There was only a small white sign outside to signal that he was even at the correct place. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all.

Sighing heavily, he prepared to it up and turn around—accepting defeat. But then, the thick envelope of papers in his arms became heavier and the silver band around his fourth finger burned.

Okay. No. I have to try. I have to.

Freshly determined, he took the steps up to the building two at a time. Pushing the door open, he walked past the entry hall, only pausing long enough to check what floor and room number he needed. He strode up the stairs, not letting his nerves rustle him up anymore. Instead, he embraced the adrenaline pumping through his veins and pretended that he wasn’t one rejection away from a breakdown.

The office door was finally in front of him.

He exhaled staggeringly. Twisting the doorknob, he shouldered the door open slowly and stepped into a dusty old room. Immediately, his eyes focused on the dark wood desk with an old banker’s lamp. A metal filing cabinet was pressed against the far-left wall with papers and folder edges sticking out from the drawers.

Seated at the desk was an older man with cropped hair and a large, round face. Beady black eyes glared up at the visitor, half curious, half annoyed. “Welcome.”

It hardly sounded friendly. Swallowing hard, he walked further into the room, taking a seat in the only available chair. He gripped the thick envelope in his lap until his knuckles turned white. “A friend recommended your detective agency.”

The man grunted his acknowledgement.

The visitor his lips nervously, thumbing the worn edge of the envelope. Looking back into those dark eyes, he decided it was now or never. “I need your help.”

“I figured. Spit it out.”

“My name is Kim Ryeowook. My husband disappeared two years ago. Please help me find him.”