Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Almost as sickening as the sound of cracking bone is the terror of guilt unexpected. 

“Is he dead? Did we just—?”

“No. No.”

“But his head, his... What have we done?” 

The silence that seals a secret. 

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Pledge Agreement for Confidential Whisper 

This agreement is entered into between The Whispers & Wonders Exchange: Pawn and Trade, located at 11 Insadong-gil, Jongno-gu, Seoul, and Client.

1. Pledge of Confidential Whisper:

1.1 The Client hereby pledges to The Whispers & Wonders Exchange: Pawn and Trade their Whisper as specified in attached Schedule hereto. The Whisper may include, but is not limited to, personal secrets, private anecdotes, sensitive information, or any other confidential material disclosed by the Client.

1.2 The Client acknowledges that by pledging the Whisper, they can no longer utter or disclose contents of said Whisper during the term of the pledge as per this Agreement. 

“Curious weather for a funeral,” says the chiromancer of Haebangchon, his forehead furrowed in pensive concern, as he signs his name across the pledge. Old as he may be, his skin weathered like parchment worn by time, his hand barely trembles at the clockwise strokes of his signature. Slightly hunched over the antique oak counter, he studies the pawn agreement habitually, noting, “Still clouds. Ill sky.”

Taehyung responds with a noncommittal hum. Indeed, the day is unusually layered: it is normally sunny this time of the year, the sunbeams filtering warmly through the dust of pollution, but today, the sky hangs heavy with a stagnant veil of wispy clouds, shrouding the city in a diffused white hue. Sunlight struggles to pierce through even now, casting a subdued haze over the street outside the shop. Taehyung hasn’t been outside, only observing the weather from the window, but he can also admit that there is a hint of tension in the air. Rain might be imminent later in the afternoon. Business-wise, the day promises to be quiet. 

“How was the traffic?” he decides to ask, waiting for the chiromancer to fill out the contract, resting his palm idly on the counter between them. He doesn’t recall any mention of a funeral lately, but that said, he seldom keeps up with current affairs.

“Dreadful,” the man replies, evidently disgruntled, his chagrin contorting his mouth into a pout. “Reporters are on every street corner. The memorial service is being held at the Grand Hyatt. One of those people.”

“Ah,” Taehyung answers, understanding the implication in his remark. “Televised?” 

“From every angle. They were yattering about it on the news. Bus driver had the radio on.” 

Undoubtedly. Whenever there is a high-profile funeral in the city, the nation flocks to the scene, crowding the sidewalks. Oftentimes, the elaborate ceremonies span several days, and the media ensures to report every ritual, prayer, and tribute speech. The locations of the memorial services are naturally prestigious: grand venues with banquet halls and floral arrangements, accommodating extensive guest lists of government officials, business leaders, celebrities, and other dignitaries. On occasion, a pop star delivers a heart-wrenching ballad performance.

“Grievous,” Taehyung replies, feigning his condolences, interested only to the extent in which the topic concerns his business. Gazing out the window, he inquires nonchalantly, “Who are the bereaved?” 

The chiromancer is a regular customer, pawning monthly before Taehyung was even born and his grandfather still ran the shop. Maintaining friendly relations benefits both parties: the chiromancer practices palm reading in a market at the foot of Namsan, which is especially popular during tourist season, and he often sends his clients all the way to the pawnshop in Insadong as a favor for pledging at a concessionary interest. Restrained in his daily profession, he is always rather talkative when he visits. Taught the trade by his grandfather, Taehyung already learned it as a young boy: there is no entrepreneurial skill as pivotal as small-talk. 

“Chaebol family,” the chiromancer responds, his voice retaining its gruff edge. “The deceased was the patriarch. Younger than me, but as fat as he was rich. Big belly for big sins.” Without lifting his gaze from the contract, he nods toward the small drawer boxes behind Taehyung’s back. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the man had whispered into some of these recorders of yours, too.” 

Taehyung chuckles. “Careful, now. We take customer confidentiality very seriously in this establishment. Do you recall the name?” 

The chiromancer shakes his head. “Escapes me. Construction business. Half the buildings in this country have the name etched in the foundation. I hate your jacket, by the way, it looks stupid on you. Joo, or Jang, or something.”

Taehyung believes that he knows the family in question, although the name eludes him as well. There are only a handful of construction chaebols in South Korea, each wielding considerable influence, and avoiding news or mentions about them is practically impossible, no matter how little one might care. He is uncertain if they have ever been customers; perhaps during his grandfather’s time, but not in recent years. 

“Explains the grandeur, then,” he notes casually. 

The chiromancer’s comment about his outfit he disregards completely. He rarely gives much thought to his attire anyway, grabbing whichever piece of fabric he finds first in his overflowing closet before heading downstairs. Today, it happened to be a black leather jacket that he paired with matching pants, too lazy to find a shirt. It’s a relaxed look, but far from the patterned blouses and low-cut knits that he dons on the regular. Truly, he could have appeared much showier than he does now.

The chiromancer grunts, finally returning the pledge adorned with his signature. Cloaked in a plum silk durumagi, the fabric rustles softly as he straightens his back. Taehyung accepts the papers, nodding with a smile. 

“Right then,” he says, sliding the contract into a slot under the counter before picking up the recorder, a black device resembling a lighter. “Shall we?”

2. Term of Pledge:

2.1 The Client acknowledges that the term of this pledge shall commence upon Recording and continue until the redemption or forfeiture of the pledged Whisper as outlined in this Agreement.

3. Recording:

3.1 The Client commits to pledge their Whisper through Recording, utilizing the device and facilities provided by The Whispers & Wonders Exchange: Pawn and Trade.

3.2 The Recording of pledged Whisper will be securely maintained with restricted access in the facilities provided by The Whispers & Wonders Exchange: Pawn and Trade.

3.3 The Whispers & Wonders Exchange: Pawn and Trade disclaims any responsibility for the Recording in the event of occurrences such as incendiarism, theft, vandalism, or any other unforeseen circumstances at the facilities. 

Growing impatient, the chiromancer gestures for Taehyung to hand over the device, then brings it to his mouth out of habit. Less accustomed clients prefer to give their pledge in the backroom, which offers more acoustic privacy, but the chiromancer has long since forsaken even the tradition of whispering, croaking his secrets in the shop without concern. Switching the recorder on with his thumb, he begins to talk, grimacing as he attempts to recall every incident that he wishes to forgo for now. 

“The girl in the summer dress, Un Miyoung. I told her that she would be married, but her heart line is shorter than the nail on her finger. Pyo Bonhwa, the student, won’t graduate from university. Fate line was crossed. He is too nervous. Won’t pass his finals.” 

He speaks for a time, recounting various people whose palms he has read in the past month and then mislead by lying about their future. This, he says, is better for business: people tend to prefer encouraging news over the truth. Apparently, it often prompts them to tip more. While his palmistry is, in this sense, somewhat unethical, Taehyung also finds it considerate. Is it better not to know how one’s life transpires, after all? 

The chiromancer pledges his secrets as an insurance: after recording his whispers, he can no longer utter their contents in any way. Therefore, should an unsatisfied customer return to his stand at the market, he can simply say that his palm readings are singular occurrences that cannot be repeated. From a business perspective, Taehyung considers his secrets rather harmless. Even now, he easily spaces out, allowing the man to chatter his white lies into the recorder without paying much attention. In truth, the whispers aren’t worth much; the man will only be able to buy some tofu and dried anchovies from the store on his way home. 

After the chiromancer removes his thumb from the toggle and the recorder switches off, Taehyung shakes off his thoughts, his focus in the present once more. 

“Anything else?” he asks. 

The chiromancer declines, handing him the recorder. The following exchange of currency resembles a shop clerk returning change to a customer. 

“₩8,000,” Taehyung announces as he offers the man the banknotes, who then stashes them into the pocket of his coat. Taehyung watches him, waiting politely before adding, “The loan is due exactly three months from now, as agreed.”

He doesn’t necessarily expect the chiromancer to ever redeem his whisper and repay his loan, but the amount is inconsequential. His real value lies in the stream of new clients that he funnels to the shop; in essence, he serves as inexpensive advertising.

4. Redemption:

4.1 The Client shall have the option to redeem the pledged Whisper by repaying the pawned amount in full as agreed upon by both parties.

4.2 Upon redemption, The Whispers & Wonders Exchange: Pawn and Trade shall return all original copies of the Whisper to the Client and shall ensure the confidentiality of said Whisper.

“You wear too much jewelry,” the chiromancer remarks, motioning laxly toward Taehyung’s rings and necklaces as he heads for the front door. “Your grandfather always wore a suit.”

Taehyung nods, poised despite being slighted. “So you remind me.”

The chiromancer signals his exit with a wave of his hand, eliciting a ringing from the bell above the door as he departs. Taehyung purses his lips, remaining stationary for a moment, evaluating the remainder of the day. It is unlikely that more customers will walk in; nights and early mornings typically boast better business, and the ongoing funeral procession will further deter potential customers from finding their way to Insadong. 

Thus, as he finishes the chiromancer’s pledge — placing the recording inside its lockable case, then sliding it into its designated slot on the recorder wall, and sorting the contract papers into the chiromancer’s thick, bulging folder that barely shuts anymore — he decides to rest easy for the day, perhaps tidy up if he so pleases. 

This is what his grandfather taught him: an odd day may be quiet for business, but the world will never run out of secrets. 

The long history of their trade proves it: Taehyung’s family has been offering loans for whispers since before the invention of the phonograph cylinders, accepting pledges in writing for hundreds of years. Leaving their hometown Daegu, his great-grandfather founded their shop in Insadong, which eventually became the center for literature and culture in Seoul, drawing writers, poets, and artists to frequent its bustling markets and teahouses. This turned out to be a wise decision: the creatives were tormented more than anything, in dire financial straits, and desperately curious about each other’s darkest thoughts and deeds. The business never suffered from a lack of whispers since then.

In the current day, their services are somewhat obscure for most people, but even in the face of secular and scientific expansion, their clientele has never truly waned. Their loyal customers have always found them and trusted their competence. Certainly, non-believers consider their services nonsense, just as they reject the practices of palm reading, astrology, and mediumship, deeming them unsupported occultism, cheap magic tricks at best. However, Taehyung has always found such ideas naive; the universe cannot be neatly explained by science, which even the most mundane mystery can confirm. Why does halmeoni’s portrait fall off the wall at the mention of her inheritance? Why does a long lost friend call right as one is thinking their name? Coincidence is an unsophisticated reasoning for something that has a will.

Besides, having run the shop for almost a decade, Taehyung has found that there is no group of people that would be consistent in their beliefs. His customers come from every stage of life and socioeconomic class. Servers, teachers, corporate workers, and politicians all frequent his shop when they need him, pledging secrets that range in extraordinary degree. 

A person’s background is no indication of their whisper: some of the most tedious whispers have been pledged by cutthroat mobsters, while janitors and doctors have confessed to the vilest crimes Taehyung has ever known. Murders are pawned often, as are gravesites of bodies or buried wealth. Affairs, illegitimate children, and other family secrets are equally common pawns to pledge.

Of course, the majority of pledges are mostly harmless: personal fears and insecure acknowledgements such as “I don’t love him” or “I’m afraid that I’m a bad father.” Lovesick teenagers tend to pawn their feelings for their schoolmates, especially if they know that their love has no chance of being reciprocated. Celebrities use whisper pawns as non-disclosure agreements, ensuring that their lovers won’t reveal their affair to the public. 

Sometimes even children are brought to the shop to pawn their words, often to deny their parents, but this is the only rule for pawners that Taehyung strictly enforces: children cannot pledge whispers, and all people pawning their secrets must do so of their own will. Otherwise, his business has no conditions: anyone is welcome as his customer, and no secret is too grisly or unspeakable to pawn.

Most secrets are of relatively low value to the business, but since they are invaluable to their owners, who are also committed to redeeming them, the fees and interests generate satisfactory profit. Similar to the chiromancer’s monthly pledges, the majority of whispers buy their owners chewing gum and a packet of ramen. They are still important to the pawnshop: they ensure a steady stream of business, and more than that, make the shop appear sustainable in the eyes of the law. 

The real profit does not come from the pledges, of course — it comes from their resale. And not all customers ever make it back to the shop to repay their loan.

Murder admissions, drug trafficking intelligence, and investment secrets have high prices in the black market, but the official institutions are also willing to pay well. Criminals and crime investigators buy whispers equally, both about each other as well as about themselves. Moreover, since the trade of secret broking is protected, the practice only taught by brokers to their successors, The Whispers & Wonders Exchange remains the only pawnshop of its kind in Seoul. Impartial to every whisper, even the cruelest, most atrocious, Taehyung serves his customers with professionalism, just like his grandfather before him.

He knows nothing; at the same time, he knows everything.

5. Forfeiture:

5.1 In the event that the Client fails to redeem the pledged Whisper within the agreed-upon timeframe, the Whisper shall become the sole property of The Whispers & Wonders Exchange: Pawn and Trade, and the Client shall forfeit all rights to the Whisper.

6. Confidentiality:

6.1 The Whispers & Wonders Exchange: Pawn and Trade agrees to maintain strict confidentiality regarding the Whisper pledged by the Client and shall not disclose, share, or utilize the Whisper for any purpose other than facilitating the redemption process.

Naturally, another thing that Taehyung’s grandfather taught him was that no secret is unquestionably truthful — people’s beliefs never are. There is always a chance of accepting and then selling a lie. Their pledge agreement acknowledges this by requiring the client to pawn their whisper as they believe it to be true; pledging a lie is a breach of contract, but no sanction will ensue from whispering something that the customer truly thought was right. They agree to pledge the truth as best they know it, and so far, Taehyung has found his customers honest. Few dare risk losing relations with the secret broker; his services are that important. 

Once, a drug runner had come into the shop, pawning the location of his cargo — hundreds of bricks of cocaine and bundles of heroin, hidden in containers aboard a freight truck. His term of pledge had been only a few days, which had meant a significant loan with large interest. He had not returned to reclaim his whisper, so Taehyung had sold it to the highest bidder: his employer’s competition. The trade had led into a violent altercation between two syndicates, the whisper being a ruse instead of a lead, resulting in multiple deaths. However, that is the risk of commerce; it is business at the end of the day. The broker does not take the blame. 

It turned out, of course, that the drug runner had been deceived by his employer, a mere pawn in a ruthless scheme, and threatened to pawn something that he thought was true. The rival cartel had been drawn into a trap, demolished to the last man, and the victorious gang had sent Taehyung a reconciliatory tea set and a premium bottle of Bordeaux. It is poor manners to involve the secret broker; even the crime lords know that. 

Experience has taught Taehyung that people are not to be feared for their whispers, nor for the whispers they buy. The Whispers & Wonders Exchange serves everyone, regardless of the secrets involved. He may have sought a different profession, had he not been raised into his post. As it is, he doesn’t particularly mind it. The chiromancer may be a bore and the wine always runs out too soon, but all things considered, he leads an effortless life.

He doesn’t think about it too much, to be honest — signing his name on the line. After all, why should he? 

He has no whispers of his own. 

7. Entire Agreement:

7.1 This Agreement represents the entire understanding between the parties with regard to the subject matter herein and supersedes all prior agreements, negotiations, and understandings, whether oral or written.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF the parties hereto have executed this Agreement as of the date first above written.

[Signature of The Whispers & Wonders Exchange: Pawn and Trade Representative]

[Signature of Client]

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“You would tell me if you knew something.”

Hong Jinae’s voice sounds tired, as though she hasn’t slept a full night in months. She doesn’t turn to look at Namjoon when she speaks, only glancing over her shoulder to ensure that he is still standing behind her. Her movements are as drawn out as her words, lagging and wearily aloof. 

Clothed in a simple black dress with a scarf draped around her arms, neither obviously so but elegant designer, she appears tiny as a twig. Were Namjoon to guess, he would say that she weighs no more than the sum of a peony and a sigh of detached grief. Her heels are one size too big. She has crossed her arms over her chest and holds a half-empty champagne flute, its rim marked with a faint lipstick stain. Her make-up is flawless, as always — expected of someone in her position, even on the day of her husband’s funeral. Perhaps especially on this day. 

She has never failed to make Namjoon uneasy in her presence. Even now, as he keeps her company and waits for the memorial service to begin, he finds himself clutching the funeral program in his hand, his shoulders strained from tense disquiet. It is fortunate that they are not alone in the hall, surrounded by a scattered crowd of people clad in graceful black, and a pianist is playing a muted melody in the background, softening the notes of Adagio in G minor as best she can. Namjoon had seen Hong Jinae exchanging words with her earlier. The pianist had held her head low the entire conversation, nodding frantically as even the pink blush on her cheeks had faded into pale-white fear. 

It isn’t necessarily that Hong Jinae is frightening. She is simply rich and, as the rich often are, unyielding. Namjoon has been employed by the family for more than five years now, and still, he struggles to get used to their mindset, which learns its logic from prestige and eminence. The Jeon family remains his most challenging professional endeavor, and he would be hard-pressed to say that he enjoys his job as their Public Relations manager. It isn’t the job that he originally studied and trained for, intending to pursue journalism, nor is his compensation remarkably generous, especially considering the family’s unfathomable wealth. He stays for one reason, and for that one reason only. 

Hence, he also knows what she is referring to with the question she poses to him — whom. They are both watching the person in question greet guests by the funeral hall’s door, all their movements understated and tactful; restrained nods and respectfully deep bows. The time currently reserved, a gap of fifteen minutes in the funeral schedule, is for the family members to rest for a brief while, use the bathroom, and take a moment’s break from constant attention and conversation, but it appears that not everyone is granted that privilege. The only son of the late patriarch is naturally the person whose hand every guest hopes to shake and hold, offering their heartfelt condolences while ensuring good business relations for the future. 

Hong Jinae assumes that, since Namjoon is closer to her son’s age, he knows what Jeongguk is thinking. In truth, he never has. 

“He hasn’t mentioned anything,” he replies, keeping his voice politely composed despite his discomfort. 

“But he has been more withdrawn than usual,” Hong Jinae says, stating rather than asking, since Namjoon’s answer doesn’t please her and she expects him to revise his response. 

It is difficult to gauge what she wants him to tell her, especially since the last few weeks have exhausted Namjoon’s verbal repertoire completely and he is all out of pleasantries and bland remarks. The funeral, for what it’s worth, has progressed according to plan. The media has mostly behaved. Inquiries about the succession have been respectful, even if their timing has been inconsiderate so soon after the passing of the deceased, whose family should be allowed to mourn for him in peace. Namjoon has overseen most of the funeral arrangements from issuing the first formal press release announcing Jeon Ilsung’s death to coordinating with the venue, officiants, and security, managing a range of tasks that don’t even fall under his job description but end up on his desk regardless. 

Providing inept emotional support to an apathetic widow should definitely be somebody else’s errand. 

“Perhaps he has been withdrawn like a son who just lost his father,” he offers as his conciliating opinion, his gaze following along as Jeongguk holds the hands of an elderly lady and smiles gently at her condolences, compassionate and formal, as unreadable as always. 

Namjoon doubts that that is the reason for Jeongguk’s reticence. From what he has learned about Jeongguk’s relationship with his father in the time that he has worked for the family, the two got along well but didn’t know each other at all. They resembled coworkers more than a father and a son, often leading Namjoon to wonder whether they ever spent time together in a playground or if Jeon Ilsung brought his son to intern at the office the moment he could read and write. 

Whether his youth and status has anything to do with his personality, Jeongguk is reserved in general. He is tactful, well-mannered, and always frugal with his words. Matter-of-fact but never assertive, he is the paragon of politeness, focused on his work, and the ideal successor to any chairman of a company, which Namjoon alone seems to find discomfiting while the rest of the country commends it. 

Perhaps he wouldn’t consider it so worrisome, were Jeongguk flawed in other ways, but he is as faultless as he could possibly be: tall, attractive, and fit, his appearance compliments his character, cutting a handsome figure for the nation to stare at in awe. Being who he is, he is the most eligible bachelor; his picture is printed in every weekly tabloid along with an interview from a token trainer, barber or esthetician who claims to know exactly how Jeon Jeongguk takes care of his health and fitness. From a PR perspective, this is mostly harmless, and Namjoon rarely has to intervene. The family appears to regard it as good publicity anyway, and Jeongguk doesn’t seem to care at all.

The only time that Namjoon has ever seen a different side of him was the first night they met, back when Namjoon was still in university and interning in Jeon Group as a naive communications trainee. That night, and that one night only, there was wild fear in Jeongguk’s eyes: grief, sorrow, and raw remorse, as though his face had been cut open and all his emotions were bleeding out of him, frenzied and uncontrolled. Despite trying to calm him, Namjoon never learned why he was so distraught, and it never happened a second time. 

Even after the passing of his father, Jeongguk has handled his actions and emotions with meticulous poise. 

Namjoon’s reply, however, seems to relax Hong Jinae momentarily, since she sighs softly and concurs, “That’s right. He adored him.” She then asks, changing direction as swiftly as the wind, “Did Yunhee leave already?”

Namjoon nods. “She had an outbound flight the day before yesterday. She was sorry that she couldn’t attend the service and sent a wreath. I’m sure that she has spoken with Jeongguk this morning.” 

“Better this way,” Hong Jinae replies indifferently while glancing at a window on her left. “The weather is dismal. Where was she off to?”

There is probably no correlation between these two things. There is nothing wrong with the weather, either, although admittedly, it is a little overcast.  

“Venice, I believe,” Namjoon answers. 

Hong Jinae hums. Namjoon has yet to figure out what she thinks about her son’s girlfriend, but she doesn’t seem to be averse to her at the very least. Since Yunhee travels a lot for her job, her visits to South Korea are often brief, and Jeongguk usually spends those weekends with her somewhere where the rest of his family has no claim — luxury hotels, most likely, and rooftop dinners in lavish penthouses where no eyes can see. She is an amiable, calm person, whose company seems to reassure Jeongguk. Namjoon doesn’t know her all that well, but so far, she hasn’t made his job harder, which speaks in her favor. 

She and Jeongguk haven’t confirmed their relationship — either privately or publicly — but the assumption was made soon after they met. They are a good match: Yunhee, who is equally cultured and educated as Jeongguk, exudes modest class, and she is just as unassuming and humble as him; stunning, as well. There is no denying that the ease with which she holds Jeongguk’s attention bothers Namjoon on occasion, but he accepts the fact that he was never going to connect with Jeongguk in the same way as his peers. 

Or a beautiful, young woman. 

“I don’t know why he is like this,” Hong Jinae says suddenly, her frustration laid bare in her voice, as she watches her son bow to yet another fawning funeral guest. “I never have. He was this way as a child, too, never uttered a word of defiance. I almost wanted him to lash out when he was a teenager, but he never did. Nodded, nodded, nodded. I don’t know why he never developed a personality. Was he too weak to? Or was I?” 

Indeed, Hong Jinae has never failed to make Namjoon uneasy in her presence. It doesn’t matter: she doesn’t expect him to answer, rubbing her arm as though to placate a sudden cold shiver, and changes the topic once again by asking, “Anyway, have you spoken with Byeon Inshik?”

A senior executive in Jeon Group, acting as the interim chairman, Byeon Inshik is in charge of the succession plan as the company’s power structure now shifts and transforms, which is why Hong Jinae asks about him at this time. He is a close family friend and an experienced businessman who, in Namjoon’s honest opinion, might have been a more appropriate choice as the company’s director after Jeon Ilsung’s passing. However, he had begun arrangements to induct Jeongguk to his new role immediately after his father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and his prognosis sent him almost directly to end-of-life care. Namjoon found his loyalty respectable: Byeon Inshik stood by his friend and colleague’s death bed until his last breath, promising to guide his son in life and business with both Jeongguk and the company’s best interest in mind. 

If Jeongguk accepts his advice and guidance, he will perform well under Byeon Inshik’s mentorship.

“I held meetings with him last week,” Namjoon tells Hong Jinae now, straightening out slightly, feeling stiff after having spent a good while standing in the same position.

“And did my son attend those meetings?” 

This is the context for using the word ‘if’, which Hong Jinae is also aware of: for one reason or another, the only person in the company who Jeongguk seems to purposefully avoid is Byeon Inshik. Namjoon is unaware of any past disagreements, and he has never actually witnessed the two be at odds, but along with every other Jeon Group employee and member of the family, he has always sensed an air of tension whenever they have as much as locked eyes. Their elusive disregard for one another seems to emanate particularly from Jeongguk, but true to his character, he doesn’t let it affect their work. Rather, he just avoids Byeon Inshik whenever he can. 

Of course, Namjoon can’t be sure that the notices of absence relayed to him weren’t truthful, so he explains, “I was told that he took some time off to prepare for the funeral.”

Jeongguk made sure to send a cordial message each time he canceled on a meeting, apologizing to both Namjoon and Byeon Inshik for the trouble and promising to read their notes carefully when he found the time — which he did, leaving his own comments in the shared file. Namjoon didn’t mind it; most of those meetings concerned the roll-out to the media, drafting internal letters to shareholders, and arranging meetings with the board. Jeongguk’s presence and input wasn’t really required. 

Hong Jinae waves her hand to dismiss the topic. Her gaze seems to shift to the memorial picture of Jeon Ilsung hung up on the wall, surrounded by a lavish floral arrangement that reaches from the floor to the ceiling, encircling the decorated frame of his portrait with chrysanthemums, lilies, and carnations.

“He shouldn’t have died yet,” she says, a rare hint of longing in her voice which, for the first time in weeks, reveals her heartbreak as a widow. “Don’t you think so?”

Namjoon supposes that he should agree, but decides to remain silent. Jeon Ilsung was a good-humored man when he had a piece of Wagyu steak in his fork, a cigarette in his mouth, and another building with his name rising in the window toward the sky. His cancer diagnosis was naturally unfair and untimely, but also partly caused by his gluttonous lifestyle. Not many people were surprised to hear the news of his illness. Namjoon doesn’t want to think ill of the dead, but a shameful part of him still believes that Jeon Ilsung was a man who did not know the limit of enough, which cost him the eventide years of his life. 

Hong Jinae shrugs, setting her champagne glass on a high side table. She had requested the drink to calm her nerves and then barely touched it. “Let’s bury him then,” she announces tiredly as she fixes the scarf around her arms. “My dear husband.”

She glances at Namjoon to ensure, “You will keep an eye on my son, won’t you?” 

Namjoon nods, prompting Hong Jinae to turn her gaze to Jeongguk once more. He is now listening intently to a staff member, who is most likely informing him of the following funeral proceedings and what is expected of him during the prayers and rituals. 

“He is so quiet,” Hong Jinae laments, her disappointment furrowing her brow. “He can’t be quiet when he takes over the company. People won’t like it.”

It is debatable whether people really liked his father, either, but he became a successful construction tycoon nevertheless. Jeongguk doesn’t share many traits with his father, but the ones that he inherited from him are useful for his future as the head of Jeon Group: his focus, his business acumen, and his determination. Maybe Jeongguk isn’t as confrontational or aggressive with his ventures, but he has his own good features, which Namjoon believes should be acknowledged.

“Could it be that his calmness will instill faith in people about the company’s strength?” he suggests carefully.

“No,” Hong Jinae denies bluntly, casting him a disapproving look. Soberly serious, her tone as dry as her expression, she states, “It will make people think that he is keeping secrets.” 

Namjoon takes a few steadying breaths before following her to the funeral hall, where the memorial service is about to begin. A letter of recommendation for his resume can’t be worth sacrificing his mental health; he needs to hand in his notice while he still can. 

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In the ten years that Taehyung has managed business at The Exchange, the shop has remained largely unchanged from his grandfather’s time; however, without necessarily meaning to, he has imprinted subtle traces of his character all over its shelves and walls, cluttering the place with thoughtless bits and bobs.

Beneath his service desk, phone chargers intertwine with tangled bracelets and necklaces, while partially melted pillar candles adorn the windowsill and staircase leading to his upstairs apartment. His favorite take-away restaurant’s menu hangs askew behind the counter, hidden from the customers, its once vibrant print now faded and creased from the countless times that he has walked past it or reached for it to place his order. Naturally, there are some yellow-leaved plants and random curios here and there; some belong to him, some have been left behind by his customers and friends. 

He takes the afternoon to clean some of the mess, humming along to the flat audio of his phone, which is playing a laid-back fusion playlist, distorted with too much treble but good enough for the occasion. The shop is old, lacking the facilities for a proper sound system, and since its acoustics are designed for the sensitivity of whispering, there is no point in renovating it. Taehyung doesn’t care much, to be honest — his own voice fills the space regardless, and his thoughts fill whatever silence is left. 

He cleans the shelves beneath the counter, throwing away candy wrappers and receipts from the corner store, and transfers the chiromancer’s folder to the storage in the back. Picking up a feather duster, he then wipes the recorder walls tidy of any particles of dirt or dust, which is a task that can easily take hours: there are thousands of recordings in the shop, some stored in the basement, filling rows and rows of rolling stack shelves that make the space resemble a maze of narrow corridors. Each recorder shelf and wall must be kept spotless to ensure that the recordings don’t suffer harm: their locked cases are designed to endure time and damage, but a water leak, smoke, or simple neglect could easily distort the quality of sound, which is why the recordings must be attended to with utmost care and commitment. 

The recordings stored in the main shop are usually of the lowest value, and there is also a rotating system in place for the whispers that are soon due. Some of the recordings in the basement, however, are so old and have loan periods so long that Taehyung doesn’t know if he will ever learn their contents. This bothers him less than it probably should. As unnerving as it is to store secrets so dark that they have been pawned to never be heard by the people now alive, it is also quite exciting to stand atop such power and wealth. One day, those loans will be due, too, and the recordings’ interest profit and resale value will be enough to buy him — or his successor — a big diamond watch. 

As the leisurely hours pass on, Taehyung pours himself a glass of wine, occasionally swiping his thumb across his phone to change the song. A creature of habit, he studies himself from reflective surfaces, wondering if he should dye his hair back to black, and when he finds himself bored, he scrolls through social media sites or passes a level in a colorful mobile game, where he clears a board of jellies or fortifies the defenses of his village by constructing archer towers or barracks to train his troops. It’s lazy entertainment, but amusing enough to kill the time. 

A news site happens to be broadcasting footage from the funeral earlier in the day, displaying a stream of public figures and honored guests heading inside the Grand Hyatt, dressed in fashionable mourning attires with thin tissues in their hands as they wipe the corners of their eyes. Jeon is the family’s name, Taehyung discovers now, reading the news headline that appears at the bottom of the video: “Jeon Ilsung, Esteemed Chairman of Jeon Group, Honored at Memorial Service”. The late patriarch’s son walks beside his mother, then bows to the people outside, while the cameras flash and the news reporter narrates: 

“... the only son of Chairman Jeon Ilsung, 27-year-old Jeon Jeongguk, expressed gratitude to the people gathered outside for the arrangement of beautiful and thoughtful condolence wreaths before heading inside the funeral hall. Earlier, a family spokesperson informed the media that the engagement between Jeon Jeongguk and gallerist Dae Yunhee, daughter of renowned art curator Dae Dongyul, has not been confirmed despite rumors, emphasizing the family’s request for privacy during this time of mourning. Any official announcements about the succession will only be made after...”

Disinterested, Taehyung swipes up, continuing to read a news piece about a rail workers’ strike instead. The rich lead a life that’s wildly uninspiring, and he can’t say that he particularly cares about celebrity gossip. Of course, it is also true that his own everyday life is very normal, and he doesn’t consider himself any different from a local café owner or a bookstore keeper, so he doubts that his life would intrigue anyone either. Just like everyone else, he works, buys groceries, and laments that there is never anything to eat in the fridge. He takes walks, gets his hair cut, and goes to dinner with his friends. But what else is there to do or desire? All in all, he is more than content. 

He doesn’t even mind the fact that he has never lived anywhere other than The Exchange. The shop is his home. He was raised there: when his parents were still alive, they used to have their own apartment across the street, but Taehyung never spent any time there, playing with his grandfather in the shop instead. His memories from his childhood are incoherent and vague. His mother died when he was young and his father soon after she had passed. Most of what Taehyung knows and remembers about them he learned from the stories that his grandfather told him, which then sparked recollections of laughter, soft murmurs, and loving hugs. But they don’t amount to much. 

The only place where the presence — and absence — of his parents is writ large is the single empty wall in the shop, where his mother’s painting used to be hung up, but Taehyung barely remembers its details anymore. He keeps a photograph on his nightstand of himself standing in front of the wall when he was only three or four years old, which reveals the corner of the painting’s decorated frame but nothing else. His father sold the painting after his mother died, and the space on the wall has remained empty since. Taehyung isn’t bothered by it, even if he would love to own his mother’s painting, the last concrete memory that exists of her. But, in a room full of secrets, it is good to have one place where his thoughts can rest. 

Arranging the recordings at the far-end of the shop, Taehyung is surprised to hear the bell ring above the front door. He lifts his head up to heed the incomer, his gaze fixing on a man around his age who steps into the shop with cautious regard. The door locks automatically after he lets it close behind him, which doesn’t startle him despite clicking shut. He doesn’t appear to notice Taehyung yet, which allows him a moment to observe his potential customer. He wears a black suit that fits him impeccably, with a few raindrops glimmering on the shoulders — just as Taehyung had suspected, it has started to rain. A curious grin spreads across his face. 

Well, I’ll be damned.

The man who has walked into his pawnshop is none other than Jeon Jeongguk, the chaebol heir that Taehyung just saw on the late afternoon news report, an hour ago at most. He is definitely supposed to be at his father’s memorial reception, but instead he is here, on the other side of town, in a place that no one enters by accident — especially on a day like this one. 

“Good evening,” Taehyung greets him courteously, making himself known. “Welcome to The Whispers & Wonders Exchange. How may I help you today?” 

Jeongguk flinches, drawing in a sharp breath, as his eyes widen at the sight of him. At first, he doesn’t respond, and Taehyung can’t help but find the situation amusing. The poor man looks like a duck out of water, clearly out of his element, and Taehyung’s sudden appearance seems to have struck him even dumber. It is difficult to infer what he might be thinking, but they must both be asking themselves the same question: what in seven hells is the son of the late Chairman Jeon doing in Insadong?

“Sir?” Taehyung prompts after a while of stunned silence. “How may I—?” 

“Hello.” 

Jeongguk’s reply is surprising, a brief and breathless first word, and his voice is much softer than Taehyung had expected. For a moment, the shop rests in a strange yet calm hush, accompanied only by the gentle drops of rain on the window glass. The trouble is that the wine has already made Taehyung’s cheeks rosy, which also means that he is feeling cheeky, a trait of his that has always revealed itself after a glass or two of dry red. There is a handsome rich man in front of him — how could he possibly resist the opportunity to tease him a bit? After all, it is not often that he receives customers quite as intriguing as this.

“Hello,” he repeats genially, taking another step forward as he holds Jeongguk’s gaze and proposes, “Perhaps, since you are here, you are looking for the whisper monger? The rumor dealer?” A roguish grin of jesting in his tone, he winks, “The private affair peddler?”

The look on Jeon Jeongguk’s face remains unchanged, guarded and hard to read, but his eyes reveal his confusion. Feeling sorry for a man who just lost his father, Taehyung gives in to reassure him and politely introduces himself. 

Bowing with due respect, he brings his hand to his chest and announces, “Secret broker Kim Taehyung, at your service. Buy or pawn?”

After Jeongguk still says nothing, Taehyung furrows his brow and clarifies, “Here at The Exchange, we—”

“I’m aware. Thank you.” Finally he speaks, although his voice sounds agitated and slightly short of breath. Evidently uncomfortable, he shifts his gaze and says, “I wish... To pawn a whisper.”

Taehyung has absolutely no objections to that. In fact, he is more than willing to provide that service for Jeon Jeongguk, enlivened by the prospect of having him as his client. Of all people who could have wandered into his shop, it is the dead man’s son who has arrived to pledge his whisper. What do you know? The day that was bound to be quiet for business might just turn out to be the highlight of his month. 

“Of course,” Taehyung replies, heading behind the counter to retrieve an empty pledge agreement form. “Have you pawned before?”

“No.”

Taehyung nods. Having left his wine glass on the desk, he moves it out of his way, noticing that Jeongguk’s gaze follows it. Maybe it is not common for a business owner to enjoy an alcoholic beverage during his work hours, but there isn’t anything wrong with it per se. Besides, Taehyung’s profession isn’t entirely conventional anyway, so he hardly thinks that it’s a sin. 

Amused, he glances at the wine and asks, “Can I offer you a glass? To take off the edge?”

“No, thank you,” Jeon Jeongguk answers succinctly, although there isn’t any notable judgment in his voice. 

“Sure?” Taehyung inquires, gently playful. “It’s Cabernet Sauvignon. Decent year, too.”

Even so, Jeongguk refuses. It is his loss; the wine really is agreeable, full-bodied and fruit-forward, and the tannins are delightfully soft. Taehyung chooses this particular brand often, always storing a bottle or two in his shelf. Maybe Jeongguk prefers spirits or rather enjoys a cold, bitter beer. To each their own, naturally.  

Picking up his pen to fill in the first blanks in the contract, Taehyung asks, “Your name?”

He asks for the sake of good manners; it would be indecorous of him to reveal that he already knows. 

“Jeon Jeongguk.”

“And what may I call you during this meeting?” Taehyung continues, writing his name on the line. 

However, this time he doesn’t receive an immediate answer, and he lifts up his gaze to see that Jeongguk has turned his eyes on the empty wall where the painting used to be. He is now staring at it blankly, another inscrutable expression on his face. 

Although he appears distracted, he answers, “You may call me Jeongguk.”

Squinting dubiously, Taehyung concludes that the rich truly are strange. Still, he reminds himself that he should give Jeongguk the benefit of the doubt: the man is clearly disconcerted by the day’s events and probably not quite right in his mind. His father was the chairman of a construction business giant — now that he is gone, what lies ahead in Jeon Jeongguk’s future? Taehyung wouldn’t change places with him if he was paid to do it.

“Jeongguk-nim,” he confirms. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Filling out the next blanks in the contract — his own name, the date — he assumes a more professional approach to their conversation, stating, “You said that you haven’t pawned whispers before. Would you like me to talk you through the process before we move forward? Explain the basics, the practical details?”

“I’m not entirely unfamiliar but... Remind me,” Jeongguk answers, finally shifting his gaze back to Taehyung as he adds, “Please.” 

As odd as he may be, he sure is polite. 

Taehyung straightens out, gesturing at the shop, and reiterates the same monologue that he tells all his new customers, even if it always makes him feel like a tedious historian giving an equally tedious lecture. Inspiring confidence in new clients, however, is important.

“The Whispers & Wonders Exchange has provided the service of secret pawning in Insadong since the 1920s, and in Daegu before that,” he says. “We are the only whisper pawnshop in Seoul, and one of three in South Korea. As our trade is protected, we take a lot of pride in our business. All our clients’ whispers are handled with the greatest care, and we keep our interest rates moderate to ensure reasonable prices. We may be entrepreneurs, but we are not extortionists, nor do we discriminate against anyone. Whisper pawning is a service that everyone should afford. Currently, our shop stores more than 8000 whispers, recorded in the past 60 years.”

Jeon Jeongguk listens intently, nodding occasionally to signal that he understands what Taehyung is telling him. It appears as though he is genuinely interested, which is bizarre considering the nature of his day, but Taehyung reckons that his presentation is providing him with a welcome distraction from his grief. 

“This,” Taehyung taps at the contract on the counter, “is the pledge agreement in which you, the customer, and I, representative of the pawnshop, agree on the terms of your pledge. Most details are negotiable, and we will carefully discuss each question as we go.” 

Rotating his shoulders, he points at the recorder wall behind his back. 

“These are the recorders. They are devices designed specifically to record, store, and return whispers, and they are preserved in locked cases that only the pawnbroker — myself — can access until the whispers are reclaimed.”

At this point of his speech, many customers ask what would happen to their whisper, were the pawnbroker unable to access their recording; that is, who would be the keeper of their secret, should the pawnbroker vanish or be killed. Taehyung reassures them: the secret brokers of other cities would know the classified customs of their trade. Jeongguk, however, asks nothing, waiting for Taehyung to continue. 

“The price of the whisper — the loan and its interest — is determined by its quality as well as the period of the loan,” he goes on to explain, recovering a laminated brochure from under the desk. “Here is a price estimation list of the most common whispers, but naturally, each pledge is unique.” 

Taehyung certainly wonders what will be the price range under which Jeon Jeongguk’s whisper will fall. He has been proven wrong many times before, but he still doubts that Jeongguk’s secret places on the lower end of the price list. Those are usually innocent love confessions or harmless white lies — the types of whispers that the chiromancer also pawns. The middle grid has more variation, secrets ranging from cheating on one’s spouse to embezzlement or tax evasion; they are whispers that can cause their pawner serious social and monetary damage, such as divorce, debt, or even jail. 

The most expensive secrets are so scandalous and reprehensible that their whisperers rarely ever face any consequences for them. This is because, as costly as they are, they are almost always in other ways protected: they have long loan periods, additional security and insurance, and they are most times redeemed. Politicians, in particular, typically ensure that no one discovers their disreputable deeds.

The loan periods are negotiated with each customer individually, although Taehyung often advises his clients on a timeline that is most suitable for them considering the interest as well as their changing life situations — no one can predict tomorrow’s griefs. If they fail to redeem their whisper when the loan is first due, renegotiations are always possible, but delays add fees to the full sum, of course. Taehyung does occasionally forgive a loan, but he can’t do it often. Business is business at the end of the day, and he is not only responsible to the pawnshop, but to all the secret brokers practicing the trade. 

Some of this, although not all, Taehyung also tells Jeongguk.

“The pawnbroker assesses the price upon initial description; that is, a general summary of the contents of the whisper that the customer provides in writing,” he explains, turning the page in the pledge agreement to show Jeongguk the blank space. “The agreement is not binding at this point, and the broker does not gain access to your whisper until both parties have signed the contract and the whisper has been recorded.” 

He tends to waive this section with regular customers such as the chiromancer, having an accustomed sense of what the price and value for their whisper will be. Jeon Jeongguk, however, is a completely new acquaintance, and a chaebol heir at that. Educated in both business and law, he must be pedantic with his contracts and always on the top of his own benefit. Taehyung may be more street-savvy with his schooling, but he won’t be outwitted by a rich boy in his own field. 

To his surprise, however, Jeongguk is hesitant: looking down, his gaze is fixed on the agreement, and he is gnawing on his lower lip, which is a habit that he probably shouldn’t entertain. 

Taehyung lifts his brows, inquiring, “Is everything up to your standards so far?”

“Yes,” Jeongguk responds promptly, glancing up. “Sorry. I have no complaints. Only...” As he clenches his jaw slightly, a dimple appears in his cheek. 

“Any questions you might have, I’m happy to answer,” Taehyung offers, preparing himself for a propitiating wrangle. His customers can get finicky, nervous as they are about pawning their whisper, which is why placating their fears and worries isn’t new to him, even if it is tiring. His secret to surviving customer service is his ability to withstand endless repetition with a winsome smile on his face. 

But Jeon Jeongguk seems to have a worry of his own that he hopes to appease Taehyung about. Apologetic, he admits, “I can’t disclose my whisper in full. Yet.”

Taehyung nods. “Whatever you are comfortable with.”

It really isn’t anything preposterous; unusual, maybe, but nothing that Taehyung hasn’t negotiated with his customers before. Perhaps Jeongguk would like to reconsider for a few more days. Taehyung can draft the agreement and keep it on hand for his return. 

Jeongguk purses his mouth, assessing his options. “It is possible to pledge in installments?” he posits suddenly, each word carefully chosen. “Say... Seven? Seven installments?”

Secret brokers do not ask questions; secret brokers do not pass judgment. In spite of this, Taehyung takes heed, discreetly schooling his face. Disregarding all the possible implications of such a strange request, a calculation begins computing in his head, estimating the fees and interests of seven separate secrets, all of which add to one total sum. In a matter of seconds, he decides that the trade is definitely possible — but Jeon Jeongguk needs to be made aware of its conditions. 

“Sure,” he answers. “But the value of the secret might change as more information accumulates, therefore affecting its full price. It may increase in worth or suffer a decline. You understand that I can’t accept one part of a whisper without assessing its full value first.” 

Jeongguk looks uncomfortable but persists despite it.

“I have studied the market value of my whisper,” he says, speaking like the businessman he is for the first time, assuming a congruous tone. For some reason, it doesn’t match his youthful appearance at all. “In case I fail to redeem it in time. I believe that my secret is not easily sellable as such, so I don’t give it much monetary value from the pawnshop’s perspective. However, it is invaluable to me. I only wish to surrender it for now. Naturally, I am prepared to pay the appropriate interest. Compensate you fairly for... holding it for me. For a while.” 

Peculiar, peculiar. It has certainly been a fascinating first meeting so far. Tilting his head, Taehyung narrows his eyes and asks, “What kind of compensation are we talking about?” 

That is: how big of a loan does Jeon Jeongguk want in exchange for his whisper and its seven parts? 

“For the first part, I think, ₩1,500 000.”

It’s pennies if Taehyung is being honest, but Jeongguk doesn’t need the money anyway. He needs a secret keeper, and that’s the real service that they’re bargaining about right now.

“But,” Jeongguk then adds awkwardly, as though he also understands the risk that Taehyung would be taking, lending the money to him without sufficient promise that it’s good business. “More, as I return to pawn the rest of it. Depending on each installment. My situation might change, so I can’t give an exact estimate of what I would be borrowing. For the time being.” 

He sounds uneasy yet determined with each word he speaks, and Taehyung grants him leniency. There is no reason for him to assume that Jeongguk wouldn’t return to pay back his loan and reclaim his whisper. He doesn’t come off as someone untrustworthy and, judging by his reserved conviction, he has a lot to lose. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be in Taehyung’s shop on the day of his father’s funeral. So, Taehyung decides to trust him. 

“₩1,500 000 won it is,” he agrees. “Normally, a loan period for a sum like this would be anything from three to six months, but since this is only the first pledge, I propose a full year, starting from this day. ”

“I am fine with that,” Jeongguk answers with a solemn nod. “Thank you.”

“Would you like to receive your loan by cash or card?” Taehyung continues. “There are some restrictions to this. Loans over ten million generally have to be—”

“It doesn’t matter. In your terms. Cash, if that’s alright.”

It is difficult to define Jeongguk’s character, but his eyes are the mirror of his mind. Although Taehyung doesn’t know him well enough to interpret him yet, he finds it interesting that sometimes Jeongguk’s gaze is intent, fixed on him in a stare, and sometimes he averts his eyes, casting his gaze down as though he is ashamed. It amuses Taehyung to an extent: here is Jeon Jeongguk, undoubtedly raised in laurels, and he is the most self-effacing man that Taehyung has ever met. Even the chiromancer demands more attention to himself, despite deserving barely a speck of it. 

Thinking about this, Taehyung suppresses a chuckle, beginning to fill in the details of their negotiation to the pledge agreement. 

“And would you like to buy additional insurance?” he asks casually, though maybe with a slight, rascally curiosity about whether he can extract more money from Jeongguk. Besides, it may not be a bad idea in Jeongguk’s position: surely, there must be people who would be interested in acquiring his secret should word of his whisper get out, dishonorable means included. Destroying the whisper in case of emergency is the costliest service that the pawnshop provides, but they can also arrange separate storage and special encodings for the lockable case.

Jeongguk knits his brow. “Is there a need for it?” 

“Our safety system is very good, but we are a simple business at the end of the day,” Taehyung replies, nonchalant. “The last time our shop was broken into was in the 90s, but you can never be too sure.”

“But you have adequate security,” Jeongguk clarifies, and Taehyung finds it impossible, once again, to not be tongue in cheek with him.

“And relations with the police for good measure,” he reassures, lightening his tone playfully when he adds, “I have a decadent history of disorderly conduct, but that’s all been sorted out.”

Jeongguk eyes him dubiously. “Meaning?”

Taehyung shrugs, as though there is nothing bizarre about it, and answers, “Depending on the day: mischief, misdeed, and misbehavior. Rest assured, though! The precinct and I get along splendidly these days.”

“Felonies?” Jeongguk asks, clearly distrusting and completely missing the joke, so Taehyung brings his hand to his chest.

“What? I wouldn’t dare,” he gasps, feigning offense, and corrects, “Shenanigans.” He grins with a pleased wink. 

Perhaps his jesting doesn’t translate as well as he hopes, because Jeongguk still looks doubtful, a frown of suspicion lingering across his face. Giving in, Taehyung takes on a more serious approach.

“Jeongguk-nim,” he says. “You know that I’m only pulling your leg. These whispers are my livelihood. You really believe that I would ever be careless with them by doing something illegal?” 

Save, maybe, for the few times when he has nicked a bottle of wine and caramel popcorn with Jimin from the corner store, but they were young back then, so that doesn’t really count. The adjacent charges about indecent exposure were also dropped after they explained that they possibly couldn’t swim in the fountain with their pants on. 

“Besides,” Taehyung continues airily, shrugging to play up his confidence, “I can easily rough up an odd robber or two if push comes to shove.”

Adjusting his gaze slightly, Jeongguk glances at Taehyung’s attire, scrutinizing his leather jacket — somewhat inconvenient for a scuffle — as well as his loose trousers, the long pants of which hide a pair of sandals. His expression doesn’t necessarily judge or disapprove, but perhaps it draws due attention to practical hindrances.

“Well, maybe not today,” Taehyung comments, although he still doesn’t accept unjustified defeat. “But does a man need to wear boxing gloves in order to be strong?”

“No,” Jeongguk replies without delay, lowering his eyes. His voice wanes off slightly when he adds, “I much rather they don’t, actually.”

He doesn’t elaborate, nor does it seem like he wants to discuss it any further, so Taehyung returns to the pledge agreement, finished aside from their signatures. Turning the contract around for Jeongguk to read and sign, he then proceeds to retrieve an unused recorder, taking it out of its case. As he is setting a combination for the lock — based on a system that his great-grandfather designed, obscure yet easy enough to memorize — Jeongguk suddenly speaks up again. 

“When I whisper my secret,” he begins warily, holding the ballpoint pen in his hand that he is yet to use for his signature. “Will I forget it?”

“No,” Taehyung denies, understanding the fear behind his question. “You will simply lose ownership of the words; the ability to express it. To speak it, to write it and so on. That’s a relief to most people: knowing something but not being able to speak it means that they can’t accidentally reveal anything, even if they’re intoxicated or otherwise not fully in control of themselves. This reassures many.”

“But you have ways to make your customers forget, don’t you?”

Taehyung pauses. 

Not many of his customers know this, but the practice of accepting secrets as pawns — the ability to do it, to take them and hold them until the pledge is fulfilled — has a long history of trial and error. The procedure has been honed to excellence over centuries of practice, with each secret broker not only learning the trade from their predecessor but improving it in their own turn. In the early days, the methods used were not as precise and reliable as they are today. By bold venture or by accident, as secret brokers practiced their trade, the method of recollection also came into existence: the ability to take a person’s memories, not only their words, extracting entire years and decades from their mind. 

However, while available for purchase in theory, the practice isn’t advertised, and the reasons for that aren’t light.

“Would you like to forget?” Taehyung asks watchfully, studying Jeongguk’s demeanor. 

Carefully defensive, Jeongguk withdraws. “I’m simply asking,” he answers, although the truth lies withheld between his words, hidden right behind his tongue. 

Taehyung remains quiet for a brief while but then answers, “We do have practices for that. But the service is currently unavailable.”

“How so?”

How so, how so. The history of recollection is not a casual topic for small-talk and certainly not one that Taehyung wishes to delve into right now. Where Jeongguk has learned about it bothers him somewhat, but not enough to ask and find himself giving answers to questions that he, himself, doesn’t want to be asked.

Therefore, to sidetrack Jeongguk and steer their conversation away from discomfort, Taehyung adjusts his approach and chuckles, “For the cost of facilities needed, the deposit is very expensive. It’s simply unwise to provide a service that few can afford. It’s poor business.”

Luckily, Jeongguk seems to accept his explanation. Committed to his own pledge, he replies, “In that case, I would still like to pawn my whisper. The first part.” To finalize their agreement, he signs his name on the contract right next to Taehyung’s. 

Taehyung nods, taking the papers, tucking them under the service desk. It is at this point that he feels a tingle of excitement tickling his stomach, which is a symptom of his curiosity growing restless. He hadn’t asked Jeongguk to write a summary of his whisper in the end, opting to run the risk instead, and now his imagination is beginning to perk up. 

As he inspects the recorder briefly to ensure that it is set for recording, he inquires flippantly, “So, how long have you been keeping this whisper?”

In the years that he has been a secret broker, he has gotten quite good at assessing his customers’ behavior, guessing the contents of their whispers. Cheaters, for one, often have a similar contortion on their face, betraying their guilt as well as their fear. Jeongguk, however, hasn’t allowed any clues to slip past his reserved expression, which is all the more reason for Taehyung to speculate. If Jeongguk has even considered recollection for his whisper, it must be something exceptional that he is hiding. He has arrived to pawn his secret on the day of his father’s funeral, which must not be an inconsequential detail. So, what will it be? Murder? Theft? Identity fraud? The possibilities are endless.

“Seven years.” 

“Ah,” Taehyung concurs, nodding. “Seven years for seven secrets.”

It both intrigues and bemuses him that Jeongguk’s voice sounds strung out, his throat tight with tension, when he then corrects him and says, “Seven years. One secret.” 

Taehyung glances at him but chooses not to respond. Instead, he extends his hand to offer him the recorder. 

“Well, let’s do it then, and relieve you of your first whisper,” he says. “Would you like to record here or use our studio in the back? The front door is locked, and the windows are one-way, so no one will be able to see or hear you either way.”

“Here is good,” Jeongguk answers tersely, prompting Taehyung to nod. 

“Just switch the toggle on and whisper what you wish,” he instructs.

Jeongguk’s hand trembles when he takes the recorder from Taehyung, slow and cautious so as not to let their fingers touch. Taehyung watches him curiously, analyzing his movements. Jeongguk appears nervous, studying the recorder on his palm. Judging by his apprehension, Taehyung gets the feeling that he is about to hear the most fascinating whisper that the pawnshop has accepted in a long time.

And finally, with his gaze cast down, taking a shuddering breath, Jeon Jeongguk brings the recorder to his lips.

₇ ₆ ₅ ₄ ₃ ₂ ₁

“You will never guess who whispered to me today.”

Occult Confetti is as crowded as ever, but Jimin always manages to reserve them a table by the open upstairs window which faces onto the bustling bar street below. As Taehyung pulls his chair out, he drops a tabloid on the table with a rustling thud, tapping the cover with his finger. It is loud in the bar, every seat taken, and the cacophony of laughing voices and clinking glasses allows him just enough privacy to brag.

“The wife?” Jimin guesses as he sees the people photographed in the cover, surrounded by garish headlines. As Taehyung then shakes his head, he widens his eyes and gasps, “No! The son?”

Taehyung grins proudly, pleased with the incredulity that flares up on Jimin’s face. He had seen the tabloid in a streetside tobacco stand on his way to the bar and grabbed it in the wink of an eye, suddenly amused at the thought of getting to chuckle at celebrity drama in the company of good friends. Hoseok is yet to arrive but Jimin is the perfect audience, greedy for hearsay as much as he tends to deny that he cares. 

He proves this right, remarking derisively, “Pawning whispers and his father’s body isn’t even cold in his casket yet? The rich are ruthless. Give me that.” He snatches the magazine to study it further, beginning to flip through its pages to the spread covering the passing of Jeon Ilsung and the fate of his copious estate — though, more importantly, his personable son and heir. 

Setting his drink down on the table — which is sticky with dried rings of liquor and triggers a mildly disgusted grimace — Taehyung sits down. It’s not entirely effortless, as the person sitting behind his back is a little too close for comfort, and the space under the table isn’t exactly abundant for long legs. He wouldn’t be anywhere else, though. A regular weekday night in Occult Confetti doesn’t differ much from the weekend, the second floor always just as full as the first. Yet, it must be Taehyung’s favorite place. 

Serving a creative variety of cheap cocktails and savory meals, the colorful bar-bistro is the choice of every quaint local in Jongno-gu. The lighting in the bar is described by glows of purple and red, accented by the dim yellow of arbitrary ceiling lamps which are mostly there for the plants. In each table, eccentric groups of friends are engaged in equally eccentric pastimes, ranging from card tricks to tarot readings and arcane board games. Open till the early morning, no one in Occult Confetti will have to rush home tonight. Granted, its bohemian customers rarely do so regardless.

Furrowing his brow as he reaches the page that he was looking for, Jimin ponders, “Does he even need the money? Didn’t he just become the richest man in the country?” 

“Storage,” Taehyung shrugs, taking a sip of his corpse reviver, which gently nurtures the headache that he got from the wine. “Admitted it himself.” 

There is a fine line that Taehyung has to follow in order to keep his customers’ trust and confidence, but Jimin has always been the keeper of his secrets; even the secret broker needs a trusted friend. Against expectations, the bar is also a safe place to share and tell: everyone there is focused on their own banter, and the upstairs is always so noisy that Taehyung can barely hear himself.

“That’s not all, though,” he reveals next, quirking his brow at Jimin’s expectant glare. “He wanted to pledge it in installments. Apparently, the whisper is so important to him, he didn’t want to pawn it all at once.” 

“You’re kidding,” Jimin replies, his voice still honeycombed with astonishment, as judgy as it is thrilled. “What could be that huge?”

“I don’t know,” Taehyung answers. “Couldn’t really tell much from the first part.”

He doesn’t really know what he had expected, but it sure hadn’t been what Jeongguk whispered. That said, he hadn’t been disappointed. If anything, he had felt even more excited. 

“Aren’t you curious?” Jimin inquires, prompting Taehyung to grin.

“Dying. Six more secrets in store.”

“Damn it,” Jimin then cusses, shaking his head, although a faint smile plays on his lips. “I’m actually a little jealous. How much did he ask for it?”

Taehyung obviously can’t say — the whisper doesn’t belong to him, nor are the details of the contract his to share with anyone else — but nothing really prevents him from using figures of speech. 

“Dimes,” he answers, simultaneously dismissing the matter as insignificant. Of course, the amount that Jeongguk had requested is a lot more money than what most of Taehyung’s customers borrow, but he is a billionaire. The net worth written next to his name on Naver is obscene, as Taehyung had found out on the way. Someone else’s monthly rent must be the price of an Iced Americano from his point of view, if even that. It’s probably what he gives to his doorman as a tip.

“Huh,” Jimin says, musing on his reply. “What was he like? Cool, calm and collected? Or sweating in a tremble?”

“Neither,” Taehyung replies truthfully. “And both.”

Jeongguk had certainly appeared nervous, glancing around the room and avoiding Taehyung’s eyes, short of breath and shoulders tense. Definitely guilty of something, he had seemed ashamed of being there, which isn’t unusual for the pawnshop’s customers. However, he had also stood straight, maintaining his composure. He had been focused, attentive, and well-prepared. Therefore, it remains difficult for Taehyung to analyze his demeanor. Jeongguk’s way of carrying himself is simply strange. 

“It might have been because of this, though,” Taehyung adds, sliding his finger to the word ‘funeral’ on the magazine spread. 

“Sure,” Jimin agrees, his tone instantly softening with compassion as he studies Jeongguk’s picture. It is a cut-out of him in a collage with his parents and other members of family that Taehyung doesn’t recognize. Jeongguk is at the front, the most prominent figure among them all. Jimin sympathizes, “I can’t imagine what today was like for him.” 

Taehyung hums. He doesn’t remember much from his parents’ funerals, his most distinct memories concerning the itchiness of his suit, but the memorial service that he arranged for his grandfather was tough. Holding himself together was a challenge unlike he had ever experienced before, barely twenty years old and bowing at funeral guests that he hardly knew at all. Back then, all he wanted to do was hide in a dark room and cry. There had been plenty of time to prepare — his grandfather’s passing hadn’t been sudden, and the day of had been calm as well — but Taehyung still hadn’t been ready for the crippling realization that he was going to be by himself from thereon. 

He alone would take care of business, he alone would carry on the legacy of secret pawning in Seoul. There would be no one to confide in or ask questions from. No one to drink tea with in the morning.

When able to escape the mourning strangers paying their respects, he had found that his hands were shaking unremittingly, like marcescent leaves in the gust of autumn wind. 

“Says here that he has a fiancée,” Jimin announces suddenly, turning the tabloid around to show Taehyung her picture, next to which there is a small bio box about her life and career. “She’s pretty. What do we think: meet-cute or arranged marriage?”

“Do people still do that?” Taehyung questions. 

“The rich probably do,” Jimin shrugs. “Not to take a jab at his intelligence, but how else would he have met and fallen in love with a properly educated woman — or she with him?” Reading the tabloid further, he continues, “Moreover, apparently he is 5’10, works out seven days a week, and follows a strict diet prepared by his private chef. The perfect man. No wonder he is pawning his secrets. After he takes over his father’s empire, the journos will go after him like vultures.”

Taehyung must agree: there are few media industries in the world as ravenous for scandal as South Korea’s. 

Keeping his gaze fixed on the magazine as he casually browses it, Jimin then asks, “Well, did anyone else noteworthy make use of your services this week? Madonna, maybe? The president? Lim Young Woong?” 

Taehyung shakes his head. His most notable whispers had been stock trade secrets, which are always boring enough to put him to sleep on his feet. A young wife, a mother of barely a four-month-old baby, had also come in to confess that she had had an abortion in secret from her husband, terrified at the thought of having another child so soon after the birth of her first. Although it wasn’t needed, perhaps she had seeked absolution, as she had hopelessly sobbed and explained that she was feeling overwhelmed and abandoned in her marital home, married to a man who believed that a mother should be able to take care of her child by herself, intuitively knowing what to do. 

Taehyung had held her baby as she had cried and then whispered, clutching her stomach as brokenhearted tears spilled down her face. After she left, he had crossed the agreed interest rate from her contract. If she would one day return to redeem her whisper, she wouldn’t have to pay a penny past what she left with. 

“Well, at least Mr. Successor came in to save your week,” Jimin remarks, raising his head as a waiter approaches their table, carrying a tray of dishes and deliciously steaming bowls. “Finally!” he squeals, tabloid instantly cast aside. “I was starving, so I ordered for both of us when I arrived. Figured that you probably wouldn’t mind.”

Taehyung certainly doesn’t, never one to turn down a plate of late-night bulgogi. The waiter has some difficulty reaching them, having to tiptoe between cramped chairs and dodge the swinging arms of tipsy customers, but eventually, he manages to fill their table with sliced beef, rice, lettuce, and banchan, the colorful assortment of which has Taehyung anticipating their flavors in awe.

“Yes, I will marry you,” he tells Jimin, eager to grab his chopsticks and dig in. “Is Hobi-hyung coming?” 

“Ah, no, he sent a text,” Jimin answers, sorry to relay the news, thanking the waiter briefly before adding, “He said that one of his regulars booked an emergency treatment all of a sudden. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

It is a shame, since Taehyung had looked forward to seeing him after a while, but he also understands that Hoseok is an entrepreneur, the same as him. He probably wouldn’t turn down a customer either, especially if good relations were at stake. 

“Good for him,” he says, cutting a piece of lettuce in half to fill it with the meat, which he also dips in spicy soybean sauce. He doesn’t recall eating all day and now relishes the opportunity; it is often that he forgets breakfast, lunch and dinner and only snacks at night. The thought simply doesn’t cross his mind. “What’s going on with you then? Have you settled in yet?” 

Taehyung hasn’t actually seen Jimin’s new apartment yet, as his move had only taken place a few weeks ago. Having to move because his old landlord had decided to sell, Jimin had chosen to relocate to a relatively new apartment building, renting a one-bedroom loft with tall windows and a balcony. He had sent Taehyung the ad for the place, and Taehyung had easily been able to picture Jimin living there. The rent had been comfortable too, so the decision had been easy to make. 

Now, however, Jimin’s expression clouds over. 

“Yes, but now I’m doubting if I made the right choice.”

Surprised, Taehyung lifts his brows. “Why?”

“There is a spirit in my building,” Jimin grumbles, making Taehyung’s eyes blow wide. 

“But I thought you made sure that no one was there when you went to the showing?” 

As a medium, Jimin is always careful with the buildings he steps into, ensuring that nothing — or no one — there can reach out to him in any way or form. No spiritist likes to be caught off guard. Moreover, he often only offers his services to the living, relaying messages to dead relatives or helping with paranormal investigations. This is not to show prejudice against spirits, but the fact remains: the living can actually pay their bills. 

“I did,” he now answers as he also begins piling food on his plate, his tone revealing a hint of annoyance. “Multiple times. He refused to appear. I think it’s because he resides in the entire building, not just my apartment. He wasn’t there for the showing, but he sure likes my living room now.”

Taehyung can’t comprehend it. “Who is he? How did he die?” 

“I’m not sure yet. He is being a little stubborn.” Sighing, Jimin lets his shoulders slump. “He is a few years older than us, I think, and it can’t be too long since he died. The building is so new. I ran some searches but nothing came up. According to the records, no one’s died there, ever.” 

It definitely sounds suspicious to Taehyung. “That’s odd.” 

Miserable, too: from the sound of it, the man is someone whose death hasn’t affected anyone enough to make them notice. That would definitely be cause not to pass on.

“I know,” Jimin replies. “The first time I saw him I was in the elevator. Scared me half to death. An enclosed space! Like, really?” Faintly irked, he rolls his eyes. 

It truly is a stroke of luck that Taehyung is a secret broker and not a medium; he doesn’t think he could manage the element of (mostly eerie) surprise. 

“What are you going to do?” he asks. 

Jimin makes a face, sullen with worry. “I don’t know yet. I think I’ll try to talk with him first before I make any decisions. My rental contract is fixed-term, so I really don’t want to have to pay the fine if I leave before the year is up. But I also don’t want to live where I work, you know? He’s gonna want something at some point.” 

“Yeah, I get you,” Taehyung nods. “Imagine him watching you sleep.”

At this, Jimin exaggerates a shiver of disgust. Then, he moves on to a different topic, swallowing a mouthful of spinach before casually inquiring, “Speaking of, how are the nightmares? Have the herbs worked?”

Regretful, Taehyung has to shake his head. “They were bad for my stomach. I wanted to ask hyung tonight if he’d book me in again. That helped a little, I think.” 

“What did he use on you last time?”

Taehyung has to rack his brain to recall it. “Selenite.”

Jimin, although he has no real knowledge of crystal healing, seems to endorse Hoseok’s choice. Nodding approvingly, he says, “Tell him to try clear quartz.”

“And what does that do?”

“It deters negative energy. If something is lurking around in the shadows after all, we want to make sure that you’re protected.” Squinting with sudden mischief, Jimin muses, “I should actually come with you. Maybe the spirit will leave me alone if my immune system is jacked up.” 

There is nothing to lose in trying, Taehyung supposes, even if he highly doubts that his nightmares have anything to do with spirits other than himself. The profession of secret brokers is a psychological struggle, which is also why many of Taehyung’s more experienced colleagues are batshit crazy by the time they retire — or cynical mossbacks with no hope for the future. Anyone with a moral compass finds their fundamental task difficult: the duty of learning and then having to safekeep the most horrifying secrets and deeds known to man. Taehyung handles his job well, but an odd nightmare troubles him now and then, resulting in restless nights. He doesn’t worry about it too much, but admittedly, it is stressful.

Sometimes, he wakes up to a sob clawing out of his throat, his body covered in a sweat. What he dreams about is nothing — an emptiness so vast, so somber black, that he struggles to take a breath. In those nightmares, he feels as though he is imploding, being crushed under inconceivable supreme weight, but as horridly good as being fully collapsed would feel like, he is denied it: something always prevents that release. He can never quite explain his nightmares in detail, never mind begin to fathom out what they mean, but whenever he has one, he awakes knowing that something is amiss. Maybe it’s his code of honor. It doesn’t really matter, as long as he still sleeps. 

Stuffing more food into his mouth, Jimin glances at the tabloid that he had discarded, which has been left open on the table under the bowls of food.

“Ooh, horoscopes!” he blurts out as he is still chewing, tugging the magazine closer to get a better look. “Let’s see, hm, Capricorn? You will meet a tall, dark stranger. How about that?”

Which reminds Taehyung — “Should I dye my hair again?”

“What?” Jimin yelps, instantly opposed to the idea. “No, it’s stunning. I love that dirty blonde. Especially now that it’s a little wet from the rain. You look like a sexy rat.” Pointing his chopsticks at the tabloid before dipping them into kimchi, he remarks, “It didn’t actually say that, by the way.”

Taehyung shrugs. It could have; he did meet a tall, dark stranger, if a man wearing a black funeral suit counts. In that regard, his horoscope already holds true.

“Apparently, an unexpected encounter with someone from your past will bring you clarity,” Jimin then reads, reciting the actual prediction. 

“Aha,” Taehyung replies, softly amused by what he hears. Perhaps change is also on the horizon and a surprising opportunity will come his way, leading him to a path of growth and transformation — or whatever it is that these things usually say. “And what does it foresee for you?” 

He doesn’t overlook astrology by any means, but he finds the magazine horoscopes funny. The astrologers who write them only show effort if they are paid enough for their predictions — which is absolutely right and fair — but the publishing world is the playpen of penny-pinchers, reducing expenses wherever they can. Therefore, the weekly and monthly celestial readings tend to be somewhat lazy; Taehyung imagines that the astrologers write them minutes before they are due, jadedly recycling generalities from their phrase bank. 

Hilariously, however, Jimin stares daggers at the tabloid and mutters, “That I must balance work and personal life to achieve harmony.” 

Taehyung can’t suppress his snicker, snorting into his rice.

Jimin huffs, his humor cut short. “Whatever! Eat your food and get us some soju. I want to challenge the drunk magicians to a game of darts.”

Taehyung grins, but he has nothing against that plan. The magicians are comical when handed small objects, naturally keen to entertain. Sometimes it’s a paper parasol that flies across the air to the dartboard, sometimes it’s a bird. Liquor spills, laughter roars, and all worries disappear. So, he gladly obeys, nods, and eats.

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As unusual as his week may already have been, only two days later it turns out to be even more so, as the bell rings in the afternoon right after four. 

Raising his gaze from the agreements that he is sorting, Taehyung is met with a tall man in a light-gray suit, wearing a pair of thin-rimmed glasses and carrying a leather briefcase. When he steps in through the door, he gives the shop an expressionless once-over, scrutinizing it for a moment before acknowledging Taehyung. Today, the day is bright and sunny, but his appearance is pale and buttoned-up — an office man, for sure. Taehyung crosses his arms over his chest and waits for him to initiate their meeting; whatever will ensue. 

When the man finally turns his gaze, he proceeds to nod his head cordially and say, “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Taehyung greets him likewise, holding back a subtle smile. With a clear view of the man’s face, he now recognizes him from the news. Briefly shown on the broadcast from Jeon Ilsung’s funeral, he is the spokesperson for the family, and here now, in Taehyung’s shop. 

His month-end close keeps getting better by the day.

“Kim Namjoon,” the man introduces himself, stepping up to the counter. His voice is much lower than Taehyung had expected. Speaking like a practiced professional, he continues, “I am here on behalf of Jeon Group, as a representative of the late Chairman Jeon, his extended family, and the heir apparent. I believe that you have met him earlier this week.”

My, my, Taehyung thinks to himself, yet another curious thrill atingle in his gut. 

“Kim Taehyung,” he answers. “Representative for The Whispers & Wonders Exchange.” He can’t help but marvel at how much their conversation reminds him of the other day, just as intriguing and odd. Deciding to play his part once more, he inquires, “Are you familiar with our business? Would you like to pawn something?”

“I’ve done some research,” Kim Namjoon replies curtly, polite yet standing firm. “But no, thank you.”

“Perhaps something to go, then?” Taehyung gestures at the recordings on sale, an array of cheap whispers about the price of an ice cream waffle. Sometimes people pop in to entertain themselves by buying random secrets; the kids, in particular, find them hilarious. 

Kim Namjoon, however, ignores his offer. Taking a composed breath, he pushes his shoulders back slightly and says, “I understand that your business is well-established.” 

“The oldest one in Seoul,” Taehyung agrees, matching Kim Namjoon’s overly deferential tone. It seems that he is here for a very particular reason, the cause of which is beginning to unfold. “We have provided secret pawning here for over a hundred years.” 

“Then I assume that your policies on confidentiality are reasonably strict?” 

And there it is, just as Taehyung conjectured. “Indisputably,” he answers, but refuses to elaborate or explain their practices further, cautious not to discover himself the target of underhanded disdain. Kim Namjoon doesn’t bear the appearance of a dishonest man, but he is employed by the richest of the rich — not just Jeongguk, but the entire household of renown and wealth.  

“Then I also assume—” 

Taehyung narrows his eyes, interjecting, “I beg your pardon, and I do not mean to presume, but is there a reason for you to doubt the integrity of my business? What is your purpose here, representative?” 

His question silences Kim Namjoon effectively, who stares at Taehyung for a moment before shaking his head and assuring, “No, no. I trust your discretion.” 

Then, he suddenly sighs, allowing his true thoughts to reveal themselves on his face. First and foremost, he looks stressed, like a man who has long since been defeated by the demands of his job. 

“You understand, Taehyung-nim, that his father just died,” he continues tiredly, as though they have already been talking about Jeongguk their entire conversation. “He is in a vulnerable state. I only ask that you take this into account, should he visit you again. That you honor his trust as you do with all your customers.”

Visit again he will — for six times, at least. This, however, is not something that Taehyung would reveal to just anyone, and especially to the spokesperson of Jeon Group. 

“Why?” he remarks instead, retaining a civil yet unyielding tone. “Does the Jeon family have secrets so twisted that they are not fit for my services?” 

“No,” Kim Namjoon denies tactfully. “Naturally not.” 

The circles under his eyes tell otherwise.

Contrary to his determination when he first arrived, he suddenly nods and announces, “Well. I will be on my way. Thank you for your cooperation. Perhaps we will meet again.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything, quietly watching him leave the shop. He doesn’t necessarily want to be distrustful, but he has already signed his name elsewhere; that is, Jeon Jeongguk’s pledge agreement for one secret in seven parts. Regardless of how many people will wander in to try their luck and find out what it is, Taehyung’s loyalty has already been promised.  

Everything about it is puzzling, to say the least. Taehyung has heard almost every dark secret in Seoul. He knows the most gruesome, violent, and abhorrent sins; the crimes, the deeds, and the burial sites of brutally killed teens. Yet, in the ten years that he has been a secret broker, never has he been as curious about a single whisper.

A secret is never necessarily true, which is something to always keep in mind. Despite this, Taehyung doesn’t think that Jeongguk has lied. After all, he has rarely heard a whisper as sincere as his — or as haunted by years-suffered guilt.

“I didn’t do it.”

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