A Period on the Seabed
"Fifty million US dollars! Cash! Union Bank of Switzerland! Secret account! Code: XXXX-XXXX-XXX! Authorization password: Alpha-Seven-Zulu-Niner! Transfer it now! Immediately! Right now! All of it to you! Please, don't kill me!"
Walton's hoarse, blood-stained, and desperately trembling roar echoed in the empty, cold warehouse, intertwining with the dull rumble of the cement mixer truck, creating a brutal picture of survival.
His remaining left eye was fixed on the man in the white suit, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, his pupils dilated with extreme fear and pleading, reflecting the cold, assessing face of the man in the white suit.
The translator quickly and accurately translated the account code and authorization password into Korean. The man in the white suit listened, and his eyes behind his gold-rimmed Glasses flickered slightly—a mixture of satisfaction and cruel interest, like a hunter watching his prey finally pull out its last trump card.
He didn't speak immediately, nor did he move the gun away. He simply continued to scrutinize the United States old man in the oil drum with his cold eyes. Half of his face was a bloody mess, his complexion was ashen from the pain and blood loss, and his body was still trembling uncontrollably. It was as if he were admiring an old object that was about to be dismantled, once magnificent but now worthless.
A few seconds of suffocating silence. Only Walton's heavy, intermittent breathing and the ceaseless rumble of the cement mixer in the distance.
Finally, the man in the white suit nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. The pressure on the gun barrel pressed against Walton's temple eased slightly, but he didn't move it. He turned his head and gave a few brief instructions in Korean to one of his men beside him.
The subordinate immediately pulled out an expensive-looking satellite phone with physical buttons and an additional encryption module, as well as a thin but sturdy military-grade ruggedized laptop. He walked to a relatively clean open space, squatted down, placed the equipment on a makeshift wooden crate, and quickly powered it on and connected it.
Throughout the entire process, the gun in the white suit was always subtly pointed at Walton's forehead, his eyes never leaving him. Walton dared not breathe, his heart pounding as if it would explode, waves of excruciating pain from his ear wound mingling with the dizziness and coldness from blood loss, but he held on with his remaining willpower, staring longingly at the subordinate operating the equipment, as if that was his only salvation.
The operator moved with practiced speed and efficiency. He first dialed a satellite number, spoke a few words in hushed Korean, and then began typing on the laptop. The cold light of the screen illuminated his expressionless face. He entered the account code and authorization password provided by Walton, his fingers flying across the keyboard, performing complex verifications and navigation.
Time ticked by, each second feeling like an eternity. The atmosphere in the warehouse was stagnant, broken only by the soft tapping of keyboards and Walton's increasingly faint breathing. His bodyguards watched all this from the nearby oil drums, their eyes filled with anger, despair, and a sliver of hope.
About five minutes later, the operator looked up, nodded to the man in the white suit, and said something in Korean, his voice very soft.
The corners of the man in the white suit's mouth finally and clearly curled upwards, revealing a genuine smile filled with predatory pleasure.
He moved the gun barrel, which had been pressed against Walton's temple, but did not put it away. With the cold barrel of the pistol, he gently patted Walton's intact left cheek, which was now soaked with cold sweat and blood, as if patting a pet.
"Very good, Richard," the man in the white suit said in heavily accented but exceptionally clear English, each word like an ice pellet hitting concrete, "Very cooperative."
He straightened up, no longer looking at Walton, but instead glancing with satisfaction at the transfer confirmation screen displayed on his subordinate's computer. The astronomical figure representing fifty-four million US dollars (including interest and fees) was quietly lying in an offshore account belonging to the "Seven Star Group".
The money is in hand.
The man in the white suit seemed to be in a better mood. He even took out the blood-stained handkerchief he had just used and slowly wiped away non-existent dust from the silver pistol, then wiped away the dried bloodstains on his cuff.
The movements were elegant, as if a pleasant business transaction had just been completed, rather than a bloody extortion.
Walton's heart eased slightly as the gun was moved away and the white-suited man's tone softened. Although the wound was throbbing with pain, although he felt utterly humiliated, and although he knew this "life-saving money" was his last hope for a comeback, at least... his life seemed to be spared for the time being? He greedily inhaled the air filled with the smell of rust and blood, the weakness of surviving the ordeal and the chilling fear still clinging to him.
Just then, the man in the white suit finished wiping his pistol and casually tossed his dirty handkerchief on the ground. He waved casually at his two men beside him and nodded his chin toward Walton's oil drum.
The two henchmen immediately stepped forward, expressionless and swift. Each grabbed one of Walton's shoulders and his arm still protruding from the barrel, and without a word, forcefully shoved him back into the oil drum! The rough plastic walls rubbed against the wounds on his back and arms, bringing new stinging pain.
"No! What are you doing?! The money has been paid! You promised! Let me go! Lee Byung-hun! Chairman Lee! I need to see Chairman Lee! You can't do this!"
Walton awoke from his brief, illusory hope with a burst of even more piercing, desperate screams and curses. He kicked the barrel walls frantically, twisting his body wildly in an attempt to resist.
But his injured, blood-lost, and bound body was powerless against the two well-trained strong men. His head was forcibly pressed down, and a hastily cut metal lid with holes was roughly slammed onto the top of the oil drum with a "bang," and secured tightly with clips! Only a few ventilation holes were left.
The inside of the oil drum instantly became dark and oppressive, filled with the sweet, metallic scent of his own blood and the pungent smell of plastic and engine oil. Walton was trapped in this narrow, cold cylinder, with only the faint, distorted light filtering through the holes. Boundless fear and the fury of being utterly deceived overwhelmed him like a cold tide.
"Let me out! You treacherous bastards! You son of a bitch Lee Byung-hun- hun! I curse you to hell! My money! My money! Liar! Let me go!"
With his last ounce of strength, he frantically kicked and pounded against the walls of the oil drum, making muffled thuds. Hoarse curses and howls emanated from the holes in the drum lid, echoing throughout the warehouse, filled with the desolation and madness of someone at their wit's end.
The man in the white suit outside watched with a leisurely air as the blue oil drum swayed slightly due to the violent struggle inside. He listened to the dull thuds and desperate curses emanating from within, his face showing no impatience, but rather a cruel, cat -Rat- like pleasure.
He waited a few seconds until the shouting and cursing inside gradually became weak and intermittent due to exhaustion and lack of oxygen. Then, he slowly strolled to the oil drum, bent down, and put his ear close to one of the larger holes in the drum wall, as if listening to some beautiful music.
Then, he straightened up and tapped the cold plastic bucket with the barrel of the silver pistol in his hand, neither too hard nor too soft, but with a certain rhythm.
"Clang, clang, clang."
The crisp tapping sound drowned out the faint sobbing coming from inside the bucket.
Walton, inside the barrel, seemed to be startled by the knocking sound. His struggles and whimpers temporarily ceased, leaving only heavy, painful breathing coming from the hole.
The man in the white suit straightened up with satisfaction. He leaned closer to another hole, bending down so that his lips were almost touching the edge of the hole.
Then, in clear, fluent English, though with a slight accent, but with perfect grammar, he spoke slowly and deliberately into the dark interior of the oil drum. His voice wasn't loud, but it was enough for the person inside to hear every syllable:
"Mr. Mr. Walton..."
Inside the bucket, Walton's breathing suddenly stopped.
Mr. Lin. Lin sends his regards.
These words, like the most vicious curse and the coldest judgment, pierced through the hole, penetrated the darkness, and precisely struck the core of Walton's collapsing consciousness.
Inside the bucket, time seemed to stand still.
Walton's every movement, sound, and thought froze completely in that moment. The excruciating pain in his ears, the frantic pounding of his heart, the fear of death, the anger at betrayal... everything vanished before those seemingly casual yet incredibly weighty words.
Mr. Lin.
Lin.
That name. The one that brought him down from the clouds, stole his life's work, forced him to flee to a foreign land, and ultimately made him hide here like a stray dog, only to be ruthlessly dragged out and manipulated at will... the young man from the East.
How could he?! Lee Byung-hun... is Lin Feng's man? No, not necessarily his man, but at least... they've been in contact for a while? Or, is this all a setup by Lin Feng?
From the moment he set foot on South Korea soil—no, perhaps from the moment he decided to choose South Korea as his place of escape, or even earlier... had he already stepped into this carefully prepared trap, ostensibly a "friendly reception" but in reality a "death trap"?
It turns out there was never any so-called "safety" or "opportunity." It turns out that Lee Byung-hun's warm hospitality, grand plans, and brotherly address were all just bait to lull him into complacency. It turns out that what he thought was his last gamble and his ambition to make a comeback were, in the eyes of the other party, nothing more than a cruel cat-and-mouse game with a predetermined ending.
All the scheming, all the struggles, all the forbearance, all the barely surviving... in the end, it was all a joke. He was like a clown, performing "escape" and "survival" on the stage set up by the other party, unaware that the director behind the scenes was always that young man named Lin Feng, whom he had never even truly met.
At this moment, the other party didn't even bother to show themselves. They simply sent a henchman from the South Korea mafia with a casual "greeting," thus announcing his final fate and utterly crushing his last shred of dignity and illusion.
A chilling despair, harder than the iron walls of the oil drums, more biting than the air in the warehouse, instantly engulfed him. He opened his mouth, wanting to utter a final, unwilling curse, or a sigh of relief, but something seemed to be tightly blocking his throat, preventing him from making a sound.
Inside the dark oil drum, only his last, barely audible breath, a mixture of endless fear, sudden realization, regret, and utter resignation, could be heard.
Then--
Bang!
A muffled gunshot, absorbed by the thick plastic and metal parts, came from inside the oil drum. It wasn't very loud, but it was clear enough. The bullet pierced through a thinner section of the drum wall, leaving wisps of smoke drifting out from the hole.
Inside the bucket, all the struggling, all the sobbing, all the breathing abruptly ceased.
Utter, eternal silence.
The man in the white suit straightened up, wrinkled his nose in disgust, as if he had smelled something unpleasant. Without even glancing at the now-still-moving oil drum, he casually tossed the still-warm silver pistol to one of his subordinates, who stood at attention beside him, as if it were trash.
Then, he raised his hands, like the most elegant conductor on a symphony stage, and made a clear and powerful "start" gesture to the constantly rumbling cement mixer truck.
The driver of the mixer truck seemed to have been waiting for this signal. The sound of the huge drum turning suddenly intensified, and the gate at the discharge port was opened with a "creak" by the hydraulic device.
The grayish-black, viscous cement slurry, not yet fully solidified, like the vomit of a dragon or turbid blood gushing from the depths of the earth, poured out of the large metal discharge chute with a "rumbling" sound!
The murky cement slurry was precisely aimed at the hole at the top of the blue oil drum containing Walton's body, and poured in! The cement quickly filled every inch of the drum, overflowing clothing, submerging limbs, covering the head, sealing the mouth and nose, and solidifying all traces of life and existence.
The same process was being carried out coldly, efficiently, and silently on several other oil drums containing the bodies of bodyguards. Only the chilling gurgling sound of flowing cement and the roar of the cement mixer engine were the only sounds in this abandoned dock warehouse.
Several hours later, the cement had completely solidified. The oil drum was completely sealed by the welding torch, turning it into several incredibly heavy, airtight concrete columns.
Late at night, an old-fashioned van without any markings silently drove into a small, abandoned fishing port near Busan, where only a few dilapidated fishing boats were stranded. Several heavy oil drums were rolled off the truck and loaded onto one of the barely usable fishing boats.
In the thick darkness, the fishing boats, with all their lights off, sailed out of the dilapidated harbor like ghost ships, venturing into the open sea. Until the last light from the land disappeared below the dark horizon, leaving only the boundless, inky black sea and the howling wind.
Upon reaching the designated coordinates—a deep-sea area near the Japan Trench, more than two thousand meters deep—the crew used crowbars and ropes to push the several exceptionally heavy oil drums filled with cement, one by one, off the ship's side.
"Thump... thump... thump..."
The heavy object plunged into the deep sea, making only a few muffled, brief splashes and small ripples before being quickly swallowed by the endless, dark waters.
They will sink deeper and deeper, enduring increasingly terrifying water pressure, until they finally lie quietly in the cold, dark, high-pressure, eternally silent seabed silt, becoming an unknown secret of the deep ocean, accompanied by rusted shipwrecks and ancient whale bones, never to see the light of day again.
The fishing boat turned back and quickly disappeared into the deepest darkness before dawn. The sea returned to calm, as if nothing had happened.
On the same night, in Seoul, on the top floor of a luxurious villa overlooking the Han River in Hannam-dong.
Lee Byung-hun, dressed in a silk bathrobe, stood alone in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, holding a glass of amber-colored 30-year-old the Macallan whisky. Outside, the Seoul lay asleep, still brightly lit. His expression was calm, even carrying a hint of weariness from having finished his work.
The satellite phone screen on the table lit up briefly, and a short message popped up. "Done."
Lee Byung-hun glanced at it, a faint, satisfied smile curving his lips. He raised his glass, offering a slight toast to the east (roughly in the direction of Seattle, United States) seen from the window.
Then, he tilted his head back and downed the expensive liquid in the glass in one gulp. The strong liquor slid down his throat, bringing a burning sensation.
He put down his wine glass, picked up his personal phone, opened an encrypted messaging app, and tapped on a contact named "Lin" (whose profile picture was blank). He quickly typed a line of Korean, thought for a moment, then deleted it and replaced it with a shorter English text:
"The gift has been delivered to the deep sea. It was a pleasure working with you. Looking forward to the next time."
Click to send.
Almost the instant the message displayed "delivered," a notification popped up at the top of the phone screen from a private bank in Switzerland that the funds had been deposited.
A substantial sum, ostensibly for "consulting services," was transferred from a distant Cayman Islands account to the account designated by Lee Byung-hun. The amount was just a fraction of Walton's "life-saving money," but it was still quite substantial.
Lee Byung-hun looked at the notification, his smile deepening. He turned off the screen, walked to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself another small glass.
Outside the window, the sky over Seoul began to glow with a cold, pale light of dawn.
A new day is about to begin.
Everything from the past, including a man named Richard Walton, and the empire, ambition, fear, and struggles he once possessed, has sunk forever into the deepest, coldest darkness of the Pacific Ocean, along with those oil drums filled with cement.
The period at the bottom of the sea has been drawn.