Wonbin peels back the curtain on a secret society controlling the industry, learning the terrifying cost of fame and the brutal hierarchy governing the idols he knows.
Choi Mingyu
Meet me at the pocha next to Yongsan Station at 7pm sharp.
Make sure no one is following you.
It was a dark, rainy week in Seoul. The city was just a wash of headlights and concrete leaking water from every direction. After weeks of multiple unreturned calls, back-to-back texts, and bounced emails, Choi Mingyu finally got back to me. No apology, no explanation, not even a half-assed excuse. I couldn’t say I was relieved he replied at all, and I still didn’t know whether or not I could actually trust him, but I desperately needed answers.
Wonyoung was on another solo trip, and I was no longer naïve enough to believe that it could mean anything else. And unlike last time, she didn’t assign me to serve any of her members. In fact, she never summoned me again after that night we spent together. Out of nowhere, our master and slave relationship vaporized into thin air, but that only made things worse. My fear of losing her was stronger than ever before, and it didn’t help that I wasn’t even allowed to know where she was headed this time—just that she was ‘going to be fine’ and to ‘stop worrying, dummy’.
Manager Kim gradually became less responsive and always changed the topic whenever I asked about her travels or random disappearances, eventually telling me that I shouldn’t have access to her schedule anymore now that I was a full-time student again. My Starship credentials were revoked shortly after. No more badges, no more visits, and worst of all, no more information.
I had no one left on my side besides Yujin. But something told me that even she was keeping a handful of secrets from me. I didn’t have any proof, I just felt it in my bones.
There was nothing else I could do. I didn’t know how or when it came to this, but the dragon had taken my princess, and I was running out of options. And time.
I dropped my umbrella at the entrance and followed Mingyu’s instructions in finding the farthest table of the outdoors area underneath the leaking roof. It sounded confusing, but I somehow got it on the first try.
There was a circle of ahjusshis guzzling soju about five tables away, grumbling and laughing like they’d been glued there for decades, but other than that, we were alone. Almost too alone.
“Sit.” Mingyu nodded at the bench. His face was pale under the fluorescent lamp, eyes baggy as if he had forgotten what sleep was. He opened a bottle of soju, and judging by the two empty ones on the table, he hadn’t waited for me.
“Thanks for meeting me—”
“Eat.” He nudged an empty bowl at me, sloppily scooping some budaejjigae into it, as if almost desperate to appear normal.
“Alright, sure,” I muttered, carefully taking it, even though a bit had already spilled onto the table.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he just poured me a glass of soju straight to the top.
“So,” he finally said, taking another shot without even offering a toast. “How much do you know already?”
“A lot, but also not enough.”
“Good answer.” His face scrunched from the alcohol. “What do you want to know then?”
“Who’s the black heart?” I asked, straight to the point. It was a question that had been tearing me from the inside out from the moment I first saw it on her phone.
“I don’t know his name,” he said flatly. “No one does.”
“You’ve never met him?”
He shook his head. “Never. It’s damn near impossible.”
“So then what is he?”
He poured himself another shot, pushing mine closer. “We call him the King of Spades.”
The rain picked up and the rattle above us got twice as loud.
“King of Spades?” I repeated. “Like in a deck of cards?”
“Not so loud,” he hissed, eyes darting everywhere. “Rule number one: you never know who’s listening.”
“Sorry,” I whispered, glancing over my shoulder to make sure there weren’t any raindrops spying on us. “What the hell is a King of Spades? A codename for sponsorship?”
“No, they’re not sponsors. Anyone with a stack of money can be a sponsor. This is way beyond that. You can’t buy your way into this.”
“So then what is he, chaebol?”
“Listen carefully, what I’m about to tell you is completely off the records.” He leaned in, eyes wet with either sweat, tears, or rain. “Back in the early 80s, before k-pop even existed, when the government was deathly corrupt and desperate to expand our global presence beyond just exporting and manufacturing, all the Old Money—politicians, chaebol heirs, media tycoons—banded together and formed a secret society, running everything from the shadows.”
“What’s everything?”
“Everything. The entire entertainment industry. The whole idol system that you know today was created by them.”
I waited for him to laugh, to double back and say he was bullshitting, that it was all a test. But there was only the sound of heavy rain, the smell of soju, and the half-eaten pot of budaejjigae simmering in front of us. His tired eyes were still locked on the empty street like someone might be listening.
None of it felt real, but none of it felt like a lie, either.
“So then the King of Spades or whatever is the leader of this secret organization? ”
“One of the leaders.” He slurped on a spoonful of broth loudly, as if wanting to drown out the conversation. “The Four Kings are what drive the global economy and influence for hallyu. The King of Spades for Korea, Clubs for America, Diamonds for China, and Hearts for Japan. ”
“Let me get this straight—you’re telling me a bunch of crime lords run everything behind the scenes—”
He squinted. “Crime? What crime?”
“I don’t know, sex trafficking?”
He laughed so hard his glass tipped, splashing soju across the table like it was rain. “Trafficking? You think your little girlfriend was forced into this shit or something? She could walk away tomorrow completely unscathed if she wanted to.”
My fists balled up. “So why hasn’t she?”
“Why don’t you take a wild guess?”
“Are you trying to say she’s choosing to do this?” I knew my voice was too loud, but I couldn’t dial it down. “That she’s just too stupid to know any better?”
He leaned forward, elbow creaking on the table edge. “Use your brain for a second. People don’t suddenly stop doing things that destroy them just because they know it’s bad. Aren’t you living proof of that? I warned you to walk away, and yet you still begged me to meet you, so you tell me—are you too stupid to know better?”
“I have a purpose!” I grunted, almost slamming the table.
“Everyone has a fucking purpose for what they’re doing, kid. You’re not special.” He poured another drink, spilling some down his jacket sleeve.
“And exactly what purpose would Jang Wonyoung of all people have to be his god damned sex slave?”
“Because Jang Wonyoung wouldn’t be Jang Wonyoung if she wasn’t his fucktoy. Is that clear enough or are you still stuck in middle school?”
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