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By midnight, he had cycled through eighteen names. Eighteen men who had eaten at his table, laughed at his jokes, taken his referrals, cashed his goodwill like currency. Eighteen walls. He sat in a rented room—his penthouse key had stopped working at 9 p.m.—and finally allowed himself the feeling he had been outrunning since the restaurant. Not guilt. Min-ho did not do guilt. But something older and more animal: the slow, cellular understanding that he had made an error so complete there was no