The Pochamacha Noir - Busan Redemption
Copyright© 2025 by Noctavya
Chapter 13: The Torture
Drama Sex Story: Chapter 13: The Torture - A retired Korean Black Ops made a heartwarming friendship with a prostitute
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Coercion Consensual Drunk/Drugged NonConsensual Rape Fiction Military Tear Jerker BDSM Rough Safe Sex Revenge Violence AI Generated
Hana stood in front of the convenience store in her uniform, the neon sign buzzing behind her. She didn’t go in.
She walked straight past the door, past the curious eyes of her manager who’d been halfway through scolding a junior employee. Her presence caught him off-guard.
“I quit,” she said flatly.
“Huh? Wait, what—?”
But she was already walking away.
Back home, Hana stepped into the bathroom, turned the faucet all the way to cold, and let the freezing water pour over her. It didn’t help. Nothing could scrub away what she felt in her chest.
She packed a small black duffel bag with the precision of habit — spare clothes, power bank, fake IDs, burner phone, gun.
She called a secure number.
A man picked up. “Yo.”
“It’s me,” Hana said.
A pause. “I thought you were out.”
“I am.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because you owe me. Remember Busan Port?”
A sharp exhale. “Shit.”
“Park Sang Mi. I need a favor.”
Another pause. “How deep?”
“Quiet. Quick. No flags.”
“Fine. I’ll call you back.”
She hung up and immediately opened her laptop. A few encrypted windows later, she was moving a large sum of untraceable cash into an account belonging to a woman in the countryside — Sang Mi’s grandmother.
Hana forged a letter from a fictitious Osaka-based hotel chain, complete with logos, stamps, and a fake contact line. A job offer. A supposed training program. Signed and sealed.
She dressed in a crisp navy-blue blazer and a knee-length pencil skirt, low heels and a clean, clipped bun. She could’ve passed for a mid-level HR manager from Lotte.
The bus ride to the village was slow, filled with dust and silence.
Sang Mi’s grandmother opened the door, her face lighting up with simple kindness. Her hands were wrinkled and calloused, her back slightly bent, but her voice was warm.
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