The crowd in the night market had swallowed them whole. Neon reflected off puddles, the air thick with smoke from skewers sizzling on open grills, the smell of roasted squid and burning sugar clinging to their clothes. Lin pushed forward, Keller at his shoulder, Min-joon stumbling in their wake, and the scout still bound, dragged half against his will, half by his own defiant stride.
But beneath the noise of the city, Lin heard it—sirens in the distance, too faint for the crowd to notice but sharp enough to pierce his ears. A pattern. Not random. Moving closer.
"Shit," Keller muttered, tightening his grip on the pistol hidden under his jacket. "They're triangulating. That tracker's live."
Min-joon glanced between them, panic flashing in his wide eyes. "We… we can't just keep running. They'll box us in!"
