The safehouse had been silent only moments ago. Dust motes floated in the air, the faint hum of the generator echoing in the back. But now the silence was strangling, stretched taut by the figure sitting in the corner cot.
Dr. Hwan Ji-tae.
Lin's throat tightened. He remembered that face, though it was older now, scarred by burns and etched with new lines. The sharp jaw, the cold set of his eyes—it was impossible to forget. This was the man who had stood in the observation decks above the laboratories, scribbling notes as Lin screamed against restraints. This was the man who had told the others, clinical and detached, "Increase the dosage. He will adapt."
And this was the man Lin had seen die.
"I watched you burn," Lin said, his voice low and cracking. "I saw the fire take you when the compound fell."
Hwan tilted his head slightly, a thin smile pulling at his lips. "And yet, here I am."
