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Chapter 17 - Borders and Bloodlines

The Port

The cargo ship's engine thrummed beneath my feet as Incheon Harbor shrank behind us, its glittering skyline swallowed by the predawn fog. The deck reeked of diesel and rotting fish, the metallic tang of rust mixing with the salt spray stinging my face.

Haewon leaned against the railing beside me, her stolen baseball cap pulled low. The wind tugged at her ponytail, whipping strands of hair across her face. She didn't bother pushing them away.

"Next stop, Fukuoka," she said, voice barely audible over the engine's growl. "Assuming Minjae's forgeries don't get us arrested at customs."

I glanced over my shoulder. Minjae sat cross-legged between crates of frozen squid, his bruised fingers flying across a laptop balanced on his knees. The swelling around his left eye had gone down, but the cut on his lip was still fresh.

"You sure your hacker contact can get us Japanese visas?" I asked.

Haewon adjusted the wire tucked behind her ear—our only lifeline to the outside world. "He's not *my* contact. He's the guy who owes my grandfather three life debts."

A seagull shrieked overhead. Below deck, a crewman shouted in Mandarin, his voice swallowed by the creak of straining metal.

Fun fact: We were stowaways on a ship owned by Yoon Corp's biggest competitor.

Fun fact #2: If we were caught, the crew would probably toss us overboard before the Coast Guard could even board.

Haewon's fingers tightened around the railing. "We need to ditch these burners before docking. Joonho will have people monitoring every network."

I nodded, watching the horizon. Somewhere out there, beyond the churning waves, was a man who wanted us dead—and the girl beside me, who'd burned her entire life to the ground for me.

The weight of it pressed against my ribs.

---

The Storm

The sea turned violent two hours out.

One moment, the water was calm, the sky streaked with the first hints of sunrise. The next, the wind howled like a living thing, and rain sheeted across the deck in stinging bursts.

"I told you to check the weather!" Minjae yelled over the roar of the waves, clutching his laptop to his chest as another wall of water crashed over the bow.

Haewon spat out a mouthful of saltwater, her shirt plastered to her skin. "We're fugitives, not fucking travel agents!"

The ship pitched violently to starboard. My boots slid across the slick deck, and I barely caught myself on a cargo strap before tumbling over the edge. Haewon wasn't so lucky—she lost her footing entirely, skidding toward the railing.

I lunged, grabbing her wrist just as her hip slammed into the metal barrier. For one heart-stopping second, her weight nearly dragged us both over. Then I hauled her back, our bodies colliding hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

Suddenly, we were nose-to-nose, her chest heaving against mine, her breath warm despite the cold rain. A strand of wet hair clung to her cheek. I didn't think—just reached up to brush it away.

Her breath hitched.

A beat too long.

Then she shoved me back, her voice rough. "Focus, idiot."

The radio crackled to life inside the bridge, a voice barking in Korean: "All vessels, be advised—Coast Guard inspection at Waypoint 7. Repeat, mandatory inspection."

Minjae paled. "They're looking for us."

Joonho had alerted the authorities.

Haewon's jaw tightened. "Change of plans."

---

The Detour

We didn't dock in Fukuoka.

Instead, under cover of the storm, we transferred to a fishing trawler headed for Tsushima Island—a tiny speck of land between Korea and Japan, far from official ports.

The trawler's captain, a grizzled man with a missing pinky, didn't ask questions. He didn't speak at all, just jerked his chin toward the hold where the day's catch was stored.

The stench of fish guts was overwhelming. Minjae gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth. Haewon didn't react, just crouched between crates of mackerel and pulled out her knife.

"We need new identities," she said, carving into the wooden slats beneath us. "Minjae, can you hack into Tsushima's municipal records?"

He groaned. "With what? My laptop's toast!"

I pulled a waterproof case from my jacket—the one thing I'd managed to salvage from the storm. "Try this."

Haewon raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you plan ahead?"

"Since people started shooting at us."

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The Safe House

Tsushima's "safe house" was a dilapidated ryokan with paper-thin walls and a suspicious stain on the ceiling. The owner, an elderly woman with a cigarette permanently glued to her lips, took one look at us and sighed.

"No trouble," she warned in heavily accented Korean, handing us a rusty key.

The room smelled of mildew and old tatami mats. Minjae collapsed onto the nearest futon, groaning. "I miss my dorm."

Haewon pried up a loose floorboard with her knife, stashing our fake passports inside. "You miss having Wi-Fi."

I unfolded the map our contact had slipped me at the docks. Red circles marked every Yoon Corp subsidiary in Kyushu.

Problem: Joonho's uncle ran private security for the region.

Solution: We needed allies.

On the back of the map, someone had scribbled in messy hangul:

"Find the tea shop in Daimyo. Ask for winter chrysanthemum."

Haewon peered over my shoulder, her damp hair brushing my cheek. "That's either a password or the worst drink order in history."

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Next Chapter Teaser:

- The Tea Shop Meeting ("Winter chrysanthemum" code revealed)

- Jihoon's Return(Haewon's ex-bodyguard has conditions)

- Yakuza Eyes (Someone's watching them already)

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