Nighttime Seoul looked like a pulse. Lights cut at the eyes, cars slid across the wet asphalt, and the sky hung low, heavy, as if ready to collapse. The rain had been pouring for three hours straight—steadily, persistently, offering no respite.
Seungho gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed forward, his fingers clenched until his knuckles were white. In the passenger seat, Do-jun was silent. The headlight of a second car—their cover—flashed in the rearview mirror.
— Oh-hwa's signal is confirmed — he said. — The truck should be on the highway over the bridge, heading to the port warehouse.
— Truck or bait? — We'll know when it's too late.
Yun smirked, but there was no humor in his voice. The rain intensified. The wipers darted across the glass like nervous clock hands.
The warehouse greeted them with silence. Headlights cut through the darkness—metal walls, rust, abandoned pallets. The truck stood in the very center, its lights off, the cabin empty.
Do-jun felt a shiver run down his spine. The pheromones around were strange—not foreign, but... dead. The scent of blood and oil.
— Something's wrong — he said. — Be careful.
Seungho signaled the group. Three fighters went in first. One of them—their old ally, Tae-gwon. He always went first, joking that death was afraid to be late for him.
They approached the truck. Yun released the lock, the door opened—empty inside. Only chains and the smell of iron.
And at that very moment—a short sound. A click.
— Back! — Yun yelled.
Too late. The explosion wasn't powerful—local, directional, calculated not to destroy, but to wound. But Tae-gwon was the closest. He was thrown against the concrete wall, and silence covered everything.
— Pressure is dropping… — Do-jun leaned over him, but blood was already spreading across the floor. Tae-gwon tried to say something, but his lips only trembled. Seungho stood nearby, his face frozen like a mask.
— We leave — he said quietly. — They'll be here now.
When they got out, the rain was even heavier. The cars were waiting, but before getting in, Seungho turned back—his gaze lingered on his friend's body. He didn't allow himself to close his eyes. Memory was pain, but memory was also a weapon.
⋆⋆⋆
They found the captive in the utility room—one of those who was supposed to accompany the cargo. Young, terrified, with bruises on his face and a broken arm. Oh-hwa connected him via headset.
— Speak — Seungho said.
— It's all… — the guy gasped, words tumbling out. — It's all a show.
— What show?
— A press conference. They're going to hold it tomorrow… no, in two days. Everything is ready. Videos, dossiers, witnesses. Everything.
— Against whom?
— Against you. Against Yun.
Do-jun tensed, but said nothing.
— Hwan wants you to be called a monster — the captive whispered. — He wants the whole city to believe that you are the root of the network. That everything they did… — he swallowed, — was under your orders.
Silence. Only breathing could be heard through the speaker.
— Where is he now? — Seungho asked.
— I don't know… but he's preparing. He said he would soon "show the whole world the real Yun."
Then—static. The line was cut.
The night stretched endlessly. Rain battered the warehouse roof, the asphalt, and the car as they drove away. Do-jun's face flashed in the mirror—pale, exhausted, with wet strands sticking to his forehead.
— We're losing people — he said.
— We are losing shadows — Seungho replied. — But not the purpose.
He spoke calmly, but his eyes were full of darkness.
When they reached the apartment, the clock showed three a.m. Do-jun sat on the floor, his back against the wall, just to feel the firmness beneath his shoulder blades—proof that the world still existed. Seungho stood by the window, looking at the city where sirens wailed and lights flashed.
— In forty-eight hours — he said. — They will appear before the public. — And portray you as a monster.
— Let them. The main thing is that we have a chance to respond afterward.
He turned around, and his gaze was clear. — We haven't lost. We're just in the final round.
Do-jun got up, moved closer. — And how many lives are you willing to sacrifice for the final round?
Seungho didn't answer. He just pulled him close. They stood in the darkness, where even their breathing sounded like an oath—without words, without tears, without salvation.