Daniel pushed through the glass doors of the prosecutor's office. The lobby was quiet—too quiet for mid-afternoon. A receptionist looked up from her desk, expression shifting from professional courtesy to mild concern at the sight of four young men filing in behind him.
"We need to see Prosecutor Choi," Daniel said.
The receptionist's fingers paused over her keyboard. "I'm sorry, but Prosecutor Choi left about ten minutes ago. She had a filing at the courthouse."
Daniel felt something cold settle in his chest. Ten minutes. Not much time, but enough.
"Which courthouse?"
"I can't give out that information—"
"Please." Daniel leaned forward, hands flat on the desk. "It's urgent. She could be in danger."
The receptionist studied his face. Whatever she saw there made her hesitate. Her eyes flicked to the screen, then back to Daniel. "Seoul Central District Court. But I really shouldn't—"
Daniel was already moving. Zack caught up to him at the elevators, with Hudson and Vasco close behind.
"You think something happened?" Vasco asked.
"I don't know." Daniel jabbed the down button three times in quick succession. The elevator chimed immediately—it had been waiting on this floor. "But we can't take that chance."
The doors slid open. They piled inside.
"If James Lee wanted us to intercept her," Hudson said slowly, "then someone else might want the same thing."
The elevator descended. Daniel watched the numbers tick down. His reflection stared back at him from the polished steel doors—distorted, stretched thin.
Zack was right to be suspicious. Charles Choi was dead. The Red Paper shouldn't matter anymore. Unless...
Unless it wasn't just about Charles Choi.
The elevator opened into an underground parking garage. They ran.
---
Gun's knuckles rapped against the window again. Three measured taps, like before.
"Last chance," he said.
Kangmi stared at him through the glass. At those inverted eyes that seemed to see through metal and leather and bone, straight into whatever terrified thing was beating inside her chest.
Gun's expression didn't change. He raised and pulled his hand back in a punching motion.
Kangmi's hand shot to the door handle, ready to throw it open and run—
Nam's hand closed around Gun's wrist.
Gun looked down. Looked at the bloodied fingers wrapped around his arm, at the man who should have been unconscious. Nam's face was a mess of red. Blood poured from his broken nose, streamed over his lips and chin.
But he was standing.
"I don't think so," Nam said. Blood bubbled between his teeth when he spoke.
Gun tilted his head. The movement was slight, curious. "Interesting."
Then he moved.
His free hand came up in a tight arc aimed at Nam's temple. Nam released Gun's wrist and slipped backward, just enough. The blow cut through empty air. Gun followed immediately with a straight punch to the solar plexus. Nam twisted his torso, letting the fist pass by his ribs.
Nam's elbow shot forward, aimed at Gun's jaw.
Gun caught it.
His hand closed around Nam's arm like a vice. Nam tried to pull back but Gun held firm, then yanked him forward into a knee strike. The impact should have folded Nam in half, but Nam compressed his abdominal muscles at the last second, absorbing most of the blow. Air still rushed from his lungs, but he stayed upright.
Gun's eyes flickered. Something like recognition passed through them.
He released Nam's arm and stepped back, creating distance. Nam didn't waste the opportunity. He exploded forward with a combination—a jab to Gun's face followed immediately by a low kick to the thigh. The jab connected, snapping Gun's head to the side. The kick slammed into Gun's quadricep with a meaty thud.
Gun took both hits without flinching. When his head turned back, there was blood on his lip. A thin line of red against pale skin.
He smiled.
"Better than I expected," Gun said. He wiped the blood away with his thumb, looked at it briefly, then flicked it aside. "You're not a simple bodyguard."
Nam didn't respond. His face tightened further, cauliflower ears pressing flat against his skull. Blood still poured from his broken nose but he breathed through it, controlled and steady. His stance shifted lower, weight distributed evenly.
Gun tilted his neck to the side. Something cracked—a joint popping, bones settling. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening them.
"Let's see what you're really capable of," Gun said.
Nam charged.
He came in with a straight right aimed at Gun's sternum. Gun sidestepped and countered with a hook to the ribs. Nam blocked it with his forearm, the impact echoing like wood against wood, then drove his knee up toward Gun's midsection. Gun twisted away and brought his elbow down on Nam's thigh.
The blow should have deadened the muscle, but Nam pushed through it and lunged again, this time with a vicious elbow strike toward Gun's temple. Gun ducked under it and came up with an uppercut that caught Nam under the jaw.
Nam's head snapped back. He staggered two steps, blood spraying from his mouth.
But he didn't go down.
Gun's smile widened fractionally. "You can take a hit."
Nam spat blood onto the asphalt and pulled something from his belt—a curved blade with a finger ring at the base. A karambit. The metal caught the sunlight as he flipped it into a reverse grip.
"Weapons?" Gun's tone was almost amused. "I'm honored."
Nam didn't give him time to finish talking. He darted forward, the karambit hooking toward Gun's throat in a tight arc. Gun leaned back just enough for the blade to pass an inch from his skin, then grabbed Nam's wrist with both hands.
But Nam was ready for it. He used Gun's grip as an anchor and drove his knee up into Gun's ribs. The impact was solid, heavy. Gun's expression flickered—not pain, but acknowledgment. He twisted Nam's wrist sharply and Nam had to release the karambit or have his wrist broken.
The blade clattered to the ground.
Gun kicked it away and released Nam's arm. They separated, standing before each other.
Nam's breathing was heavier now. Blood ran down his face in steady streams, soaking into his collar. His left wrist hung at an odd angle—not broken, but damaged. His entire body was shaking from the accumulated pain.
But his eyes remained shut, face compressed into that expression of focused irritation that made him look perpetually angry at the world.
Gun straightened his jacket. The white fabric had a few wrinkles now, a smear of Nam's blood on the sleeve. "You're not bad with that weapon," he said. "Former mercenary?"
"Ares," Nam said. His voice was rough, wet with blood. "On-site combat agent."
"Ah." Gun nodded slowly, like something had just clicked into place. "That explains it. I have heard about ARES. Someone I know had an encounter with you guys before. Ironic, isn't it?"
Nam didn't answer. He compressed his muscles, tightening his core, preparing for one more push. His body screamed at him to stop, to stay down, to accept defeat. But his client prosecutor Choi was in that car. Giving up meant failing his mission, something he couldn't accept.
He'd failed too many people in his life. But after joining ARES, he has found his path in life.
Nam charged again. It was desperate now, but not sloppy. A straight punch with everything he had left, but his footwork was still precise, his guard still up. Gun stepped into the blow instead of away from it, deflecting it with his forearm while simultaneously driving his palm into Nam's sternum.
The impact was clean and precise.
Nam felt something shift in his chest. Not breaking, but definitely damaged. The air left his lungs in a rush and didn't want to come back. He tried to stay on his feet but his legs weren't listening anymore.
Gun's next strike came before Nam could recover—a spinning elbow that caught him across the temple with the force of a sledgehammer.
Nam's vision went white, then red, then dark.
He hit the pavement face-first. The impact was heavy, final.
This time he didn't get up.
Gun stood over him for a moment, breathing slightly harder than before. There was more blood on his suit now—most of it Nam's, but some of it his own from the jab that had connected earlier. He touched his split lip again, examined the blood on his fingers.
"You entertained me," Gun said quietly, though Nam couldn't hear him anymore. "That's more than I had expected."
He adjusted his jacket, brushed some dust from his sleeve, then walked to the car and knocked on the window again.
Kangmi stared at him. At Nam's unmoving body. At the blood pooling beneath his face, darker now, spreading wider across the asphalt. At the slight rise and fall of Nam's back that meant he was still breathing, still alive.
Still defeated.
"The briefcase," Gun said. His voice was patient, almost gentle. Like he was asking for the time. "I won't ask again."
Kangmi's hand moved to the door lock. Her fingers trembled against the mechanism.
She thought about the Red Paper. But with no choice left, she could only do so.
Her thumb pressed the unlock button.
The click echoed through the car's interior, loud and mechanical and final.
Gun opened the door.