The return transport was a silent, vibrating tomb. The red tactical lights that had once signaled the adrenaline of the hunt now felt like a pulsating warning—a reminder of the blood spilled in the tunnel and the pale, amber fluid of the canisters.
Seol-wol sat in his corner, his spine pressed against the cold metal hull. His eyes were fixed on the "Cold Box" resting on the floor between them. It looked innocent enough, a matte-black hexagonal container pulsing with a rhythmic violet light, but he knew better now. He knew it held a mind—Miran's grandfather—a digitized consciousness that was the only map to a hidden world. The light wasn't a status indicator; it was the heartbeat of a legacy that had already begun to consume them.
Beside him, Junseo was curled up, his head resting against the vibrating hull. He wasn't asleep; his eyes were open, staring at nothing, his hands still trembling slightly from the neural shock of the Harvest.
Through the Sync, Seol-wol could feel his brother's hollowed-out exhaustion. It was a cold, empty feeling, like a fire that had been doused with ice water, leaving nothing but damp ash and a lingering chill.
Across the narrow aisle, Kyla was hunched over her tablet, her fingers hovering over the screen but never touching it. She kept glancing at Seol-wol, her eyes darting toward the front of the cabin where the guards sat like statues. She knew. She had seen the canisters of "processors"—the living human batteries. She reached out, her hand trembling as she brushed against Orina's arm, seeking some kind of human warmth in a room that had become freezing.
Orina, usually the sharpest and most lethal of them all, simply stared at the floor, her combat knife sheathed and forgotten, her spirit seemingly dampened by the horror they had witnessed.
And then there was Miran.
He sat at the very front of the cargo area, legs crossed, leaning back with an air of supreme, egoistic ownership. He wasn't hiding anymore. He didn't look like a cadet; he looked like a predator who had finally returned to his throne. He was the only one in the room who seemed at peace, his dark eyes occasionally drifting to the Cold Box as if it were a beloved pet he had rescued from the mud.
Seol-wol's gaze shifted to the cockpit door.
Beyond that door, the pilot was transmitting their arrival status to Borislav. Borislav—the "dog," as Miran had called him. The man who had sent them to be harvested.
How much did he know? Seol-wol wondered, his jaw tightening until it ached.
Did he know we were being sent to a laboratory? Did he know the 'Master Blueprint' was a living consciousness?
He felt a sudden, sharp spike in the Sync.
He looked up to find Miran watching him.
The elite didn't speak, but the look in his eyes was a jagged blade: Keep your mouth shut, thief.
The transport began its descent, the air pressure changing with a painful pop in Seol-wol's ears. When the heavy ramp finally hissed open in the facility's hangar, the smell of industrial grease and cold recycled air rushed in, feeling less like home and more like a slaughterhouse.
Waiting for them, silhouetted against the harsh overhead floods, was Borislav.
He didn't look like a commander; he looked like a starving man watching a feast arrive.
His eyes were frantic, darting from face to face until they landed on the hexagonal container under Miran's arm. Borislav's hands were actually trembling—a rare crack in his iron composure. To him, that box wasn't just tech; it was his promotion, his survival, and his standing with the "Excellency."
"The conquering heroes return," Borislav's voice boomed, though it lacked its usual steady resonance. It was thin, high-pitched with greed. He stepped forward as the crew filed out, his boots clicking sharply against the concrete. "The asset... is it intact? Tell me the sync didn't corrupt the core!"
Seol-wol felt a surge of pure, murderous loathing. He wanted to leap across the gap and tear the man's throat out. But Miran's presence was a heavy weight at his side, a reminder of the Ghost Heist.
"It was... complicated," Seol-wol said, his voice a dry rasp. He forced himself to look Borislav in the eye, mimicking the mask of indifference he had practiced. "The internal security was higher than the simulations suggested. We nearly lost the synchronization."
Borislav didn't even acknowledge the "nearly lost" part. He didn't look at Junseo's trembling hands or Kyla's haunted face. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Miran. "The Excellency is very eager to begin the integration. Hand it over, Miran.
Now."
The air in the hangar seemed to freeze.
Seol-wol held his breath. For a second, he thought Miran might refuse—that the egoistic prince would finally snap and reveal the truth. They stood in a silent deadlock, Miran's eyes filled with a supreme contempt, Borislav's filled with a desperate, animalistic hunger. Borislav, despite his rank, actually flinched under Miran's stare.
Then, with a short, mocking chuckle that echoed like a slap against the hangar walls, Miran extended his arm. He handed the box to Borislav with a flourish that was almost insulting, as if he were tossing a bone to a stray dog.
"Take it, Commander," Miran said, his voice smooth and lethal. "It's exactly what you asked for. A piece of history."
Borislav snatched the box, his fingers stroking the composite casing with a greedy intensity. He let out a ragged breath of relief, clutching the container to his chest. He didn't notice the way the violet light flickered under Miran's touch—a hidden frequency acknowledging its true heir.
"Excellent," Borislav hissed, his eyes finally moving to the rest of the crew. "Get to the infirmary. Get your Sync levels checked. We move for the primary objective—the Classified Underground Sector—in seventy-two hours. Don't fail me now. You're the only keys I have left."
As Borislav walked away, surrounded by his guards, the tension didn't break. It only shifted into a new kind of dread. Seventy-two hours. Three days until they were sent back into the dark.
Kyla moved toward Seol-wol, her voice a terrified whisper. "Seol-wol... what are we going to do? That thing in the box... it was alive. We're helping them kill more people.
We're going to end up in those canisters."
Before Seol-wol could answer, Miran stepped between them. He didn't look at Kyla. He looked only at Seol-wol, his eyes narrowing into dark slits.
"What you are going to do," Miran said, his voice loud enough for the whole crew to hear, "is go back to your holes and pretend you saw nothing but data. You are ghosts now. And ghosts don't have consciences."
He turned to Seol-wol, his hand reaching out to grip the back of Seol-wol's neck, right over the neural link. The heat from his palm was overwhelming, a possessive, egoistic pressure that forced Seol-wol to stay still.
"Don't go looking for the 'whole story,' Seol-wol," Miran whispered, leaning into his ear until his breath was hot against the skin.
"The truth is a fire. And you? You're already covered in gasoline. One wrong spark, and you won't even be ashes. You'll just be a memory."
Miran let go and walked away, his silhouette growing smaller in the vast, cold hangar.
Seol-wol looked at Junseo, who was shivering despite the warmth of the facility.
He looked at Kyla, whose spirit seemed broken.
He realized then that Borislav wasn't their only enemy. They were caught in a war between two monsters—one who wanted to use them as batteries, and one who wanted to use them as keys..
I need to know, Seol-wol thought, his eyes following Borislav's retreating form. I need to know what's really at the bottom of that underground sector. Before it's our bodies in those canisters.
He reached into his pocket and felt the jagged metal bolt. He wasn't a ghost yet. He was still a man. And a man with nothing left to lose was the most dangerous thief of all.
Seol-wol looked up at the hangar clock.
71:58:42. The countdown to the Ghost Heist had begun.