His funeral was quiet, attended only by select FBI agents and a few grieving colleagues. A closed casket. No family to claim him. A legend reduced to whispers in the hallways of Quantico. They said he died in an operation gone wrong, a noble sacrifice to protect the country. Christopher Bang had never been an ordinary FBI agent. He was a prodigy—recruited young, trained hard, and shaped into one of the Bureau’s finest operatives. His reputation was legendary, whispered in briefing rooms and hushed conversations. He was the kind of agent you sent when failure wasn’t an option. His career had been built on precision, unwavering loyalty, and an unshakable sense of justice. He wasn’t just good at his job; he was the job. His instincts were lethal, his mind sharper than the blade he always carried strapped to his thigh. From high-profile kidnappings to dismantling international crime syndicates, Chan had seen it all. And for a while, he believed in the mission. Believed in the Bureau.

Until he didn’t.

The cracks had always been there, but Chris only started noticing them after Operation Nightfall. Nightfall was supposed to be routine—an undercover mission to infiltrate an arms smuggling ring with direct ties to high-ranking officials. The Bureau had been tracking them for years, their operations spanning across borders, feeding civil wars, and keeping global conflict at a steady boil. This was supposed to be the mission that brought them down. Chan had spent months buried deep in the criminal underworld, assuming the alias of a ruthless gunrunner. He had earned their trust, gathered intelligence, and secured evidence that could take down some of the most powerful players in the game including politicians and government officials who were supposed to be on his side.

That was his mistake.

Because when the time came for the bust, nothing went as planned. The moment his team stormed the compound; they were met with bullets. Not from the criminals, but from their own men. The FBI’s tactical unit, the very people meant to back him up, had turned their guns on him and his informant. It was a hit. Chan barely made it out alive. His informant, his only lead to the bigger players and his best friend, was executed in front of him, and he had been left for dead in the chaos. A staged accident. A casualty of war. But Chan had survived. Wounded, disoriented, and betrayed, he disappeared into the underground before the Bureau could finish the job.

It took weeks for him to recover, to put the pieces together. The truth was uglier than he could have imagined. The people he had trusted had sold him out to protect their interests. He had two choices: fight back and risk everything, or disappear.

Chan chose to disappear.

Faking his death wasn’t easy, it never was but it was the only way to move undetected. He had to erase Christopher Bang from existence. Burn his past. Cut ties. He left behind no body, no trace, nothing for the Bureau to track. The world mourned him, but he watched from the shadows. And from those shadows, he did what he did best.

The glow of your desk lamp cast long shadows across the scattered case flies, illuminating worn folders that had become your life for the past three weeks. The first time you saw Christopher Bang; he was nothing more than a file on your desk. You didn’t mean to stumble onto his case. It had been a late night at the office, one of those quiet, lonely shifts where the air smelled like stale coffee and ink-stained fingertips. Fewer voices, more room to think. Most agents had gone home, the bullpen dimly lit by the glow of monitors. You had been assigned to a different case—routine arms trafficking, nothing out of the ordinary. But in the midst of your research, his name popped up not once and that didn’t sit right with you. At first, it was a footnote. A long-forgotten alias linked to an offshore account. It should have been nothing just another dead man’s forgotten assets. But then, the details started to unravel, one thread at a time. The account had been accessed recently. Money had moved. And whoever had moved it knew exactly what they were doing.

Your fingers tapped rhythmically against the keyboard of your system as you scrolled through classified financial records, piecing together a puzzle that didn’t quite fit. The deeper you dug, the more the numbers twisted into a dead end. As you combed through the financial web, his name resurfaced again. Your breath hitched.

“Ok, what the actual fuck?”

The world buried that name two years ago but here it was, tied to a forgotten alias buried in offshore transactions. “Thats impossible.” You turned in your chair toward the stack of classified files and papers piled on your other desk. Quickly, your flipped through the pages and pushed aside other papers. The alias wasn’t obvious, Chan had been careful but when you spotted it, you knew. The name was one you had come across years ago during a different case, linked to a false identity the Bureau once used for deep-cover work. An alias that had supposedly died along with him. Yet here it was alive and well, funnelling money through ghost accounts. The neatly organised system you prided yourself on was gone, replaced by a frantic need to confirm what you already feared.

“Come on, come on...” you muttered, flipping again past cases that had long since gone cold. The scent of ink and the faint musk of time filled your senses as you pulled open another manila folder, the edges frayed from years of handling. And when you saw it, your pulse spiked.

FBI CLASSIFIED: CONFIDENTIAL – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

BANG, CHRISTOPHER CHAN

Stamped in bold red ink across the top was a single word that now could’ve been a lie.

DECEASED

Swallowing hard, you spread the contents across your desk. A black and white photo of Chan stared back at you, his badge clipped neatly to his suit, a small smirk playing at the edge of his lips.

Name: Bang, Christopher

Alias(es): Phantom, K-Strike, Shadow OP

Date Of Birth: October 3, 1997

Place of Birth: Sydney, Australia

Nationality: Australian/Korean

Last Known Rank: Senior Special Agent – FBI covert Operations Unit

Specialization: Deep cover infiltration, counterterrorism, tactical reconnaissance, financial crimes, high-risk asset extraction

Status: Deceased (as per Bureau records, declared KIA during Operation Nightfall, 2023)

You glanced through the pages of his physical and psychological evaluation, very impressed by his results. On his classified operations list, Nightfall was disclosed as a failed mission declaring his KIA, which should have solidified his name as a martyr in the agency’s war against organised crime. People who die in the field don’t get forgotten so quickly. When you reached the last page however, a small text at the bottom was handwritten which stood out to you;

FILE STATUS: ARCHIVED

NOTICE: Any activity involving this alias or financial transactions linked to Agent Bang should be considered a breach of classified intelligence. Further investigation requires authorization from the Director’s Office.

Signed, M. Reynolds.

You grabbed his mission report, flipping through the pages searching for what you might have missed. Nightfall had always seemed too clean on paper. A mission that ended in disaster, yet conveniently wrapped itself up without loose ends. No body recovered. No autopsy. No real proof of death, only ‘witness reports’; a term that had been conveniently vague. You stomach twisted as you skimmed the list of operatives present during his last assignment. A few familiar names, including higher-ups who were still active in the Bureau today. And one name in particular...

Deputy Director M. Reynolds.

You stiffened. Reynolds had been the one to officially close Chan’s case. If Chan had supposedly faked his death, Reynolds either knew about it or it was one of the reasons he disappeared in the first place.

The weight of the situation dwelled heavily on your chest. You weren’t just looking at a missing agents financial trail. You had reopened a case the Bureau had long since buried. And if you weren’t careful, you’d be buried alongside it.

Deputy Marcus Reynolds was once one of the most respected figures in the Bureau a man who built his career from bringing down high-profile syndicates. But Chan had seen what others hadn’t: the cracks in his so-called justice. Their relationship had always been tense. Reynolds saw Chan as an asset useful but too unpredictable. Chan, on the other hand, never trusted Reynolds, especially after noticing discrepancies in classified reports. The deeper Chan dug, the cleared it became Reynolds wasn’t just complicit in the corruption; he was orchestrating it. His last mission, Nightfall, had been an evident setup. The intel had been too clean and easy. As if someone wanted him in the field open and vulnerable. But when it went sideways, Chan realized too late, that he was the target. And he had to disappear.

Reynolds closed the case within 72 hours, an unusually fast decision for a high-ranking agent’s death. Because if Christopher Bang was dead, he couldn’t expose what he knew.

The next few weeks were a blur of late nights and hushed conversations. You moved quietly, off the books, following leads that didn’t exist. It was dangerous work digging where you weren’t supposed to. But you had always trusted your instincts, and your instincts told you something was very wrong. You kept this new discovery to yourself of course, exposing it may open multiple Pandora’s boxes that couldn’t be closed. You didn’t know why you chased him. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something darker, the need to understand why a man like that would fake his own death. Or maybe, deep down, you knew that whatever he had been running from was still out there. The breakout came unexpectedly. Against the dim glow of your laptop casting shadows across your apartment walls. While cross-referencing transaction time stamps with recent disappearances, you noticed a pattern- each financial movement coincided with a known safehouse burning to the ground. It was subtle, almost untraceable, but not for you. When you saw it you knew. Christopher was surviving. Amongst all the locations you had scouted one hadn’t been touched yet. An old decommissioned safehouse outside the city; a place you remembered from your early years at the Bureau. Officially, it had been abandoned after an op went sideways and unofficially could be Chan’s hideout. If he was still alive.

You grabbed your gear- a discreet sidearm, burner phone, flashlight, and the flash drive with all the evidence. The drive that proved the Bureaus corruption against Chan and why he had to disappear. The drive that could get you both killed.

The night air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth as you navigated the overgrown path toward the building. It stood hidden between skeletal trees, its exterior worn by time, but the security measures were still intact. A rusted fence. Motion-triggered floodlights ones that shouldn’t work but flickered on as soon as you stepped closer. He was here you were so sure of it. Your breath came shallow as you approached the side entrance, pressing against the damp wall. The door had been reinforced new locks, fresh welding along the hinges. Not abandoned at all. He’s careful.

You reached into your pocket, pulling out a small USB device. It wasn’t the evidence neither was it just a tool; it was bait. Plugging it into the old security panel, you let it do its job—overloading the system for a brief five-second window. It was all the time you needed.

Click. The lock disengaged. Heart pounding, you stepped inside. The interior smelled of dust and aged wood, but there were signs of recent use—a makeshift bed, scattered papers, a half-empty glass of water on the counter. A map was pinned to the wall, red markings circling names you recognized. People who had gone missing. People the Bureau wouldn’t miss. People Chan had eliminated. Then, movement.

A whisper of sound behind you. Before you could react, an arm wrapped around your throat, pressing just hard enough to warn, not to harm. A gun was at your temple, the cold steel sending a shiver down your spine.

"Who sent you?" The voice was deep, familiar. You swallowed hard. "You did." A pause. His grip didn’t loosen, but he didn’t pull the trigger either.

"You should have stayed away," he murmured.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Dark. Calculating. But underneath it all—a flicker of something else. Something human. "I couldn’t," you whispered. "Because you didn’t."

 A sharp exhale—barely a whisper—was the only warning you had before you were tackled to the ground. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as your wrists were wrenched behind your back, pinned in an unbreakable grip. The cold press of a gun barrel met the back of your skull, and the weight of a solid, muscular frame held you immobile against the dusty floor.

"One last time," a deep voice murmured above you, low and lethal. "Who sent you?"

You gritted your teeth, twisting slightly beneath him. "No one." A pause. The weight above you shifted slightly, but the gun didn’t move.

"Third times a charm, princess. Try again."

His voice was cold, but something about it struck you—not just familiarity, but certainty. You had found him.

"Bang Chan," you rasped. "I found you." That was the wrong thing to say. The grip on your wrists tightened, his knee pressing into your lower back with just enough force to make your ribs groan. You clenched your jaw to keep from gasping. "Yeah?" he mused, almost mocking. "And how exactly did you manage that?"

You sucked in a breath, your pulse thrumming against the barrel of his gun. "Your offshore accounts," you admitted. "One of your old aliases popped up in my case files. I traced the transactions—saw the pattern. You're covering your tracks, but you missed one."

A slow exhale. He was processing. Then, suddenly, he yanked you up. Your legs scrambled for footing as he hauled you to your feet with an ease that sent a shiver down your spine. He spun you around, and for the first time, you got a good look at him. His hair was longer now—jet black, damp at the ends, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. It fell into his sharp eyes, barely concealing the raw intensity burning behind them. The years had refined him, hardened him—his jawline sharper, his muscles defined beneath the tight black shirt clinging to his frame. He adjusted his grip on his gun, holding it lazily by his side but never out of reach.

But what struck you the most was the way he was looking at you. Like he was deciding whether to kill you or let you live. "Prove it," he ordered, his voice softer but no less dangerous. Your breath hitched. "I have proof of the Bureau’s corruption. On a flash drive. I brought it with me." His gaze flickered—just for a moment—before hardening again. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then abruptly released you, shoving you back slightly. "Don’t follow me next time," he muttered before turning away.

Your heart still pounded as you watched him move, muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he returned to whatever he had been doing before your arrival.

You took a step forward. "You're just going to pretend this didn’t happen?"

"Yes."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Yes."

Your frustration flared. "So, what, you’re just gonna keep hiding in the shadows? Killing off whoever you think deserves it?" Chan finally looked at you again, his expression unreadable. "That’s what ghosts do." A beat of silence stretched between you before he turned away again. "You should go back to where you came from," he said, voice quieter this time.

But you didn’t move. Because now that you had found him, there was no way in hell you were letting him disappear again.

Chan had stripped off his tight black shirt, revealing the sharp, battle-worn lines of his torso—faint scars cutting across his chest and shoulders like remnants of a past he didn’t care to remember. He pulled a clean, loose shirt over his head before dropping into his chair, exhaling as he propped his combat-booted feet onto the wooden desk. A plastic bag of heated ramen sat beside him, the faint steam curling up as he ripped open the top. The scent of instant broth filled the air, and with a slow, almost lazy motion, he dug his chopsticks in, slurping up a mouthful without a care in the world.

But when he turned his head, there you were. Still standing. Arms crossed. Stubborn as ever.

His chewing slowed. "Why the hell are you still here?"

"I'm not leaving without an explanation." Your voice was firm, unwavering. Chan let out an amused scoff, flicking his eyes away as he continued eating. "Not my problem."

"It is," you shot back. "You disappeared. You faked your own death. People thought you were murdered, Chan."

His expression didn’t change. He didn’t even pause, still chewing. "And?"

"You don't get to just vanish without an answer," she pressed, stepping forward. "You were one of the best agents we had. Then one day, you’re gone? What was I supposed to think?" Chan finally lowered his chopsticks, resting them on the rim of the ramen cup. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he exhaled slowly through his nose. Then, with a lazy, almost bored movement, he reached for the gun beside him. The soft click of the chamber sent a chill down your spine.

Without lifting his feet from the desk, he cocked the gun and aimed it directly at you. "You should go," he murmured, voice laced with quiet threat.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t back down. "You’re not going to shoot me." Chan tilted his head slightly, something dark flickering in his eyes. And then—

BANG.

The sound shattered through the room. A sharp sting cut across her cheek as the bullet tore through the window behind her, the glass shattering into a thousand shards. A thin line of warmth traced down her skin—a graze. He had aimed for the perfect near miss. Your breath hitched, heart hammering as she stared at him in disbelief.

Chan twirled the gun in his fingers before leveling it back at you, still slouched in his chair.

"I don’t bluff, darling," he murmured, lips curling into a smirk.

The weight of his gaze pinned you to the spot, daring you to make your next move. But you wernt going anywhere. And by the way Chan’s lips curled into a smirk, he knew too. The silence stretched between both of you, thick and suffocating only broken by the soft plink of glass shards hitting the floor behind you.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t take a single step back. Instead, you exhaled sharply, leveling your gaze with his, voice steady. "Fine then," she said, brushing a thumb over the fresh graze on her cheek. "I guess I’ll just go back and tell Reynolds where you are. Let him know his little ghost isn’t as dead as everyone thinks—"

The reaction was immediate. Chan’s boots hit the floor with a solid thud as he swung his feet off the desk. His once lazy posture vanished as he stood, slow and deliberate, the air around him shifting into something darker. His expression didn’t change—no anger, no frustration—just a cold calculation in his eyes as he started toward her.

"You see, that’s where you make your first mistake." His voice was smooth, deceptively calm, as he took another step forward. "You think Reynolds is the one pulling the strings."

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t respond. Chan smirked. "Your second mistake? Threatening me. You don’t have the leverage you think you do, sweetheart." Another step. He was close now, towering over her. She could see the sharp lines of his face, the way the dim light cast shadows beneath his jawline.

"And your third mistake?" He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking down as he scoffed. "Letting me get this close."

She stiffened, but he didn’t move—just watched her, eyes scanning every inch of her like he was reading her next move before she even made it. Then, his voice dropped lower.

"How long have you been in the agency?"

She swallowed, keeping her stance firm. "Five years."

"Hm." He studied her, gaze lingering on hers a moment too long. "And in those five years, did you ever stop to wonder why you care so much about this?" She narrowed her eyes. "Because you disappeared. Because none of this makes sense, and every time I get close to an answer, another door shuts in my face."

Chan hummed, considering her words. His gaze flickered between her eyes like he was searching for something.

"And?" he pressed, voice barely above a whisper now.

She exhaled. "And because you were one of us. One of the best. If they turned on you, who’s to say they won’t turn on me next?"

That made him pause. For the first time since she walked in, something flickered across his expression—something almost unreadable. He was quiet for a moment, the distant sound of the city outside the only thing between them.

Then, in a tone laced with something far heavier than before, he murmured, "They already have."

Chan’s gaze flickered back to her, something sharp settling behind his dark eyes. "What’s your name?"

You hesitated for only a second before responding. “Y/N.” He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he walked back toward his desk. Chan exhaled, running a hand through his hair before turning his attention back to her. "Tell me something. Did you tell anyone about this little research project of yours?"

You straightened. "No."

He let out another humourless chuckle. "You should’ve left it alone. Left me alone. Whatever you found, whatever little breadcrumbs you were following, you should’ve buried them. I was doing just fine in the dark." Your jaw clenched. "I'd rather work under the right leaders than serve corruption."

He stopped, tilting his head slightly. He was about to respond when—

A voice. Muffled, hushed yells from outside. His entire posture snapped into something rigid, head whipping toward the sound before his gaze cut back to you, something deadly brewing beneath his calm exterior. "You cleared your tracks, didn’t you?" His tone was laced with sarcasm, but his eyes told a different story, survival mode kicking in.

"I did," you shot back, but even as you said it, her stomach twisted. Had you been wrong? Had you been followed? Chan scoffed, already moving. "Of course you did."

Then, instinct kicked in. He grabbed a duffel bag from beneath the desk, moving swiftly, shoving in stacks of cash, fake passports, and a few flash drives you barely caught a glimpse of. He zipped the bag, yanking open a drawer and pulling out two guns, checking the clips before tucking them into his waistband. The voices outside grew closer. Chan turned to her, jaw tightening. "See what you’ve caused?" Before she could respond,

CRACK!

A bullet shattered through the window. Her body froze for half a second, but Chan was faster. He yanked you down, his grip firm as another round of shots rang out, tearing through the walls. "You just had to come looking for ghosts, didn’t you?" His breath was hot against her ear, voice low and edged with frustration.

You didn’t have time to argue. Not when the next shot nearly clipped the spot where she was just standing. The sound of heavy boots against concrete echoed through the abandoned building, growing closer with each passing second. Mixed in with the rapid orders were voices speaking in clipped Russian. Chan’s body went rigid.

"Чистите здание!" Sweep the building!

His jaw locked. His fingers twitched around the grip of his gun, the muscle in his temple ticking as he processed. Russians. He cursed under his breath. His gaze flicked to her. "Stay close, don’t do anything stupid." You opened your mouth to respond, but he didn’t give you the chance.

With practiced ease, he slung the duffel over his shoulder, grabbed your wrist, and yanked your toward the back of the room where the garage was. Another voice cut through the air. "Если увидите его—убить сразу." If you see him—kill him immediately.

Chan’s grip on you tightened. "Move.”

The gunfire had stopped, for a while but Chan knew better than to think they were safe. The silence was worse—it meant they were moving, repositioning. The Russians didn’t shoot blindly; they cornered their targets like hunters. He pulled her through the darkened hallways of the safe house. The air was thick with dust, the only light coming from the flickering emergency bulbs that barely held power. His pace was quick, calculated, and she had no choice but to keep up.

They burst into the garage, Chan’s boots crunching against the concrete floor as he beelined for the nearest car. He didn’t care which one just one with gas and working tires. He threw the duffel bag into the backseat, yanked the driver’s door open, and turned to you.

“Get in.”

You hesitated. Only for a second. But he wasn’t in the mood for second-guessing.

“Now.”

There was something about the sharpness in his voice, the raw edge of urgency, that made you obey. You slid into the passenger seat, barely buckling up before the roar of the engine cut through the silence. Chan reversed so fast that the tires screeched, burning rubber as he whipped the car around and sped toward the exit. The second they burst onto the empty road, the garage door behind them rattled. A second too late—the Russians had reached the safe house, but they were already gone.

His hands tightened around the wheel, jaw clenching as he forced his breathing to steady. But Y/N wasn’t stupid you saw the shift in his composure. The rigid tension in his shoulders, the flicker of something dangerous behind his eyes.

“Who were they?” you asked, your voice steady despite the lingering adrenaline.

Chan didn’t answer immediately. He exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Since I became a ghost and not dead, someone put a bounty on my head.”

“A bounty?” She blinked, processing. “By who?” He hesitated, just for a beat. Then, his lips curled into something bitter. “A former Russian cartel.”

Silence.

“Wait? A Russian mafia?!”

Chan rolled his eyes, his grip flexing on the steering wheel. “Oh, don’t sound so shocked, sweetheart.” You turned in your seat, still trying to wrap her head around it. “You mean to tell me you pissed off the Russians? The same ones who wipe out entire families without blinking? And you thought, what? That they’d just let you go?”

He shot her a look, unimpressed. “I did die, remember?” He tapped his fingers against the wheel. “They weren’t supposed to know I was still breathing.”

“But they do know,” she pressed. “No shit.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I should’ve expected it.”

She stared at him for a moment, piecing it together. “What did you do to them?”

Chan didn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking there. The headlights illuminated the stretch of road ahead, but he wasn’t seeing it—his mind was elsewhere.

“Something they don’t forgive,” he murmured. And somehow, that was more unsettling than anything else.

The road stretched endlessly before them, a dark ribbon of asphalt cutting through the night. The drive was silent. The only sounds were the occasional creak of the car’s frame and the distant wail of sirens in the city. Chan’s hands remained steady on the wheel, his foot pressing just enough on the gas to keep them moving fast but unnoticed. The hum of the engine filled the silence, punctuated only by the occasional flicker of headlights from distant cars.

Then, without looking at you, he asked, “So, are you willing to become a ghost, just like me?” His voice was low, unreadable.

You turned to him, your brows furrowing slightly. “What?” Chan exhaled through his nose, still keeping his eyes ahead. “You found me. Which means others can, too.” His fingers tapped against the wheel, slow, deliberate. “Now that you know I’m alive, you’re at risk.”

You let the weight of his words sink in.

“If you want answers,” he continued, “there’s no going back. You either disappear, like I did, or you keep living with the lie that I’m dead.” Silence settled between them. The reality of the situation pressed against you, suffocating in its finality.

You didn’t know what to say.

All you wanted was the truth—why he disappeared, why his name kept surfacing in places it shouldn’t. But now, you were tangled in something far more dangerous.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice quieter than before. “I just… I just want to know the truth behind everything.”

Chan scoffed under his breath. “Truth comes at a price.”

You turned back to him, watching the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

And for the first time, you wondered if you were ready to pay it.

Chan's grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles pale in the dim glow of the dashboard. His mind was running a mile a minute—running through every possible reason why they had found him so easily, why she had been so careless.

Or maybe… she hadn't been careless.

Maybe they were watching her before she even found him.

He pulled into the parking lot of an old roadside motel, one of those places where no one asked questions as long as you paid in cash. The neon sign flickered above them, casting an eerie red glow over the cracked pavement. He killed the engine, but neither of you moved for a moment.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression unreadable. "Here’s the deal, Y/N," he said, voice low. "You have two choices. You stay here tonight, in this room with me, and by morning, you’re gone. You forget you ever found me, forget what you saw, and go back to playing by the agency’s rules." He let the words settle before continuing.

"Or…" he leaned in slightly, eyes sharp, "if you're actually ready for this life, if you’re ready to stop working under men like Reynolds and start chasing the real truth—you stay until morning."

A pause.

"But if you stay, there’s no going back."

You stared at him, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a loaded. Your pulse pounded in your ears, but you refused to show any hesitation. You had risked too much and come too far. He was giving you a way out, to turn back and pretend none of this ever happened. Btu you couldn’t do that.

“You think came al this way just to walk away now?” you finally said, arms crossed as you met his gaze head-on.

Amusement flickered in Chan’s eyes. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” he muttered.

“No,” you shot back. “I don’t.”

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Elegant couples glided across the room, draped in designer fabrics and priceless jewelry that caught the light with every graceful movement. The hum of polite conversation filled the space, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter from clusters of high-profile guests. Waiters, dressed in pristine white uniforms, weaved expertly through the crowd, silver trays balanced effortlessly in their hands, offering glasses of the finest champagne and hors d’oeuvres that looked almost too exquisite to eat. To the left, a grand stage stood in the spotlight, framed by velvet curtains and a sleek podium. A large screen behind it displayed images of past charity projects, highlighting the impact of the evening’s donations. Beneath the stage, members of the press loitered subtly, their eyes sharp, scanning the room for anything worth reporting.

The crowd itself was a curated mix of the elite—business moguls, celebrities, influential politicians, and heirs to empires. Men in sharply tailored suits stood in small groups, discussing investments and alliances, while women in elegant gowns adorned with shimmering embellishments whispered secrets behind glasses of imported champagne.

In the farthest corner, a live jazz band played a smooth, rhythmic tune, the soft saxophone melody adding a sultry undertone to the night’s proceedings. There was a certain finesse to the way the guests moved, as if they all belonged to an exclusive, unspoken world where power and wealth were the only currencies that mattered.

As Y/N and Chan took it all in, a faint crackle came through the small earpiece tucked discreetly behind her hair. Jisung’s voice came through, casual but laced with curiosity. “Alright, lovebirds, tell me what’s it like in there? Are we talking stiff businessmen or some Great Gatsby type of madness?”

Y/N’s lips quirked up slightly at Jisung’s question, knowing he’d get a kick out of the details. She subtly turned her head, pretending to adjust her earring as she whispered into the hidden mic, “A bit of both. Picture a ballroom dripping in gold, chandeliers the size of small cars, and enough expensive cologne in the air to suffocate a lesser mortal. Everyone here looks like they own an island or at least know someone who does. It’s luxury at its finest, Ji.”

Jisung let out a low whistle through the comms. “Damn. Sounds like I’d stick out like a sore thumb in my hoodie and ripped jeans.”

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly. “Yeah, you definitely would. It’s like stepping into a movie.”

There was a pause before Jisung hummed. “Alright, let’s see what we’re working with.” A few seconds passed, followed by the distinct sound of keys clacking in his background. “Logging into the venue’s camera feed now… Got it.” Y/N resisted the urge to glance around for the cameras, knowing it would look suspicious. Instead, she let her eyes flick toward Chan, who was scanning the room with that quiet intensity of his. The moment Jisung had full access, his voice came back over the line, now tinged with amusement.

“Ohhh, yeah. This is straight out of a spy movie. I see you two, looking all fancy. Damn, Y/N, you clean up nice.”

She smirked. “Was there ever a doubt?” Jisung chuckled. “Fair point. Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for anything shady. You two just keep up the ‘happy couple’ act.” Chan, who had been silent until now, finally spoke—his voice low enough that only Y/N would catch it. “You sure you can handle this, Jisung?”

A scoff came through the comms. “Please, this is child’s play. Just don’t do anything that’ll make me have to hack into another system to cover your ass.” Y/N exhaled softly, steadying herself. The night had only just begun.

Jisung’s voice crackled through the comms, his usual playfulness laced with something sharper. "Well, well, well… Look who decided to make an appearance." Y/N resisted the urge to look up immediately, instead reaching for a champagne flute from a passing waiter to maintain their cover. "Who?" she asked, bringing the glass to her lips.

There was a brief pause as Jisung zoomed in on the feed. "Our guy is at the far end of the room, near the bar. And guess what? He’s talking with a bunch of suits. But here’s the fun part—Reynolds is among them."

Y/N’s fingers tightened slightly around the delicate stem of the flute. "You’re joking." Chan, who had been scanning the room himself, stilled. His jaw clenched slightly before he turned his body just enough to look in that direction without drawing suspicion. His grip on Y/N’s waist tightened subtly. "I see him," he muttered under his breath.

The same Reynolds who had made their lives hell before disappearing into the shadows. And now, here he was, laughing, drinking, looking completely at ease among the city’s elite as if he wasn’t a snake in a tailored suit.

"This just got a whole lot more interesting," Jisung murmured. "What’s the play? Do we engage, or do we keep our distance?"

Y/N felt Chan’s fingers twitch against her back, a silent war waging within him. Whatever they did next could change the entire course of the night.

Petrov stood near the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, swirling the amber liquid as he engaged in conversation with the other elites. His sharp gaze scanned the crowd lazily until it landed on her. Y/N had only meant to take a fleeting glance, just enough to confirm Jisung’s intel, but the moment their eyes met, she knew she had made a mistake.

Petrov smirked. It was slow, deliberate, the kind of smirk that made her stomach churn with unease. He took his time raking his gaze over her, eyes dark with amusement as if he could already sense her hesitance. Chan, who had been watching closely, moved in an instant. His arm curled around Y/N’s waist, pulling her into him, his grip just firm enough to make a statement. The shift was subtle, but effective Chan was no longer just an escort or an arm candy date. He was a man who was staking a claim.

Y/N felt the tension roll off him as he leaned in, voice dropping low, meant only for her. "You need to find a way to get him alone." She blinked up at him, taken aback. "Why me?"

Chan exhaled sharply, his jaw ticking as if the answer was obvious. "Because you’re a woman."

She stared at him, incredulous. "That’s it? That’s your whole reasoning?"

Chan gave a small, almost exasperated smirk. "That means no further explanation."

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She knew he wasn’t wrong Petrov was the type of man who saw women as easy distractions, someone to toy with. That was exactly the kind of arrogance they needed to exploit.

Jisung’s voice crackled in her ear. "Damn, Chan, that was the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard also, he’s still staring. Do something before he walks over."

Y/N barely had a second to react before Chan’s hold on her tightened. His arm stayed firm around her waist, his other hand rising to gently grip her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes, dark and unwavering, bore into hers.

"I have to kiss you."

Her breath hitched. "Excuse me?!"

Chan didn’t flinch at her reaction. If anything, his grip remained steady, unwavering. "If we want him to come to us, we need to make it look like you're someone worth stealing attention for."

She scoffed, eyes narrowing. "So your grand plan is to put on a little show?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Y/N." His tone was firmer now, a quiet warning. "You have to be serious about this. You saw how he looked at you he’s interested. And the only thing that will make him act faster is competition."

Her lips parted, ready to protest again, but she had nothing to fire back with. Chan was right. Petrov wasn’t the type to sit back and wait. If he saw something—or in this case, someone—he wanted, he’d go after it. And right now, Y/N was about to become his next pursuit.

She inhaled sharply, her pulse racing. "This is a terrible idea."

Chan’s thumb brushed along her hip, his voice low and coaxing. "Then let’s make it count."

Before she could talk herself out of it, Petrov’s gaze landed on her once more. The moment Chan noticed, he wasted no time.

In one swift motion, he pulled her flush against him, his hand slipping from her waist to cradle the back of her neck. And then, he kissed her.

But God, it wasn’t just a kiss. Chan kissed her with a purpose; hot, possessive, consuming. His lips moved against hers like he was proving a point, like he was branding her with his touch. The world around them blurred, the soft hum of music, the murmurs of the gala guests all of it faded into nothing. Y/N barely had a moment to react before she melted into it, fingers instinctively gripping the lapels of his suit. His other hand tightened against her waist, pressing her closer, deepening the kiss like he was daring Petrov to do something about it.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew they were putting on a show. She knew this was for the mission, for baiting Petrov.

But the way Chan kissed her slow at first, then rougher, hungrier made it dangerously easy to forget.

As their lips parted, Y/N barely had time to catch her breath. Chan didn’t move away. His forehead rested against hers, his breaths slightly heavier than before, his hold on her lingering. His fingers stayed at the curve of her waist, his touch warm and possessive.

The air between them was thick, charged with something neither of them wanted to name. Y/N’s heart pounded, her lips still tingling from the kiss. Then, in a voice low enough for only her to hear, Chan murmured, “Look at him.” Her breath hitched. She didn’t need to ask who.

“Slowly,” Chan instructed, voice like silk laced with quiet dominance. “Teasingly.”

Y/N swallowed, gathering herself before her gaze slid past Chan’s shoulder.

There Petrov stood, watching. His smirk had grown, intrigue flashing in his eyes. Exactly what they needed. Chan’s grip on her waist subtly tightened, his lips ghosting over her ear as he continued giving quiet directions.

“Now, kiss me again,” he murmured. “Soft. Just a peck. And whisper something romantic. Make me smile.” Her fingers curled slightly against his suit. She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before tilting her head up and brushing the softest kiss against his lips.

Chan barely reacted, only his hold twitching slightly.

Then, her lips moved near his ear, whispering, “We should do this more often.” She felt the sharp exhale against her cheek, the subtle curve of his lips as he fought back a smirk.

She pulled away, giving him the smallest, knowing smile before finally slipping out of his hold.

And just like that, Petrov took the bait.

Y/N made her way to the bar, her pulse still thrumming with the lingering adrenaline of the kiss. She could still feel Chan’s lips on hers, the heat of his hands at her waist, the way his voice had dropped into something dark and commanding. It had been a kiss meant to lure their target, but it had done something entirely different to her.

She exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away as she leaned against the bar, ordering a drink to steady herself. The air in the room felt warmer now, buzzing with the energy of the gala, the low hum of conversation blending with the soft clinking of glasses.

As she reached for her drink, her gaze instinctively searched for Chan. He had blended into the crowd effortlessly, now engaged in casual conversation with some wealthy-looking businessman. The way he carried himself—relaxed, confident—made it seem like he belonged in this world, like he wasn’t currently running an undercover mission.

But then, a voice crackled in her ear.

“Y/N,” Jisung’s voice was low, but there was an amused lilt to it. “Your guy is on the move.”

She stiffened slightly, adjusting her grip on her glass.

“How close?” she whispered, tilting her head just slightly so it wouldn’t look like she was speaking to herself.

“Hmm,” Jisung hummed, clearly checking the feed. “About fifteen feet. And closing.”

Her stomach twisted not with fear, but with anticipation.

“I hope you’ve figured out a way to lure him,” Jisung added, and she could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Good luck.” With that, the comms went quiet, leaving her standing there, heartbeat loud in her ears. She took one last, slow sip of her drink before setting it down.

Then, she turned. Y/N's fingers wrapped gently around the chilled glass, but she barely took a sip. Her heart was still racing from the kiss with Chan. Her eyes flicked across the room until she spotted him. He was blending easily into a nearby conversation, laughing at something someone said, but she could see how his eyes still tracked her through the crowd. Then came the quiet shift. The presence.

“Miss,” a low, accented voice purred beside her.

Y/N turned slowly to find herself face-to-face with Petrov. Up close, he was just as imposing tall, refined, charming in a dangerous way. His suit was custom, expensive, and everything about him screamed power. But it was the glint in his eyes, that predatory edge, that reminded her exactly who he was. “You’ve been catching my eye all night,” Petrov said, stepping closer, his tone smooth. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d let me introduce myself.”

Y/N smiled, soft and shy playing the part. “It seems I’ve caught quite the important man’s attention, then.” Petrov chuckled, eyes raking over her slowly. “You’re not just beautiful, you’re quick with your words. I like that.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “And I like women who aren’t afraid of power.”

She let her lips twitch upward, keeping her breath even. “Do you say that to all the women you meet at these things?” “Only the ones who look like trouble,” he said, sipping his drink. “Who’s the man you were with?”

“Just a friend,” she replied smoothly, brushing her hair back. “Someone who keeps me out of trouble.”

“Hmm,” Petrov said, clearly not convinced. “That kiss looked a little too convincing for ‘just a friend.’” He arched a brow, studying her. “But perhaps trouble is more fun, no?” Her pulse jumped, but she kept her tone playful. “Maybe. Depends on the kind of trouble you mean.”

He smiled at that. “Why don’t we find somewhere quieter? I’d love to hear more about you… without all the noise.” In her ear, Jisung’s voice crackled to life. “This is it, Y/N. He’s biting. Keep going let him chew. Just a little longer.”

Y/N gave Petrov a soft, teasing smile. “Lead the way.”

Petrov’s presence seemed to swallow the space around Y/N, but she kept her expression soft, coy—like she was flattered but not overwhelmed.

Meanwhile, Jisung’s voice crackled quietly in Chan’s earpiece. “Hey, you good?” he asked, a note of teasing curiosity in his tone. “That was… some performance.” Chan cleared his throat and subtly stepped away from the small circle of idle socialites. His gaze flicked to Y/N and Petrov at the bar, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

Jisung chuckled. “Yeah, sure you are.” Then his tone shifted, more serious. “Alright, focus up—change of plans for you. So quit drinking. There’s a guy two tables from your nine o'clock, navy suit, thinning hair, holding a scotch. He’s got a keycard clipped inside his inner pocket. We need that.” Chan’s eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on the man in question. “You want me to pickpocket him.”

“Bingo,” Jisung replied, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll need that card to access the west wing security panel. You’ve got one chance so make it clean.”

Chan exhaled slowly, brushing his hand down his lapel to center himself, then started moving through the crowd with quiet precision, eyes trained on the mark. Chan drifted through the crowd with practiced ease, a champagne flute in hand and his expression cool, unreadable. The ballroom shimmered with the glitter of crystal chandeliers and opulence, masking the tension that simmered beneath his calm exterior. His eyes landed on the target, a middle-aged man in a dark navy suit, his badge glinting faintly against his lapel. The key card.

“Chan, twenty degrees to your right,” Jisung’s voice whispered through the comms. “That’s our guy. The access badge is clipped to his inner coat pocket. You have a sorta ten-second window while he’s distracted.”

Chan moved in, just another face in a sea of luxury. He approached the man, bumping into him ever so lightly, the clink of glasses a convenient cover.

“Apologies,” he said smoothly, laying a steadying hand on the man's arm while his other slipped into the inner coat pocket with deft precision. A flick of his wrist—clean, practiced, invisible. The key card vanished into Chan’s palm before the man even realized he’d been touched. “Got it,” Chan whispered. “Nice,” Jisung muttered, sounding genuinely impressed. “Tuck it into your belt loop, just in case. Now…”

A pause. “Switching focus. Y/N, Petrov’s leading you somewhere. I’ve got eyes. You’re heading down a private hallway on the east side. Could be a terrace or a VIP room.”

Y/N followed Petrov’s lead, heart still echoing with the memory of Chan’s kiss. Petrov’s presence was commanding, smooth in a way that made her both alert and oddly calm like stepping into enemy territory wearing silk and confidence.

“You handle him like a charm, Y/N,” Jisung said softly in her earpiece. “But stay sharp. If he offers you a drink—don’t take it. And stall as long as possible. We need to find out where he keeps his passcodes.”

Petrov led Y/N with a confident, knowing gait his hand hovering just close enough to her lower back to signal dominance without touching. His cologne was thick and intoxicating, and every calculated step of his reeked of money, power, and danger. She kept her pace languid, careful to play the role, coy but not naïve, inviting but not desperate.

They stopped just outside a private lounge, its door guarded by a sensor. Petrov glanced at her, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You don’t seem like the usual charity types,” he said in that thick accent, tilting his head with amusement. “Who sent you?”

Y/N gave him a subtle smile, stepping closer, allowing the soft glimmer of her gown to brush against him. “A girl can’t enjoy an expensive evening without a reason?”

He chuckled lowly. “You look like you enjoy more than expensive evenings. But you… you’re hiding something, no?” She tilted her head, her lips barely parted. “Aren’t we all?”

Jisung whispered in her ear through the comms.

“Keep him talking. You're doing great. Try to steer him toward Nightfall. Slowly.” Petrov leaned against the wall now, eyes tracing every inch of her face. “Tell me something… Do you believe in noble causes?”

Y/N swallowed subtly, then nodded. “I think the world needs people willing to do difficult things. Unseen things. For the greater good.” He raised a brow. “That sounds like something I once believed.” He paused, staring at her more intently now. “Have you ever heard of Operation Nightfall?”

Bingo.

Y/N hesitated, lowering her gaze just enough to seem cautious but not shocked. “Wasn’t that some old military intel drop or something? A failed coup?”

Petrov gave a low chuckle and shook his head. “That’s what they called it on paper. But in truth, it was something else entirely.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “It was an experiment… on loyalty. On silence. On what people would kill to protect. And what they'd destroy if it meant being remembered.”

Y/N's pulse raced. “Why are you telling me this?”

He leaned in, lips near her ear. “Because I want to see what you'll do with it.” Before she could respond, he tapped the scanner and the door opened with a soft click. He gestured her in.

“I’ve got visuals,” Jisung told them. “Chan, you’re clear to approach the west wing once you secure the card. Y/N… keep him talking. Let’s see what secrets our charming Russian might spill.”

Y/N nodded subtly, stepped inside with measured grace—and the real game began.

Chan ducked behind a column, out of sight of the main ballroom. He slid the stolen keycard from his coat pocket and held it up to a wall panel tucked discreetly beside a locked hallway. It beeped once—access granted.

“Jisung?” he murmured, eyes scanning the hallway beyond.

“Yup. That hallway leads to a private server room. That’s where the encrypted drive’s supposed to be. We need a full download of Petrov’s files if we want dirt on Nightfall’s remnants.”

Chan moved fast and low. Inside the server room, ambient red light pulsed over rows of machines. He located the correct terminal, slotted in a tiny black device Jisung had prepped, and tapped the interface.

“Download in progress,” Jisung confirmed, typing on his end. “Keep it running. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

Back in the lounge, Petrov poured two glasses of brandy, handing one to YN. He stared at her with growing curiosity, suspicion laced with intrigue. “So tell me…” he said, swirling his glass. “Why do you really care about knowing Nightfall? It’s been buried for years.”

YN took a sip, eyes meeting his. “Because the ones who buried it never paid for the lives they ruined.” Petrov stared at her silent for a beat too long. Then he smiled faintly. “You're dangerous.”

She smiled back. “Only when I need to be.”

Petrov leaned against the velvet wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on Y/N like a panther cornering prey. The low lighting carved his face into harsh angles. Her drink sat forgotten on the ledge beside him as he spoke, his voice smooth but laced with something biting. “You know…” he drawled, stepping slightly closer. “I swear I’ve seen your face before. Not here, of course. Somewhere more… volatile.”

Y/N felt her chest tighten subtly beneath the silk of her dress. Her lips parted, but she kept her smile practiced, soft, flirtatious. “I get that a lot,” she said lightly, brushing a curl from her shoulder and avoiding direct eye contact for just a second too long. Her heartbeat started to race.

Petrov smirked, noting her hesitation. “Do you?” he asked, tilting his head. “Because I never forget a face. Especially not ones that make my instincts twitch.” She chuckled, smooth on the outside but screaming inside. “Then I hope your instincts are saying I’m just a pretty face with a taste for expensive wine and dangerous men.”

Jisung’s voice crackled. “He’s testing you, keep your cool. You’re doing good.”

But she could already feel it, Petrov was circling in, mentally, emotionally. Slowly twisting suspicion into something darker. She tried to reel it back with subtle confidence, touching his sleeve lightly, letting her voice drop. “You’re curious. I like that. Curiosity means you’re smart… and smart men, they’re the kind who know things others don’t. Like secrets. Like… what Operation Nightfall really was.”

His expression barely twitched, but his eyes flared like lit gasoline. The air thickened.

The whirr of the data drive hummed behind Chan as he crouched over the rack of blinking servers, fingers moving across the compact keyboard like water, fast, deadly. The room was cold, sterile, dimly blue-lit. “Jisung,” he hissed, “how much longer is this going to take?”

“Couple more minutes. Just keep the line open and stay quiet.”

But then—click clack—footsteps.

Several.

Chan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t turn, not yet. Instead, he pulled a micro-blade from under his sleeve and slipped it between his fingers, body half-shadowed. Two men appeared in the doorway—security. Heavyset, armored, rifles slung and ready. They stopped when they saw him, confused, then suspicious.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” one barked, stepping forward.

Chan stood slowly, slipping his blade back into his coat and plastering on the dumbest grin he could muster.

“Room service,” he said, gesturing to the servers. “You guys are out of data… figured I’d refill it.”

“Wrong answer,” the taller one muttered and lunged. Chan ducked, instantly pivoting and slamming his elbow into the man's gut. The guard staggered, and Chan used that split-second to swipe the pistol from his hip. The second guard fired but Chan was already moving.

He dropped low, sliding behind a server tower as the bullet cracked through plastic. He returned fire once non-lethal round hitting the second man in the knee. The man crumpled with a cry. The first guard was up again, charging, Chan grabbed a network cable and yanked it hard, whipping it across the guard’s face before driving his knee into the man’s ribs, then slamming his head against the wall with a brutal thunk. The guard collapsed.

“Gee Jisung,” he grunted, sliding the pistol back into his waistband. “Would’ve been nice to know I had company!”

“You’re welcome,” Jisung replied lazily. “The download’s almost done. Try not to die before it finishes.”

Chan exhaled sharply, sweat dotting his temple. He glanced back at the server the drive was at 87%. He turned toward the door, locking it with a quick override, and returned to his crouch.

“Come on… come on,” he murmured. “Y/N better be buying me a drink after all this.”

The echo of heavy boots down the hallway grew louder then came the pounding.

BANG. BANG.

Chan’s head snapped toward the locked door as it shuddered with the force. He muttered, sweat sliding down his temple as he kept an eye on the loading bar on the screen 92%…

“Jisung,” Chan hissed into the comms. “How the fuck am I supposed to get out of here?” Static. Then Jisung’s voice, painfully casual.

“Through the door, obviously. Or, you know, out the window—do a little parkour.”

Chan’s jaw clenched. “You’re a menace.”

95%… 98%… 100%. The console pinged.

He yanked the drive from the terminal just as the door burst open with a bang. Two armed guards stormed in. “Hey! Hands where we can see—”

But Chan was already moving.

He ducked the first swing, slammed his shoulder into the guard’s gut, sending him crashing against the server rack. The second drew a stun baton, swinging for Chan’s head. Chan caught the man's wrist mid-air, twisting it with a brutal torque that forced the baton to clatter to the floor. He landed a hard elbow to the guard’s throat, kicked him square in the chest and then took a punch to his ribs from the first guy, who’d recovered.

He staggered, wheezing, but used the momentum to swing a spinning back kick into the first guard’s knee, buckling it with a sickening crack.

Blood smeared across his knuckles, pain throbbed through his side, but Chan didn’t stop. He shoved the last man against the server, slamming the butt of the stun baton into the side of his temple, and watched him crumple.

Breathing hard, he stumbled toward the exit, clutching the drive.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Jisung chimed in.

“Fuck you.”

“You good?”

“Peachy. Bleeding, but peachy. What about Y/N?”

The air was warm and musky with aged whiskey and cologne now. Petrov sat back on the plush leather sofa, his fingers idly rolling the rim of his glass. Y/N, she sat next to him now, leaning closer, her knee brushing his, her lips curled in soft intrigue.

“You’re a hard man to get alone,” she murmured, tilting her head coyly.

He grinned lazily. “That’s because I enjoy being chased.” Y/N gave a breathy laugh, masking her nerves. Inside, her pulse was still scattered from Chan’s kiss, her thoughts fractured but her mission came first.

“I heard you were in Havana last year. Around the time of Nightfall?” she asked, feigning ignorance. That hit the nerve.

Petrov’s gaze sharpened—just for a second—before he masked it with a smile. He leaned in, his voice lowering. “You’ve got interesting sources. Not many people even know about that name. Let alone dare speak it.”

Y/N blinked slowly, her fingers ghosting over his wrist. “I like danger.”

He chuckled, letting the silence hang for a moment. Then he leaned back, sipping his drink, eyes never leaving her. “It was a slaughterhouse. That palace… you know the one in Cuba? Belonged to a general’s mistress. They were housing something there something classified. And then someone leaked intel, and boom… everyone died. Friendly and enemy. Fire, steel, and screams. Left no one standing.”

Y/N’s hand froze slightly. That aligned with what Jisung suspected. Operation Nightfall was a setup and someone made sure there were no survivors.

She swallowed. “And you walked out of that alive?”

Petrov smiled wider, colder.

“Barely. But I never forget a battlefield. Or the faces I see there.” His gaze locked on hers. “Like yours.” Her stomach flipped. Shit. The tension snapped in her spine, but she forced a laugh.

“Are you saying I look like someone you left behind?”

“Maybe.” He leaned forward. “Or maybe you’re just not as much of a stranger as you pretend.” She covered her pulse with her glass, trying to steady her breathing. And through it all, Jisung’s voice buzzed softly in her ear:

“That was way too close. Stay with him. I think we’ve found the missing link.”

Petrov's eyes danced over her face, predatory and amused. “You have a lovely way of speaking,” he said, voice deep and accented.

Y/N's heart skipped. She let out a soft, throaty laugh and tilted her head coyly. “I get that a lot. Must be the bone structure.”

Petrov narrowed his eyes, but just as he was about to press deeper—

A firm knock. The heavy wooden door creaked open and one of his security men stepped in briskly. His suit was ruffled, and he was slightly out of breath. “Sir,” the guard said in hushed urgency. “There’s been a situation. One of the restricted zones was triggered.”

Petrov’s brows tightened. “Where exactly?”

The guard leaned in, whispering something too low for Y/N to catch.

Whatever it was, it worked.

Petrov straightened with a grunt and set his drink down. “Forgive me, darling,” he said, voice clipped and irritated. “Duty calls. We’ll pick this up later.”

Y/N nodded, feigning a disappointed smile. “Of course. I’ll be right here.” He didn’t wait to respond, already halfway out the door with his guards in tow.

The moment it shut—

“Y/N,” Jisung’s voice filtered into her ear. “Time to move. Meet Chan at the eastern balcony third floor. Now.”

She rose, heart still buzzing with the closeness of danger, and silently slipped toward the hallway, heels quiet on the marble as she vanished from the lounge and into the shadows of the corridor.

The air outside was cooler, tinged with the faint scent of high-end cigars and champagne flutes discarded by the edge of the railing. Soft jazz floated in from the ballroom below, muffled by heavy glass doors that clicked shut behind Y/N as she stepped onto the marble balcony. Her heels echoed faintly against the stone, slowing when she spotted him.

Chan leaned against the balustrade, slightly hunched, his tux jacket wrinkled and one sleeve stained with something too dark to be wine. His knuckles tinted red, and there was a tear at the edge of his dress shirt where it had clearly been grabbed in a scuffle.

Y/N blinked. “Why do you always end up getting beat up the second I’m not around?”

He turned his head toward her, breath still uneven, but smirked dryly without answering. Instead, he pulled the drive from inside his jacket and held it up between two fingers, its metal case glinting under the city lights. “Let’s just hope this little guy has what we need.”

Y/N stepped closer, her tone dropping. “I managed to get something too.”

That caught his attention. Chan turned to face her more fully, eyes scanning hers.

She kept her voice low. “Petrov mentioned Cuba. The palace. It wasn’t just a base it was a front. Something happened there during Operation Nightfall, and it involved you. He didn’t say what exactly… but whatever it was, it was big enough to make him stop talking when a guard interrupted us.”

Chan’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes a ripple of unease or something buried deeper. He nodded once, jaw tightening.

Just then, Jisung’s voice crackled through their comms. “Okay lovebirds, time’s up. I’ve got cameras blinking red on your floor and guards getting way too curious about who’s missing from the charity bingo.”

Y/N glanced back toward the ballroom. “So what now?”

“Now,” Jisung said, “you leave. Subtly. Because if anyone figures out you’re not here to sip overpriced wine and fund endangered birds, this whole thing goes to hell.” Chan exhaled heavily, slipping the drive back into his pocket. “He’s right.”

He offered her his arm. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Y/N looped her arm through his, masking the adrenaline still coursing through her veins with a soft smile. From anyone watching, they were just another power couple leaving early maybe to avoid the press, maybe to steal a moment alone. But beneath the surface, beneath the lights and silk and music, the real mission had just begun.

And the ghosts of Cuba were no longer buried.

😤

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Jisung blinked at him before rolling his eyes with an exasperated grin. "Relax, hyung. She won’t be running around in a skin-tight catsuit or anything. It’s classy, elegant, and practical. Besides, if anyone so much as looks at her funny, I know you’ll be ready to put them six feet under." Chan didn’t respond, but the way his jaw clenched slightly said enough.

Y/N, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, turned to Jisung. "Thanks for that, by the way." Jisung waved her off. "Don’t mention it. Just don’t ruin it before the mission, yeah? Custom tailoring ain’t cheap."

Chan glanced at Jisung. "And mine?"

Jisung smirked. "Exactly what you asked for. I even made sure to get the same damn fabric you were so picky about, Leaning forward on his elbows. "You’re welcome, by the way." Chan hummed in response, giving Jisung a nod of approval.

Jisung grinned, clapping his hands together. "Great. Now that we’ve got wardrobe sorted—" He pushed back from the table, standing up with a stretch. "—you guys ready to check the arsenal?" Y/N, who had just taken a sip of water, nearly choked. "You have an arsenal?!"

Jisung blinked, looking at her like she had just asked if the sky was blue. "Uh, duh? What did you think this was, a school field trip? Of course, we have weapons." Chan, unfazed, looked at Jisung expectantly. "Show us."

Y/N, still processing the arsenal part, stood up, shaking her head. "This just keeps getting better and better." Jisung chuckled. "Oh, you have no idea."

Jisung led them down a narrow hallway, stopping at an unassuming door. He pulled out a keycard, swiped it through the reader, and leaned in for a quick facial scan. A low beep sounded before the lock clicked open. He smirked over his shoulder. "Welcome to the funhouse."

The door swung open, revealing a sleek metal staircase that spiraled downwards. As they descended, the air grew cooler, the faint hum of machinery buzzing beneath their feet. The basement was dimly lit until Jisung reached the bottom and tapped a button on the wall. Instantly, overhead LED strips illuminated the space in a cold, sterile white glow.

And then they saw it.

The walls stretched wide, lined with reinforced glass cases and matte black shelves, displaying an array of high-tech weaponry that looked straight out of a classified government facility. The entire room screamed state-of-the-art.

On one side, an entire wall was dedicated to firearms—sleek, modified handguns, sniper rifles with digital scopes, compact submachine guns, and custom-built shotguns. Each weapon rested in a precision-molded slot, labeled with small holographic displays listing their specs, ammunition types, and built-in enhancements.

To the left, an advanced workstation displayed blueprints and 3D holograms of gadgets—mini drones with silent flight capabilities, disguised tasers, hacking tools, and explosive devices small enough to be hidden in cufflinks.

A glass case in the center of the room held an impressive collection of melee weapons: carbon-fiber daggers, extendable batons, throwing knives with tracking capabilities, and a prototype combat glove equipped with an electric charge powerful enough to knock a man unconscious in a single hit.

The far wall was a gear-up station—custom tactical suits reinforced with nanofiber, smart earpieces with encrypted comms, and glasses with built-in augmented reality interfaces. A high-speed 3D printer whirred softly in the corner, printing out what looked like new weapon components in real-time.

Y/N’s jaw nearly dropped. "Holy shit."

Jisung grinned like a proud scientist unveiling his latest invention. "I know, right? Pretty badass." He walked up to the firearms section, grabbing a sleek matte-black pistol. "This beauty right here? Biometric scanning, suppressor integration, and a custom trigger system with variable pressure sensitivity. It'll only fire if it recognizes your grip."

Chan, who had been silently scanning the room, finally exhaled. "Damn, you really went all out."

Jisung shrugged. "I had to. We’re not just walking into some bar fight. We’re going up against some of the most dangerous people in the game. We need every advantage we can get." He turned to Y/N, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Wanna test something?"

She scoffed, still overwhelmed by the sheer amount of firepower around her. "Oh, you mean pick which overpowered weapon I want to use? Yeah, let me just casually decide if I want a gun with facial recognition or a knife that could probably cut through a tank."

Jisung smirked. "That’s the spirit."

Chan approached the weapons like he’d seen them a hundred times before, his fingers brushing over a sleek matte-black pistol with a built-in suppressor. He inspected it with a trained eye, casually testing the weight in his palm before checking the magazine. His movements were effortless, automatic. This wasn’t new to him. This was second nature. Y/N, on the other hand, was still in shock. Her eyes darted around the room, trying to process the sheer amount of firepower surrounding them. She hesitated before stepping closer, almost as if the weapons would explode if she touched them wrong.

"Are you seeing this?" she whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief as she glanced at Chan, who was now checking the scope of a sniper rifle like he was picking out a new jacket. Jisung chuckled at her reaction, already expecting it. "Oh yeah, it’s a lot to take in. But don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it." He picked up a pair of tactical earpieces from a nearby workbench and tossed one to Chan, then handed another to her.

"These are your earwigs for the mission," he explained. "Encrypted comms, real-time noise cancellation, and a built-in jammer in case someone tries to intercept our frequency. Just tap once to activate, twice to mute, and hold for an emergency signal."

Y/N stared at the tiny device in her palm before glancing at Chan.

Jisung smirked. "Look at you, getting all geared up."

"I still can’t believe all this is real," she muttered, eyeing a compact automatic rifle with built-in stabilization. "Like, why does this look like something out of a sci-fi movie?"

"Because it basically is," Jisung grinned, picking up a combat knife with a serrated edge and flicking it between his fingers. "Tech has come a long way, and let’s just say we have access to some…exclusive suppliers." Chan finally turned his attention to her, setting down the sniper rifle. "You should get familiar with some of these," he said, nodding toward the weapons rack. "It’s better to have something and not need it than to need it and not have it."

She exhaled. "Right. Okay." She took a tentative step forward, reaching for a lightweight pistol that looked slightly less intimidating than the others. She turned it over in her hands, feeling the weight, her fingers hesitantly resting near the trigger.

Jisung gave her an approving nod. "That one’s good for a beginner—custom grip, lightweight, and a built-in recoil compensator. Won’t kick as hard as the others."

"Oh, great. Love that for me," she muttered.

Jisung grinned. "I’ll leave you two to get acquainted with the toys." He threw a lazy salute before making his way up the stairs, leaving Y/N and Chan alone in the high-tech arsenal. She turned to Chan, still holding the pistol awkwardly. "So…what now?"

He smirked slightly, tilting his head. "Now? Now we make sure you don’t accidentally shoot yourself." Y/N smirked at Chan’s remark, rolling her eyes playfully before shifting her attention back to the weapons in front of her. She let her fingers glide over the various firearms, still in mild disbelief that she was even standing in a place like this surrounded by high-tech weaponry straight out of an action movie.

Then, on impulse, she picked up a sleek handgun, its polished black surface cool against her palm. Without thinking much of it, she turned and playfully pointed it at Chan, an amused gleam in her eyes.

"Bang," she teased, grinning.

But the moment Chan turned, his expression instantly shifted from casual amusement to outright alarm. His eyes widened, his breath catching as he registered what she had just done—except it wasn’t the fact that she was pointing a gun at him that made his stomach drop. It was the fact that she had it completely backwards, the barrel facing herself rather than him.

"Shit—"

In an instant, Chan moved, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides. His hands reached for hers, steady yet firm as he carefully repositioned the gun away from her, fingers adjusting her grip with practiced precision. His touch was warm, guiding—his palms wrapping over the back of her hands, fingers slipping between hers as he corrected her stance.

Y/N’s breath hitched. It was only now that she realized just how close he was. The faint scent of his cologne—something clean, woodsy, and distinctly him—lingered in the air between them. His chest was inches from hers, his head slightly tilted down, dark eyes focused intently on her hands as he adjusted her grip. The intensity of it made heat creep up her neck, her face warming at the proximity. Chan, on the other hand, had initially been too focused on correcting her mistake to notice much else, but then she exhaled softly, and something flickered in him. When he finally glanced up, their faces were too close. Close enough that he could see the slight flush creeping up her cheeks, the way her lips parted just slightly, the way her lashes fluttered.

His throat went dry.

Quickly, he averted his gaze, jaw tightening as he slowly stepped back, forcing himself to let go of her hands. "If you're going to tease me, at least do it correctly," he murmured, voice lower than before, a hint of something unreadable laced in his tone.

Y/N blinked, still trying to process what had just happened. Then, as his words registered, she let out a nervous laugh, bringing a hand to her warm face. "Right. My bad. Won’t happen again."

Chan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a slight smirk. "Don’t worry about it." He hesitated for just a second his eyes lingering on her a bit too long before he tore them away and turned back to the equipment, acting as if nothing had just happened. But the warmth on his neck betrayed him.

Y/N set the weapon back down, still feeling the lingering warmth of Chan’s hands over hers. She let out a small breath, stealing a glance at him. He was back to scanning the equipment, checking the weight of a sleek tactical knife in his palm, flipping it absentmindedly before placing it back.

After a moment, she tilted her head. "Are you scared?"

Chan paused slightly before turning his head towards her, his face neutral. "Of what?"

"This mission."

He huffed softly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "I don’t get scared." Y/N arched a brow, unconvinced. "Really? Not even a little?" Chan sighed, rolling his shoulders before finally answering, "I’m not scared for myself. I’m more scared for you."

That made her frown. "Why?"

He met her gaze then, something quieter in his expression. "Because you have people waiting for you back home. People who love you. If something happens to you… they’ll be devastated." He exhaled, voice dropping just slightly. "Me? No one’s gonna care if I don’t make it back."

A pang of something sharp hit Yn’s chest at that. "That’s not true."

Chan let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Jisung? Felix? You’re gonna say them, right? They don’t count."

"Why not?" she challenged. "They care about you, Chan."

"Yeah, but they’ll move on. They won’t lose sleep over it." He shrugged, glancing away. "I don’t have a family waiting for me, Y/N. No one who’s going to sit at home hoping I come back. I’m just another guy who disappears."

The casual way he said it, like it was a fact he had accepted long ago made something twist in her stomach. Y/N pressed her lips together, looking at him for a long moment. Then, with quiet resolve, she reached her hand out toward him. "Well, if you’re going to worry about me, then I’m going to worry about you too. I’ll watch your back."

Chan blinked at her outstretched hand before looking up at her face. There was something stubborn in her expression, determined, firm.

A smirk tugged at his lips. "You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"I try my best," she quipped.

For a second, he just looked at her, as if debating whether or not to accept the gesture. Then, with a sigh, he reached out and clasped her hand, giving it a firm shake.

"Fine." He squeezed lightly before pulling back. "But don’t slow me down."

Y/N scoffed, crossing her arms. "You wish. You’ll be the one struggling to keep up with me." Chan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. But as he turned back to the weapons, a faint smile lingered on his lips.

Y/N lingered for a moment, watching him as he ran a hand through his hair, his expression guarded again. But something about the way he had taken her hand, the way his fingers had curled around hers just a little longer than necessary, stuck with her. She softened, her gaze gentle as she said, "I’m heading back upstairs."

Chan didn’t look at her immediately, instead exhaling through his nose before nodding. "Get some rest. Big night soon." She hummed in response, turning toward the stairs. As she ascended, she glanced back just once. He was still standing there, back to her, arms crossed as he studied the arsenal like it held all the answers he needed.

Something about him felt… heavy. But she didn’t push.

Not yet.

---

The air in the safe house was tense but focused as Jisung clicked through the last few details of the plan. The large screen in front of them displayed the event’s blueprints, guest list, and security details.

“Alright, so just to go over this one last time,” Jisung said, leaning forward, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he pulled up different files. “The target is Viktor Petrov, a so-called philanthropist with ties to the black market. The evidence we need is in his possession, likely stored on a secure drive he keeps on him. That’s what we’re after.”

Y/N nodded, absorbing the information.

“Now, security is going to be tight,” Jisung continued, pointing at the map of the event venue. “CCTV, armed guards, metal detectors. But we’ve accounted for all of that. You two will enter separately—Y/N, you’ll be working the room, charming your way into conversations, keeping an eye on Petrov. Chan, you’ll be our wildcard, handling any complications that arise.”

Chan nodded, arms crossed as he studied the screen. “And if things go south?”

Jisung sighed. “Then you get the hell out of there and we go back to the drawing board. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” He leaned back, shutting the laptop with a click. “I’ll be monitoring everything remotely, keeping comms open, but once you’re inside, I’ll split off and head back to Minho. You two are on your own from that point.” Y/N exhaled, the weight of the mission settling on her shoulders.

Jisung glanced between them, his usual playful expression replaced by something sincere. “Look, I know this is dangerous, but you’ve got this. Just stay calm, trust each other, and don’t get caught.” Chan smirked slightly, rolling his shoulders. “Easy.”

Jisung scoffed. “Yeah, sure, easy, says the guy who nearly got stabbed in an airplane lavatory.”

Y/N snorted, but Chan ignored them both, his expression turning serious as he looked at her. “Whatever happens in there, we’ve got each other’s backs.” She met his gaze, nodding. “Always.” Chan clapped his hands together. “Alright then. Let’s get ready.”

As Y/N stepped into her room, her eyes immediately landed on the neatly placed package on her bed. A large, sleek black box sat at the center, a smaller red box resting atop it, along with a neatly folded note. She reached for the note first, recognizing Jisung’s slightly messy yet playful handwriting.

Hope you love this masterpiece. I have impeccable taste, don’t I? Now, go make them all speechless. - Jisung.

A small smile graced her lips as she shook her head fondly before setting the note aside. With anticipation bubbling inside her, she carefully lifted the lid of the black box, only to gasp softly. The dress was nothing short of stunning.

It was a sleek, strapless black gown, its fabric smooth and form-fitting, hugging the curves of her body in all the right ways. The slit along the thigh was daring yet elegant, allowing just the right amount of movement and allure. Alongside it, a pair of black satin opera gloves lay folded, completing the timeless, sophisticated look. Her hands moved to the red box, and with a soft click, she opened it. Inside lay a delicate pearl choker, its creamy white pearls reflecting the soft glow of the room’s lighting. Simple, yet undeniably regal. It was a statement of class, an addition that perfectly complemented the dress. She wasted no time getting ready, though the process took longer than expected. The makeup had to be flawless, enhancing her features without overpowering her natural beauty. Her hair was styled into a sleek, middle-parted low bun, ensuring an effortlessly elegant finish.

Just as she applied the finishing touches, she heard Chan’s voice from the living room.

“Y/N, come on! We don’t have all day—”

She stepped out at that exact moment, descending the staircase gracefully.

“Sorry, sorry, I took a bit longer than expected,” she said, adjusting her gloves as she approached.

Chan, however, had gone completely silent. His words hung unfinished in the air as his eyes took in the sight before him. His normally sharp, focused gaze softened, his lips slightly parted in astonishment. Y/N looked… breathtaking. From the sleek black gown to the way the pearl choker sat against her collarbone, every detail was perfect. For a moment, he forgot how to function properly.

“You’re staring,” she pointed out, raising an amused brow.

Chan immediately blinked, snapping himself out of his daze. He awkwardly glanced to the side, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh—yeah. You just… You look really beautiful,” he admitted, his voice slightly quieter than usual. Y/N grinned before letting her eyes scan over him as well. He had cleaned up just as impressively.

Dressed in an all-black tailored suit, his presence was undeniably commanding. The blazer had subtle glittering details, adding a touch of flair without being over-the-top. Underneath, instead of the usual dress shirt, he wore a sheer, golden mesh top, revealing just a teasing amount of skin. A bold statement piece in the form of a silver chain necklace adorned his neck, complementing his overall look.

“You look amazing too,” she admitted, her eyes flickering over his outfit.

Chan, uncharacteristically, felt his cheeks warm at the compliment. He coughed lightly, shaking his head as if to compose himself. Y/N smirked. “Are you ready to pretend to be my loving, devoted boyfriend?” she teased, tilting her head slightly. Before he could respond, Jisung strolled in, carrying two black duffle bags, the weight of their contents making his arms flex slightly.

“I have to say,” Jisung mused as he eyed them both, “I really did a damn good job picking your outfits. You both look like you just stepped out of a high-class spy movie.”

Chan rolled his eyes but smirked. “Alright, let’s not waste more time. We need to move.”

Jisung handed them each their gear, his expression momentarily turning serious. “You both know the plan. Get in, retrieve the target item, and get out. I’ll be assisting remotely.” With everything set, Chan extended his arm toward Y/N, slipping into his role effortlessly.

“Shall we, darling?” he said smoothly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

Y/N chuckled, linking her arm with his as they stepped out. The night had only just begun.

The drive to the event was quiet, the kind of silence that wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable but heavy nonetheless. The soft hum of the city outside was muted by the luxurious car’s interior, but Y/N could still feel the tension radiating from Chan beside her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, taking in the way his jaw was clenched, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. His shoulders, usually broad and relaxed, were stiff, his mind clearly running through every possible scenario they might face tonight.

Without thinking too much about it, she reached over, placing her hand gently on his. It wasn’t much, just a simple touch, a reassurance that he wasn’t alone in this. But the reaction was immediate.

Chan flinched.

His hand jerked away as if burned, his fingers curling into a tight fist on his lap. He turned his head sharply, looking away toward the window. “Why did you do that?” His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it, something guarded. Y/N swallowed, pulling her hand back slowly. “I thought it would help.”

He didn’t respond. He just kept staring out the window, his expression unreadable. That was when the realization hit her again that Chan was still a stranger. No matter how much time they spent together or how natural their interactions seemed at times, he could shut himself off completely when he wanted to. A wall would come up, keeping her out. And tonight was no different.

Before she could say anything else, the car slowed, pulling up to the grand entrance of the venue. Even from inside, she could see the flashing lights of paparazzi, the familiar gleam of expensive jewelry, and the carefully curated smiles of the wealthy elite. Jisung sighed, gripping the wheel tightly for a moment before turning in his seat to face them. His usual playful energy was dimmed, replaced by something more serious. “Alright, this is it. You two need to be careful. Play your roles, and don’t let anyone get too close.”

Y/N nodded, a small smile gracing her lips despite the nerves fluttering in her stomach. “Thanks for everything, Ji.”

Before he could brush it off, she leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. His eyes widened slightly before he scoffed, rolling his eyes but smiling nonetheless. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t get too comfortable acting like a rich couple, alright?”

She smirked before reaching for the door handle, ready to step out. Chan, however, remained still. His gaze lingered on Jisung for a moment before he finally spoke. “Drive home safe, alright?”

Jisung hummed, but before Chan could fully step out, Jisung reached over, grabbing his wrist.

“Trust her,” Jisung said quietly. “Even if it’s just for tonight.” Chan stiffened slightly at the words, but he didn’t pull away. He just held Jisung’s gaze for a long moment before exhaling through his nose and nodding.

With that, Jisung let go, and Chan finally stepped out. The door shut behind him, and without hesitation, Jisung drove off, disappearing into the city lights.

Y/N stood beside him now, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she took in the lavish scene before them. The murmurs of the crowd, the flashes of cameras—it was a world she wasn’t fully used to, but one she had to blend into perfectly tonight.

She turned to Chan. “Are you ready?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze softened, his previous coldness melting just slightly. Then, without a word, he reached for her hand, lifting it gently to his lips. The kiss was light, barely there, but it lingered just long enough to send a clear message—to the cameras, to the crowd, and perhaps even to himself.

“After you, my love,” he murmured.

And just like that, they stepped into the building, the perfect image of a devoted couple.

Ehehehehhe skrr... mission status: active

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Chan smirked.

You rounded the staircase, descending past clusters of partygoers, some mid-toast, others in deep political conversation. Security passed them once eyes glazed from routine but didn't stop them. Near the bar, amongst a circle of politicians and businessmen, Reynolds lifted his gaze. His glass paused mid-sip. There, moving across the hall toward the exit, he saw you.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Not in full recognition, but that kind of gut reaction the flicker of familiarity that twists in the stomach.

“Excuse me,” he said to the man beside him, handing off his drink and slowly stepping away.

You felt it first, that prickle at the back of your neck. Something subtler than fear. A sense of being watched.

Your stride faltered for half a second, enough for Chan to glance down at you.

“What is it?”

“...Someone’s looking.”

Chan’s hand gripped your waist a little firmer, subtly steering you toward the side door instead of the main one. The soft golden lights reflected off the glass, casting warped shadows across the tile floors as they passed the last few guests.

Behind them, Reynolds weaved through the crowd like a shark in still water, polite smile fixed in place, but his gaze locked. Then a flicker of a smirk curled on his lips. He recognized you.

But before he could call out, the couple vanished through the side exit, the heavy door shutting behind them with a soft click. A breeze swept through the night, ruffling the corners of your dress. The car Jisung arranged was parked inconspicuously near the garden’s edge, engine already running. Chan opened the door for you, eyes scanning the shadowed corners as he did.

As the car pulled away from the estate, the gala lights glowing like stars behind them, Reynolds stepped out onto the balcony above—watching.

And smiling.

Reynolds stood with a casual posture that masked the fury simmering just beneath the surface. His gaze didn’t leave the now-closed balcony door. That woman — you — walking out like you hadn’t noticed he was here too. And now… you’d come with someone.

“Get me the security feed from the east wing hallway,” he said sharply, breaking the silence.

A guard beside him nodded and tapped quickly on a nearby console. Footage blinked onto the screen smooth, grainy black-and-white. You and Chan, walking in sync. Close. Coordinated. Not lovers, not friends, most likely partners. That kind of body language didn’t lie.

Reynolds leaned forward.

“Who the hell is that man?”

---

Rain danced lightly on the windshield as Chan drove them through the quiet parts of the city, one hand on the steering wheel, the other propped lazily against the open window. The gala behind them felt like a lifetime ago. Next to him, you leaned back in your seat, arms crossed, face half-lit by the passing streetlights. You were still quiet. Processing. Your mind somewhere between Cuba, Petrov’s half-finished words, and the aching curiosity of what exactly Chan was keeping from you.

Chan’s voice broke the silence.

“I’m pulling into this convenience store,” he announced. “Could use a snack. Or six.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “What? I just survived a gunfight and a ballroom. I deserve food.”

He parked smoothly and hopped out without waiting for an answer. You followed him into the little 24-hour shop with its fluorescent hum, cracked tiles, and sleepy cashier who barely looked up from his phone. Chan picked a table in the corner the kind only old men or late-night insomniacs gravitated toward. He leaned back, letting out a small groan as he stretched his arm, feeling the bruises already setting in.

“You get the snacks,” he said with a grin. “Get something classy. Like spicy chips and microwavable dumplings.”

You gave him a dry look. “You’re telling me what to do?”

“Aren’t we still a couple?” he added without missing a beat. You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you walked away. As you wandered off toward the fridges and snack aisle, Chan reached up to adjust the comms earpiece.

“Han? You there?”

There was a brief crackle, then Jisung’s voice slid in like a lazy breeze.

“Alive. Glad you guys could get out safe.”

“Thanks. You’re as comforting as always,” Chan muttered. “Where’s the gear?”

“Safe house three,” Jisung replied. “Same spot we used last time we were here. I restocked it earlier yesterday — clothes, weapons, burner phones, first-aid kits. The drive’s probably being flagged already, so you need to ghost fast.”

Chan drummed his fingers on the table. “And shelter?”

“Hotel’s too risky. There’s a secondary location on the north end of Malá Strana. I’ll send you coordinates. It’s off-grid — the guy who owns it owes me three favors and a kidney.”

Chan huffed a laugh.

“Take Y/N there. Lay low. I’ll monitor traffic on Petrov and Reynolds.”

“Copy that.”

Just then, you returned, holding a paper bag with a sandwich, chocolate milk, and shrimp chips. Chan gave you a knowing look.

“Thank you, my lovely wife.” You plopped down across from him with a soft snort. “It’s tradition.”

He took the bag, rummaged through, and held up a strawberry yogurt with mock betrayal.

“Eat your dumplings and shut up, if you wanted something different you would’ve gone by yourself.” you replied, but your lips twitched into a smile. For a moment, they sat in the soft, quiet lull of the dim store two ghosts in a city.

Then Chan checked the time, and the drive in his pocket. The corner of the store glowed dimly under flickering lights. Chan sat across from you, unwrapping the plastic off his microwaved dumplings with fingers that bore the bruises of the night. You sipped from your chocolate milk, one leg crossed over the other, your eyes flickering to the entrance every time the chime above the door dinged.

Stillness. Then, ding.

The door swung open. Three men walked in.

Not loud. Just… deliberate.

Chan’s head didn’t move, but his eyes tracked them through the faint reflection on the freezer door behind you. Their coats were too thick for the weather. Their hands bare. No gloves. No prints. One of them kept glancing over the aisles like he was casing a mark. The other? Walking like his boots were familiar with blood.

Then he saw the third man. His body tensed just enough for you to notice. Your brows pulled together. “Chan?” you asked under her breath.

“Put down the milk,” he said softly. “And listen to me carefully.”

Your back straightened. “Don’t turn around. Just get up. Walk to the bathroom hallway. There’s an emergency exit door that leads to the alley. Wait for my signal.”

“Why? I know how to fight Chan.” you stated, already hesitating.

“Don’t ask questions,” he snapped quietly. His voice didn’t raise but there was an authority laced into it.  Your eyes darted down. The sarcasm was gone. His expression had shifted. You rose, grabbed your bag, and left with practiced grace—casual, even adding a yawn, like you were just going to find the restroom. One of the men glanced toward you. Chan locked eyes with him immediately.

Look at me, bastard. Not her.

The man didn’t flinch.

As you disappeared into the hallway, Chan stood, tossing his empty food container in the trash as he slowly approached the drinks cooler again not because he needed anything, but to move.

The three men were now close. One stepped forward.

"Забавно видеть тебя здесь." the tallest one said. (Funny seeing you here)

Chan tilted his head. “Small world.” The man laughed but there was no humor in it. “I knew I recognized that face. You’re the one from Havana,” he said, switching to English with a thick accent. “Or was it Rome?”

Chan let out a low, exaggerated sigh. “You guys never get tired of the whole global hunter thing, huh?” The shorter one stepped closer. “You’ve got something. And apart from your life, we want it.” Chan glanced down at the dumpling sauce stain on his shirt. “If you want the drive, you’re gonna have to wait until I finish my midnight snack, bratan." brother

The tall one smirked, his hand shifting inside his coat.

Chan’s expression didn’t change but his weight subtly shifted to his back leg, hand grazing his belt loop. His eyes scanned the store four people inside now. Two of them civvies, too scared to notice. The cashier? Useless, still watching his phone.

“Don’t do it here,” Chan said. “Too many cameras.”

The Russian nodded slightly…then lunged.

Chan grabbed a bottle off the shelf and smashed it across the shorter man’s face. Shards flew. A scream erupted. The shoppers ducked. The tall man pulled a blade, but Chan swiped a metal tray from the counter and blocked it, twisting, using his elbow to slam into the guy’s ribs.

The third man grabbed Chan from behind—too slow. Chan slammed his head backward, breaking the man’s nose with a sickening crunch, then twisted out of his grip, grabbed him by the neck and shoved him straight through the freezer door with a deafening crash. Blood sprayed and glass cracked.

“Y/N, Move!” he barked into the comms, breathing hard.

The tall Russian wiped blood from his lip and sneered. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

Chan grinned, panting. “I’m counting on it.”

He threw a can of soup at his head, distracting him just long enough to leap over the counter, sliding on his side like it was second nature, then bolting through the back hallway.

---

You had already pushed the rusted emergency door open with your shoulder, heart hammering. You were halfway down the alley when Chan came skidding out behind you, limping slightly but still moving fast. You turned and grabbed his wrist, yanking him behind a dumpster as tyou both ducked. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard. He wheezed, then offered you a breathless, sarcastic grin. “What, you think I get beat up for fun?”

You stared at him, torn between adrenaline and fury.

“You need to stop playing hero.”

“Yeah? I’m sorry ma’am I don’t think I will.” You rolled your eyes, but didn’t let go of his wrist. Then the comms buzzed.

“You two still alive?”

“Barely,” Chan muttered. “We need to move. Russians just showed up.”

“You kidding? Shit. They’re probably tracking the drive already. But for what? I’m sending coordinates. Get out of there. Now.”

Chan looked to you. “Let’s go.”

Together, you disappeared into the shadows of the alley, hearts pounding, every step taking them closer to answers — and deeper into the storm.

---

Your footsteps echoed down the narrow alley as you both moved fast, side by side, slipping into darkness like they’d done this a hundred times before. The city blurred behind them with neon lights and the hum of late-night Prague drowned beneath adrenaline and the low buzz of the comms. Chan’s hand was still pressed to his ribs, where one of the guards at the gala got a lucky jab in. You caught him wincing and grabbed his arm, steadying him.

“Talk,” you said sharply. “Now. Who were they?”

He gritted his teeth, eyes scanning ahead.

“They’re not just any hitmen,” he muttered. “They’re part of the old Moscow syndicate. You remember? The Russians that came to the building that night.”

“They traced you here?!” He shot her a tired smirk. “Maybe.”

“Really Chris? What the fuck did you do?”

Chan pulled you around a corner, fast, ducking behind a parked van as a pair of motorbikes roared past the street behind them. Then he looked at you with a mix of regret and grit. “Back when I was still with the Bureau, I intercepted one of their arms deals. Took out half a warehouse. Left their second-in-command with a shattered spine and burned every dime they were laundering through East Asia.”

“Jesus, Chan…”

“I had a charming personality,” he muttered. “They’ve been looking for a reason to kill me ever since. And now that I’ve got that drive with Petrov’s little secrets? They finally have an excuse.” You exhaled sharply, tugging your coat tighter around you. “So, this isn’t just about the mission anymore. They want blood.”

“They always have.” He glanced at you. “Mine first. Yours if you stay near me.”

Your jaw clenched. “Well too late for that now, isn’t it?”

He gave you that look again that unreadable one. The one that used to mean I warned you not to follow me. But this time, it was layered. He was scared. Not for himself. For you. Before either could say more, the comms lit up again, with Jisung’s voice ringing through.

“I rerouted surveillance. You're clear to move east. Chan — the duffel bags are at an old supply unit three blocks from you. It’s got everything: burner phones, gear, passports, two handguns, med kit, and a toothbrush if you’re lucky.”

“What, no snacks?”

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

He clicked off, then turned to you.

“We get the bags. Then we find somewhere off-grid. No more convenience stores. No more chances for them to catch up.” You nodded, eyes hard. “And if they do?”

Chan’s hand settled on her lower back, guiding your forward.

“Then I do what I should’ve done in Havana.”

You blinked. “What’s that?”

“Make sure you walk away. No matter what happens to me.”

---

The lights were dim. A desk lamp flickered low, casting long shadows across glass walls. Reynolds stood stiff, one hand resting on the edge of the table, the other tapping a pen rhythmically as a grainy footage flickered across the wall-mounted screen.

“Back it up,” he muttered. His analyst glanced over nervously. “Sir?” Reynolds leaned in. His eyes didn’t blink.

“That woman… the one near Petrov. Back it up. Zoom in. Slow it down.”

The analyst did as told, typing quick commands into the console. The footage rolled backward—time rewinding in blurry frames—until the moment YN walked out of the lounge and onto the balcony. Reynolds’ jaw tightened.

“There. Who’s that with her?” The analyst hesitated. “I—I don’t have a match.”

Reynolds stepped closer to the screen, eyes narrowing as the figure in the video turned slightly. Just enough for the light to catch his face. The side profile. The walk. The damn posture. Reynolds let out a breath that almost sounded like a curse and whispered under it like a man seeing a ghost.

“…Christopher Motherfucking Bang.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. A sardonic laugh escaped, dry and bitter. “Of course it’s you.” The analyst looked up, confused. “Sir…?” “Nothing,” Reynolds said. “Just realizing I’ve been chasing phantoms with knives. And one of them’s real.”

He turned from the screen and gave a short, cold command:

“Run facial recognition through all the charity feed. Every angle. Every guest. I want confirmation. And if it is him… we burn protocol and escalate this to international watchlist status. Quietly.”

---

It was old. Dusty. Probably hadn’t been used since the Cold War. And you’d gotten used to sleeping in strange places at this point. But it was safe. Off-grid. Quiet. The floor creaked under your boots as you stepped into the main room. Chan had already collapsed onto the couch, one arm resting across his ribs, breathing shallow but still refusing to show pain. You set down the bag Jisung prepped and pulled out the first aid kit. No hesitation.

“Take your shirt off.”

He glanced at you with a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You offering or threatening?”

You didn’t blink. “Off. Now.”

He groaned, sitting up with effort. The bruises along his ribs were already blooming purple-blue, and a cut at his side had soaked into the waistband of his pants. He winced as the cold alcohol hit him, but you didn’t flinch. You was quiet at first. Focused. Until the silence between them started to turn thick.

Then you spoke.

“What happened in Cuba?”

Chan froze. Your fingers stilled against his side, waiting. Demanding. “I know that’s what Petrov was going to tell me,” you added, voice lower. “Right before his guard walked in. He looked at me like I should already know.”

He swallowed, jaw locking. You stepped back slightly, eyes narrowed. “Chris. What the hell happened during Operation Nightfall?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You snapped. “Well too damn bad.”

Silence. He looked away.

“I’ll tell you everything when it's safe.”

You crossed your arms, eyes burning. “Were never gonna be safe. So, either I hear it from you now, or I hear it from Petrov later.” That name made his knuckles tighten around the edge of the couch.

He stood suddenly—halfway, anyway—and hissed from the pain, holding his ribs. “You don’t understand-.”

“I’m not here for the pretty version,” you said, softer now. “I’m here because somehow, I trust you. Even when I shouldn’t.” That’s when he finally looked at you. Something in his face cracked his usual sarcasm chipped off just long enough for you to see it. He sat back down slowly, jaw clenched, and turned his gaze to the floor.

“I’ll tell you,” he murmured. And with that, the silence returned, thicker now, coiled with all the ghosts of Havana still waiting to be named.

Chan leaned against the wall, a shadow cast over half his face from the lone desk lamp in the room. you sat across from him, still, her arms crossed over her chest—but her eyes… her eyes were soft. Not accusing. Just listening.

Chan took a breath, like it hurt to pull the memory from where he buried it.

“His name was Seungmin,” he began, voice low. “Kid was twenty-one. Barely out of Quantico. Fresh-cut suit. Could hack into anything, and still trip over a cable right after.” A small, sad smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“He wasn’t supposed to come to Cuba. Hell, I fought Reynolds on it. Said he wasn’t field-ready. But the kid was adamant. Said he needed to prove he could handle it. Said it was his shot.”

The house was small. Old fans spun slowly on the ceiling, blowing warm air around. Seungmin sat on the couch, legs crossed, laptop open, screens buzzing with codes and satellite pings.

Chan walked in from the back room, half-drenched from the heat and half-wary from a cartel meeting he’d just walked out of. No vest. No wire. Just a worn T-shirt and eyes that never stopped scanning. Seungmin perked up, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“You okay, boss?”

Chan dropped onto the opposite couch with a grunt. “Still breathing. That’s a win.” Seungmin smiled awkwardly. “You always say that.”

“‘Cause it’s always true.”

Seungmin clicked a few keys and sighed. “Man… when this op ends, I’m gonna apply for tactical. Maybe counterintelligence. Or cyber-terror. Think I got a shot?” Chan raised an eyebrow. “All of them?”

The boy nodded with wide-eyed hope. “Why not? Dream big, right?” Chan scoffed but fondly. “You puke at the sight of blood, remember?”

“Details.”

Chan chuckled, then went quiet for a beat. “You know you remind me of my brother?” Seungmin blinked. “You have a brother?”

“You're the most annoying.” Seungmin grinned, pride in his eyes like a little brother who’d just earned a badge.

Chan exhaled, rubbing his thumb across the scar on his knuckle.

“He was smart,” he said. “Too smart. A week before the takedown… he started feeling off. Said something didn’t feel right. That our usual data feeds from HQ had stopped cold. And he wasn’t wrong.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And Reynolds?”

“Brushed it off. Said there were protocol delays. But Seungmin—he kept pushing. He stayed up for two days straight combing through old code, searching for something buried in the encrypted files.” Chan’s voice cracked just a bit, barely enough to notice.

“I told him to rest. Told him to trust me. I told him—I told him I’d keep him safe.” Your gaze faltered, your chest rising slowly.

“What happened, Chris?” Chan’s jaw clenched. The next words took everything in him.

“We walked into a slaughter.”

Thunder rolled in the distance. The air reeked of oil and blood. Rain fell in sharp streaks across crates and crates of illicit cargo. Chan moved through the shadows, dressed like the enemy, wired to hell with cameras, gun tucked under his jacket.

Seungmin was beside him, pale but focused, scanning the area with shaking hands. “We shouldn’t be here, Chan,” he whispered, breath fogging. “Something’s wrong. Where’s the backup?”

“They’re coming,” Chan said, lying through his teeth.

And then— gunfire. From the wrong direction. It wasn’t the cartel. It wasn’t their own. It was a clean-up squad. Trained. Silent. Deadly. There to erase witnesses.

Seungmin’s scream cut through the night as bullets tore into his vest, knocking him backward into a crate. Gunfire echoed across the rusted steel crates as the downpour drowned the docks. Water slapped the concrete in sheets, mixing with the crimson that pooled beneath bodies—their men. FBI. Chan’s boots skidded over soaked gravel as he ducked behind a storage container, grabbing Seungmin’s vest and yanking him down with him. “We were set up!” Seungmin gasped, voice cracking, clutching his side as blood oozed between his fingers.

“I know, I know—just stay with me, okay?” Chan barked, yanking open his belt pouch and tearing gauze with his teeth.

Seungmin’s eyes were wide and terrified. His chest heaved under Chan’s hands.

“Where’s backup?” he choked. Chan didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

They were never coming. He pressed the gauze harder. “You’re gonna be fine, Seungmin. I got you.”

His fingers trembled. The gunfire was slowing now either they were running out of bullets or they thought everyone was dead.

Seungmin coughed, a splatter of blood painting his lips.

“I—I can’t feel my legs.”

“No. No, no, look at me.” Chan grabbed his face. “Just focus on me. You’re gonna walk out of here with me, yeah? We’re gonna finish this. You’ll make Tactical. You’ll get your badge. You’ll puke all over your first hostage rescue, and I’ll be there to laugh at you.”

That earned a tiny smile, watery and full of pain.

“Promise?”

Chan’s voice broke.

“Promise.”

But Seungmin’s eyes started to glaze. His hands were turning cold. Chan felt the shift, felt that awful drop in pressure when life tries to leave a body. “No. No, hey! Stay awake, dammit! Look at me—MINNIE!”

Seungmin blinked slowly… then locked eyes with him. And for a second, he wasn’t an agent. Wasn’t a prodigy. Wasn’t a casualty.

He was just a kid.

“Hyung…” he whispered, chest rattling. “I just… wanted to be like you…”

And then his head tilted. His lips parted, but no breath came. Just the sound of rain. Chan stared, frozen. The world slowed, and the thunder muted. Everything went distant—unreal. He touched Seungmin’s cheek.

Still warm. Still soft.

But gone.

Something in Chan cracked. Not loud. Not even violent. Just a silent, splintering collapse in his chest, like a dam breaking underwater. He inhaled sharply, jaw trembling. And then he screamed; muffled against his arm to not give his position away. A sound of rage and grief crushed down, a sound no one would ever hear.

Tears mixed with rain as he kissed Seungmin’s forehead.

Then footsteps approached with voices. Russian.

“Проверь за контейнерами.” Check behind the containers

Chan slipped into the shadows, rage coiling in his stomach, crawling up his throat. His fists clenched around his weapon, but he didn’t fire. Not yet.

He had to survive. He vanished into the dark, like smoke, Seungmin’s final words clinging to his back like a curse.

“I didn’t know, YN,” Chan choked, the memory slashing back with raw intensity. “I thought we were just gathering intel. But they… they used us as bait. To lure out the rivals. Then they burned it all.”

“He died in my arms,” Chan whispered. The room went cold. You sat frozen. The breath you finally let out trembled.

“You didn’t tell me,” you said softly. “I couldn’t,” he replied, hollow. “Because if I told you, you’d realize the truth.”

Your eyes met his.

“That Reynolds knew?”

Chan nodded once, slowly.

“He ordered the hit. Covered it. Buried the op with the help of Petrov.” He ran a hand through his hair, shoulders tight.

“But I remember every detail. Every shot. Every second. And every time I close my eyes; it’s his voice I hear.” Silence fell like a hammer between them.

And yet, when you finally moved, it wasn’t away.

Now, the room was dim, lit only by the faint yellow glow of a small desk lamp and the occasional flicker from the muted TV in the corner. Rain tapped lightly at the windowpane, a cruel echo of that night in Cuba. The scent of antiseptic still hung in the air. Chan sat on the edge of the bed, shirt off, bandages loosely wrapped around his side where you had cleaned and patched the wound earlier. His hair clung to his forehead, sweat and memory weighing him down like a phantom limb. His eyes didn’t look at you. They just stared—straight ahead, but not really seeing.

You stood across the room, arms crossed, silent.

You didn’t dare speak at first.

What could you say to a story like that? A part of you wanted to press on. Ask what happened to the intel? What happened to the cartel he worked for? One person’s death couldn’t just cause the FBI’s golden boy to go rouge. Yes, it was heartbreaking to lose someone like that but it doesn’t add up to why he left everything behind. That couldn’t be everything that happened in Cuba.

“I didn’t know,” you finally whispered. Chan chuckled softly. Bitter. Hollow.

“Yeah. No one does.”

You took a step closer. “Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”

“What good would it do?” His voice was tired, dragging. “Reynolds buried the op the second the docks were reported clear. Said it was too much bad press. Too much blood for an operation they shouldn’t have greenlit in the first place. Didn’t even give Seungmin the credit he deserved, called him ‘an unfortunate loss.’ Like he was a typo in the mission report.”

Your jaw clenched. “That’s why you left.”

He gave a slow nod, finally meeting your eyes. And God, they were wrecked. Not red. Not crying. But the kind of wreckage that time doesn’t touch. That gets stitched into your soul.

“I was done following orders from men who sit behind glass walls while kids like him bleed out in alleyways.”

Silence stretched between them. The kind that hurt to break. You sat beside him, the bed creaking under the weight of grief and unspoken history. You reached for his hand, and to your surprise… he didn’t pull away. “You still carry it with you,” you said softly. “All of it.”

“I deserve to,” he murmured. “No,” you said, voice sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that.” He looked at you, something defiant flaring but it flickered and died when he saw the tears you was holding back too. “Seungmin made a choice. You didn’t kill him, Chan. You loved him.”

His lip quivered. He bit it down.

“Still lost him.”

“And you’ll lose yourself too if you keep living like this.” You squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.” Chan didn’t answer. But the silence he gave you this time it felt different. Like the beginning of something instead of the end. He removed his hand from your touch. Then his comm crackled to life.

“Uh, hate to break up the trauma bonding,” Jisung’s voice buzzed through, voice low and alert, “but I think Reynolds might’ve just made you.”

Chan exhaled, slow. Gutted. You looked at him.

“What now?”

The night settled heavy over the city, the world outside muffled by thick walls and weary hearts. The rain hadn’t stopped, still weeping against the windows as though the sky itself mourned.

 Chan lay on the worn-down mattress, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other stretched across the empty side of the bed. You had already fallen asleep in the next room, the door left slightly ajar. A soft hum of the heater filled the space, but it couldn’t quiet his mind.

His eyes stayed open far too long until they blurred, until exhaustion finally pulled him under. But rest wouldn’t come easy.

Not for him. Not tonight.

He found himself standing barefoot on the sands of a beach that didn’t exist anymore. Not physically, anyway. The sky overhead was a blur of orange and deep violet, waves crashing rhythmically in the background.

And there—sitting on a washed-up log with his hands tucked into his sleeves—was Seungmin. Wearing that same old navy hoodie he’d worn in Cuba. The one Chan had always said made him look like a “K-Drama puppy.”

He looked up as Chan approached, face younger, untouched by blood or gunpowder. “You’re late,” Seungmin said, deadpan. Chan let out a dry breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “Sorry. The Russian mafia and unresolved trauma kept me.”

Seungmin smiled softly. “You always did have terrible time management.” Chan knelt in the sand in front of him. “God, I missed you, kid.”

“I know.” A beat passed. “I keep seeing your face,” Chan whispered, voice cracking. “Every time I close my eyes, you’re there—bleeding out in my arms, asking me to save you and I can’t—” His voice broke entirely, hands shaking. “I couldn’t, Minnie.” Seungmin just looked at him, gaze steady, kind.

“I never blamed you, hyung.” Chan’s chest tightened. “You should’ve.”

“You did everything you could. I knew the risks. I chose to follow you.” He leaned forward, eyes softening. “You didn’t lead me into death, Chan. You led me into purpose.” Chan dropped his head, shoulders trembling, fists buried in the sand. “I’m tired,” he choked. “I’m so fucking tired, Seungmin. I don’t know who I am without the Bureau. Without the blood. Without you and your motivation.”

Seungmin reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re still the same guy who taught me to tie a tourniquet with one hand. Who played old Epik High songs at 3 a.m. when I was homesick.” He gave a faint smirk. “The guy who made me call him ‘boss’ even when we were off-duty.”

“That was for morale.”

“That was for your ego.”

They both laughed—soft and bittersweet. Seungmin's gaze grew more serious now. “You’re allowed to heal, hyung. You’re allowed to live.”

“How?”

Seungmin tilted his head. “Start by forgiving yourself. You always said, ‘Don’t carry weight that isn’t yours.’ Maybe it’s time you listened.” Chan swallowed hard, tears falling freely now.

“I'm scared, Minnie.”

“I know.” Seungmin leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching. “But you're not alone. Not anymore.” Then, Seungmin gave him one last smile. Warm. Real.

“You don’t have to be a weapon forever. And please, tell the pretty lady, everything.”

And just like that, the waves pulled him away, his figure fading into sea foam, into dawn—

Chan jolted awake, heart thudding. The lamp flickered beside him, casting soft shadows on the cracked walls. He sat up slowly, wiping his face—wet with tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed.

His breath caught in his chest, but something was different now. Not peace.

But a fragment of it. A beginning. He glanced toward the cracked door where you slept, your silhouette curled under the blankets. And for the first time in a long time… he didn’t feel completely lost.

---

Late evening. The city lights bleed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows against the walls. The air smells faintly of cigars and ambition. Petrov sat first, hands steepled, posture loose but commanding like a wolf in silk. His signature cane leaned against the armrest. Reynolds entered shortly after, dressed in his usual monochrome suit, tie still crisp despite the hour. He nodded once, his expression unreadable, and took the seat opposite him.

A bottle of aged scotch sat between them, untouched.

For now.

“Petrov,” Reynolds said, calmly. “Always a pleasure.” Petrov’s smile was polite. Thin. “Reynolds. How’s the Bureau doing?”

Reynolds smirked. “Still alive, which is more than I can say for most of it.”

A pause. Then Petrov leaned forward, eyes glittering. “I heard you’ve been watching the tapes.”

“And I heard your guards need better training,” Reynolds quipped, but there was venom behind the words. “You let the lady in.”

“She was vetted. Clever. Disarming. I wasn’t aware you were still so concerned.”

“Not concerned. Just cautious.” He tapped the table twice. “He was with her, you know. At your gala. Bang Chan.” Petrov didn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Interesting. So hes not dead?”

“He’s alive, reckless, and apparently, back on the grid. That makes things complicated.” Petrov reached for the scotch, finally pouring two glasses with the ease of a man who enjoyed control. “Complicated… or convenient?” Reynolds raised a brow. “You think this is convenient?”

“I think it’s catalytic,” Petrov replied smoothly, sliding a glass toward him. “If Chan’s involved, that means someone else is watching. And if someone’s watching… we have a stage.”

Reynolds didn’t touch the glass.

“I want him neutralized,” he said. “Quietly. No theatrics.”

“And the girl?” Petrov asked, swirling his drink. A long pause.

“She’s loyal to a ghost,” Reynolds muttered. “She still believes in the Bureau. That makes her dangerous… but also predictable.” Petrov leaned back. “So let me guess. You’ll let them run, watch what hole they crawl into, and then strike when the story’s at its climax.”

Reynolds gave a thin, mirthless smile. “Something like that.”

They sipped in synchronized silence, the tension between them a careful balancing act. History. Power. Betrayal. It all clung to the air like smoke. “You always were the romantic type,” Petrov muttered. “And you,” Reynolds replied, finishing his drink, “always underestimate ghosts.”

Hehehehe...so like what if there was a plot twist? Asking for a friend...

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