chapter 3

But his body wouldn’t relax. Not completely. That voice outside… the panic in it. Something about it was too much. Real fear had a rhythm. This felt staged — just enough chaos to cause inconvenience. Not harm.

“No weapon flashed. No attempt at hostages. Not suicide-bomber energy.”

“So why the show?”

Another BANG. A food cart knocked over. Cutlery clattered on the floor.

And then—

DING.

A short beep over the intercom.

Scarlet heard the click of the cabin mic being turned on. Then a soft, professionally rehearsed voice followed — one of the flight attendants, now clearly trying to manage the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your crew speaking. We apologize for the inconvenience. Please remain seated and fasten your seatbelts. We are currently handling a minor incident with the cooperation of the cabin staff. We ask for your calm and understanding. Thank you.”

“Handling. Not neutralized. Good. That means it hasn’t gotten worse. Yet.”

Scarlet reached down, grabbed a tissue, and wiped a smudge of nonexistent sweat from his upper lip.

“If this plane reroutes, I lose my Moscow contact window.”

“If I lose the window, I show up late, and Beom-Gyu becomes suspiciously off-schedule.”

“If I become suspicious—”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.

He looked one last time into the mirror, his own eyes staring through Beom-Gyu’s face like a shadow pressed behind glass.

“This is the job. Be invisible. Be boring. Be alive.”

Then he opened the lavatory door slowly — and stepped back into the chaos.

The passenger in question was now restrained by two other flyers — likely air marshals undercover, judging by the way they moved, clean and efficient.

The disturbed man was whimpering now, sweating bullets, still shouting nonsense about “surveillance” and “voices.”

Scarlet walked past them without even blinking. Expressionless. Hands in his pockets. A man going back to his seat.

Nothing more.

Just another passenger on another flight.

But deep in his gut, something prickled.

“That wasn’t drugs.”

“That was bait.”

“And if someone’s watching reactions…”

He glanced sideways.

“They’ll be disappointed.”

“I didn’t even flinch.”

6:49 PM – Sheremetyevo International Airport, Moscow

The airplane door hissed open with a blast of cold air that cut through the fuselage like a scalpel.

Scarlet stepped out into the boarding tunnel, his boots thudding softly against the industrial carpet. Within seconds, the warmth of the aircraft was swallowed by Moscow’s winter bite. He wrapped his trench coat tighter around his torso, the high collar grazing his jawline. The chill burned through the gaps in his gloves.

The city’s cold was merciless. No softness. No apology. Just straight, clinical Russian winter.

“This place doesn’t believe in easing you in.”

By the time he got inside the terminal, the place was buzzing. People were pushing past each other in every direction — tourists with oversized coats, locals barely fazed by the temperature, agents in sleek black suits pretending to be just businessmen. The loudspeaker echoed in both Russian and English, calling out baggage carousel numbers and connection gates. Children were crying. Phones were ringing. A hundred different voices in a dozen languages all blurred into white noise.

Scarlet walked with a calm, efficient pace, weaving through the crowd without needing to slow.

“Late. I’m late.”

“Fifteen minutes off schedule. Unfavorable first impression.”

“Nothing I can fix now — just compensate moving forward.”

His footsteps echoed lightly on the polished tiles, the sharp scent of disinfectant and cold metal lingering in the air.

Then—

“Mr. Choi Beom-Gyu!” a voice called out behind him — clear and cheerful, just loud enough to carry.

Scarlet’s head turned sharply, but not too fast — measured. Casual.

The man approaching was in his late 30s. Brunette, neat hair, a tailored charcoal coat. Green eyes that looked friendly. He was smiling.

Too much.

“Friendly. Too friendly.”

The man extended a gloved hand as he reached Scarlet.

“Hello! I’m Aleksei Sokolov, I was sent by GazEnergo to come pick you up, Mr. Beom-Gyu.” His Russian accent curled thickly around his English, but his diction was precise.

Scarlet’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a firm line.

He didn’t take the hand.

“No scent. Beta.”

“Strange for a Russian contact. Most alpha employees handle foreign contracts.”

“But that also makes him less aggressive. Easier to manage.”

“I wasn’t notified,” Scarlet said flatly, eyes flicking down at the extended handshake, then back up with no change in expression.

Aleksei’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh? Really? I definitely contacted your people this morning, sir.”

Scarlet didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he slipped his phone from his coat pocket, flipping through his notifications with quick, sharp movements.

Sure enough — a message from Director Kim.

“Aleksei Sokolov. GazEnergo contact. Will meet you at terminal exit. Do not ask questions.”

Scarlet sighed through his nose.

“Of course. Typical.”

“Why the hell couldn’t he have just told me before I boarded?”

“Always keeping me reactive. Never proactive. Keeps me on a leash.”

He slid the phone back into his pocket.

“Well. I guess you’re the one,” Scarlet muttered.

Aleksei laughed lightly, clearly trying to keep the energy upbeat. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting. Your flight landed later than expected, didn’t it?”

“It did,” Scarlet said, voice clipped.

Then Aleksei tilted his head slightly, eyes studying Scarlet as they began walking toward the exit.

“Tell me — did anyone on your flight cause any trouble? Maybe... someone who looked like they drank a bit too much?”

Scarlet stopped walking for just a fraction of a second. A flicker.

Then he turned his head slowly to Aleksei.

“How do you know about that?”

Aleksei grinned, as if it were a joke.

“Oh — it’s not uncommon here! Russian travelers, you know. Vodka runs in the blood,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Sometimes they go a little overboard before a flight, that’s all. It happens. I just figured maybe your delay had something to do with that?”

Scarlet didn’t smile.

“Coincidence, or probe?”

“No one outside the flight crew should know about that man.”

“Unless someone was watching. Measuring reactions. Setting traps.”

He kept his tone neutral. “He was unstable. But security handled it.”

Aleksei nodded. “Of course. As they always do.”

They walked on, the crowd beginning to thin as they approached the private terminal exit. Outside, the Moscow wind howled like a living thing.

“Please follow me,” Aleksei said, gesturing toward the glass doors. “The car is waiting just outside.”

Scarlet didn’t move right away.

He scanned the exit briefly. Black sedans lined the curb. One of them had its hazard lights flashing. A man in a wool cap leaned against it, puffing a cigarette with practiced boredom.

“Too casual. Might be the driver. Or might be surveillance.”

“If they’re testing me… let them.”

“They won’t find anything. I am Beom-Gyu now. And Beom-Gyu isn’t nervous.”

Scarlet adjusted his gloves again, nodding once. Then walked past Aleksei toward the exit, his posture calm, but his eyes calculating every angle, every shadow, every man with a cellphone raised too long.

“Day one. Let the games begin.”

The streets of Moscow were alive in technicolor. Neon signs shimmered across wet asphalt, reflecting reds, blues, and greens into glowing puddles that looked like oil-slicked galaxies. The hum of nightlife buzzed outside the windows — laughter echoing from bars, the hum of engines blending with faint music from open patios. This city didn’t sleep. It just shifted personalities at night.

Rin sat in the backseat, quiet, composed — a statue made of muscle and instinct.

Aleksei was still talking. Smiling too much. Laughing at his own jokes. It was like trying to distract a predator with party tricks.

“He’s filling the silence too deliberately…”

“Trying to keep me from thinking too long about anything.”

“Which makes me want to think even harder.”

“So how was the flight?” Aleksei chirped, glancing into the rearview. “From Korea to here, must’ve been… what, 8, maybe 10 hours? And then with the delay… whew, man, it’s a long day.”

Rin didn’t even turn to look at him. His chin rested in his gloved hand, elbow against the window, gaze locked outside on the frozen river of traffic.

“Hmm,” was all he said.

“Still talking. Still overcompensating. Either he’s bad at undercover work… or I wasn’t supposed to make it to the hotel.”

The car slowed to a crawl. Traffic. Endless. Horns honking in a confused choir. Hazards flashing. People trying to merge into nonexistent lanes. Classic Moscow gridlock.

“Ah… damn it,” Aleksei said, slapping the dashboard with mock frustration. “This city never sleeps, but it sure as hell stalls. Let’s take a shortcut. Our driver knows every alley in this city.”

Rin finally looked up. Met Aleksei’s eyes through the mirror. His own expression unreadable.

“That eager to get me off the main roads?”

“Please do,” Rin said flatly.

He leaned back into the seat as the car took a sharp right, slipping off the highway into narrower streets. The sounds of the city dulled. Less neon. More rusted fences. Darker alleyways. The streets grew tighter, more claustrophobic. The kind of places GPS didn’t bother naming.

Rin’s fingers instinctively shifted toward his thigh holster — disguised beneath the tailored slacks of his Beom-Gyu persona.

“As soon as I reach the hotel, I’m sleeping for a full twelve hours.”

But something tickled at his attention.

They passed a rusted blue dumpster tucked between two sagging brick buildings. Rin’s eyes narrowed.

“That trash can… I’ve seen it.”

The exact same graffiti — faded, red spray paint shaped vaguely like a crescent. The dent on the left side. He had definitely seen it before.

When they turned another corner, the same trash can showed up again.

“Loop.”

“They’re looping me.”

He straightened in his seat. “Didn’t we just pass here?” he asked calmly.

Aleksei didn’t miss a beat. “Oh no, no — they all look the same out here. It’s Moscow, friend! Everything’s built like a maze, right?”

Lie.

Too smooth. Too fast.

That trash can is not a coincidence.

Rin reached subtly toward his side, fingers brushing against the cool grip of his silenced pistol.

“Strange,” he murmured. “You’re sure we’re going the right way?”

Aleksei laughed too quickly. “Come on, Mr. Choi, don’t be paranoid. We’re not CIA or something.”

That was it.

Rin moved with the precision of a surgeon and the speed of a panther. His hand pulled the gun cleanly from its holster and pointed it straight at Aleksei’s head.

Aleksei didn’t flinch. He grinned.

“You really are sharp, Mr. Choi,” he said smoothly. “That’s one dangerous toy you’ve got there.”

The car screeched to a sudden stop.

Before Rin could react, an arm snaked around from behind the passenger seat — a thick forearm wrapped in leather — and tightened around his throat.

Someone was in the car the whole time. Silent. Hidden.

Rin choked, slamming his elbow backward, trying to jam it into the attacker’s ribs, but the angle was tight — deliberate. The assailant’s grip tightened.

“You should cooperate if you want to leave this place alive,” Aleksei said, still smiling as he turned in his seat, now holding a gun of his own, low and steady.

“They weren’t trying to intercept Beom-Gyu...”

“They were planning to remove him.”

“Which means I walked into a trap meant for someone else. They don’t know who I really am.”

Rin’s eyes darted across the car interior. Three attackers. Driver. Aleksei. And the hidden passenger.

And him, with a gun, half-choked, boxed in.

“Don’t try anything funny,” Aleksei said. “One wrong move, and I’ll blow your—”

CRACK!

Rin slammed his head backward into the nose of the attacker choking him. There was a sickening crunch, followed by a guttural scream.

In the same instant, Rin grabbed the assailant’s jacket, twisted, and used his own weight to kick the man across the car door — shattering the side window with the guy’s skull.

Aleksei shouted something in Russian and raised his gun, but Rin had already ducked, flipping across the seat—

RAT-A-TAT-TAT!

Gunfire exploded from outside. Bullets shredded through the car’s frame. Glass burst into the air like shrapnel.

“SHIT.”

Rin dove down low, crouching behind the passenger seat, heart hammering but hands steady.

“They’re not alone.”

“This is a full-on ambush. I’ve walked into someone else’s war.”

“No time to think. Get out. Move.”

The air reeked of gunpowder. The car rocked from impacts.

Through the cracks in the window, Rin could see figures — silhouettes — closing in with rifles and flashlights.

“Doesn’t matter who they are. Doesn’t matter why. Survive first. Unpack later.”

He reached into his boot and pulled the secondary blade.

As bullets rained around him, Rin’s expression didn’t change.

Cold. Focused. Ready.

“This city just told me I’m not welcome.”

“But I’m not here to be welcomed.”

“I’m here to finish what Liam started.”

SCREEEEECHH!

The tires wailed like dying banshees against the icy pavement. Rin twisted in his seat, knife pressed with deadly intention against the trembling throat of the driver, who now knew all too well the difference between acting tough and sitting in the passenger seat of death itself.

“Turn off the fucking headlights. Now. And get back on the main road.”

Rin’s voice was ice, low and venom-laced.

“Unless you wanna feel steel in your windpipe.”

The driver didn’t argue. He obeyed with the urgency of a man who knew just how thin the thread between life and death had become. The headlights died. Darkness swallowed the alley. Gunfire still cracked behind them — like popping bones — loud and ugly and close.

Rin ducked, peering through the spiderweb of shattered glass.

“That figure… up there.”

“Too big for a cat. Not moving like a man. What the hell is that—?”

CRASH.

A black SUV came barreling from the side — its grille a wall of death.

BOOM.

The impact tossed their car like a toy. Glass shattered. Metal screamed. The vehicle spun, tires lifting off the ground, smashing into a brick wall with a thunderous CLANG. Everything turned grey. Then dark. Then grey again.

Smoke hissed from the crushed hood. The driver’s head lolled forward — a thick ribbon of blood trailing from his temple.

Dead.

No doubt.

Ckough. Ckough.

Rin’s body groaned in protest. His lungs burned. But he kicked the door open with one solid thrust, dragging himself out across broken concrete, boots skidding on shattered glass.

“The hell is going on?”

“This isn’t just a kidnapping.”

“Too many moving parts. Are they after Choi? Or is this about me?”

“Who even knew I was coming? Unless... someone tipped them off.”

He limped to the back of the car, reaching for the trunk. Luggage. Passport. ID. Gun case. His next few hours depended on these.

But then—

Click.

“Put your hands up.”

Rin slowly turned.

Aleksei.

Face bleeding. Gun pointed. Eyes wild.

“Oh my god.”

“Why is he still alive?”

“Cockroach-ass villain. Didn’t even die in a car crash. Of course.”

Aleksei stalked forward. “Don’t move. I swear to God, I’ll blow your head into Siberia.”

“Yeah yeah, you and everybody else tonight.”

Aleksei shoved him, then began frisking. Pulling at his jacket. Trying to disarm him. Rin’s body tensed. He let him get cocky — that was the opening.

The moment Aleksei started pulling off the coat, Rin twisted and whipped the fabric over Aleksei’s face, yanking him in.

WHAM!

A clean right hook cracked into Aleksei’s jaw. He collapsed like a drunk marionette.

Gunfire ripped through the air again — like thunder this time.

POW. POW. POW.

“Он здесь!” someone shouted.

“He’s here!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“I haven’t even had dinner.”

Rin ran.

Boots slamming the pavement. Muscles screaming. Vision tunneling.

“I don’t even know who half of you bastards are. Why are you all trying to kill me? I just got here!”

A black silhouette lunged out from a corner. Rin ducked, spun, sprinted. The wind bit at his face like needles. His ribs ached. His mind burned.

SCREECH—

CRASH!

A sedan slammed into him from the side like a wrecking ball, throwing him six feet through the air.

He hit the ground hard — SKIDDING — back arched, lungs punctuated with a wet cough.

“UGH!!”

Blood splattered the pavement.

“Poluchit' etogo ublyudka!”

(“Get that bastard!”)

“You motherfu—”

Rin spat out a mouthful of blood and staggered to his feet.

The world was spinning. Sirens in his head. Static in his ears.

“I’m gonna fucking die in Moscow because some idiot crackhead delayed a plane. I hate this job.”

“Get moving. Get moving. Get off the damn street.”

He turned into a narrow alley, bullets ripping up the wall behind him. One whizzed past his ear — the sound sharp and intimate.

“They're spreading out.”

“They think they’ve cornered me.”

“I’m bleeding. Limping. They’ll expect me to slow down.”

But Rin was scarlet. Not a name. A problem.

He ducked into a fire escape, climbed like a feral cat despite the pain. Adrenaline made every second blurry.

“They want Mr. Choi Beom-gyu. Dead or bagged.”

“And tonight, I’m him. And I’m not dying in this alley.”

More shouts echoed down the block. Flashlights scanned the rooftops. Someone fired at random — sparks dancing off a steel pipe beside his head.

“The whole city’s a hunting ground tonight.”

“But they should’ve picked another prey.”

Because Rin wasn’t cornered.

He was learning.

Every bullet. Every name. Every face. Every movement. He wasn’t just trying to escape.

He was mapping the enemy.

And he never forgot a face.

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