chapter 4

The silence that settled over the alley was thick, weighted, the kind that rings in your ears when your heart is beating just a little too loud. Rin pressed his back against the chipped, damp wall of a crumbling building, hidden in a pocket of shadows the dim street lamps couldn’t reach. His breaths were shallow, nose filled with the scent of gunpowder, burnt rubber, and cold metal. He could hear them — heavy boots crunching over gravel, curses whispered in Russian, the soft click of magazines being checked.

“There are four of them now...”

he thought, eyes darting left and right.

“But I know I saw five earlier. Where the fuck is the fifth?”

His fingers were clenched tightly around his own belt — his only remaining weapon. No guns. No knives. His coat was ripped, his shirt damp with blood — mostly others', but some definitely his. The HK416 he'd briefly grabbed was lost in the chaos when that walking skyscraper of a man took him by surprise.

“Shit… Out of weapons. Can’t fight five like this…”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched. His muscles ached. The concrete under him was wet, either from blood, oil, or leftover snow melt — didn’t matter. He crouched lower, eyes locked on the narrow stairs where one of the men was slowly creeping upward, his silhouette backlit by the orange haze of a burning car down the alley.

“Come on… closer…”Rin told himself, every nerve in his body pulled tight like a bowstring.

As soon as the man’s boots hit the last step, Rin moved. With the kind of speed only someone trained to kill without blinking could manage, he whipped the belt forward, wrapping it clean around the man’s rifle and yanking it out of his grip. The startled soldier let out a grunt of shock, his hands flailing uselessly in the air as Rin jerked the belt tight around his neck and yanked him into the shadows.

“KRUUUGH—!”

The man struggled, boots skidding, fingers clawing at the makeshift noose. But Rin didn't let up. His eyes were empty — dead calm. Not a single flicker of hesitation.

“Just sleep.” he muttered through his teeth.

And then… silence.

The body slumped to the ground, limp and twisted, a mess of twitching limbs and spilled breath. Rin dropped the belt, snatched the man’s gun — fingers moving fast, checking the chamber, flipping the safety. Not much ammo left, but enough for a fight.

From down below, one of the remaining mercs yelled, “I heard gunshots! He’s up there!”

“Tch. No time to hide.”

Footsteps thundered up the metal stairs. The second man barely had time to spot Rin crouched behind the AC unit before—

BANG.

His head snapped back in a spray of brain matter and bone fragments.

The third, stunned by the sight of his friend’s sudden collapse, turned wide-eyed — just in time to see Rin step out of the shadow, gun raised, expression unreadable.

Rin didn't say a word.

He just squeezed the trigger.

BANG.

The third man crumpled.

“Two more.”

Rin thought, wiping blood from his cheek.

“I’m running on fumes. No ammo, no armor. I’m one wrong step away from death.”

But then…

Something changed in the air.

There — movement. Subtle, across the rooftops. Like the shadow of a man but taller, faster, and far too silent for someone of that size.

Rin narrowed his eyes.

“That silhouette again.”

“I knew I saw it earlier. But how the fuck is someone that massive moving like that?”

There was no time to dwell. Gunfire exploded again, bullets zipping past him, sparking against metal.

“Shit.”

He dashed sideways, ducking low, breath coming in short bursts. His lungs were screaming. His ribs were sore — possibly cracked.

He dove behind a chimney stack and fumbled at his wrist. The cufflink. A gift from Scarlet, laced with a micro-detonator.

“One last card up my sleeve…”

he thought, fingers trembling as he armed it.

“I just need to wait. Let them get close…”

But before he could even lift his hand —

RIIIIIP.

A sound like flesh tearing, followed by a wet crunch. Blood splashed the rooftop like rain. A body was thrown over the ledge — limp, faceless. Rin’s breath caught.

He slowly turned his head, a creeping dread crawling up his spine.

Standing there was a figure. Towering. Still. Watching him.

“That’s him. That’s the one I felt before. The one that’s been tracking me this whole time…”

The man — no, thing — stood at least two meters tall, maybe more. Wrapped in a dark overcoat that fluttered faintly in the wind. He radiated stillness, power, danger. Like a black hole dressed in couture.

Rin’s heart thudded loud in his ears. The air around the man warped, almost like heat waves.

“How can someone this huge move without a sound? And how the fuck did he get behind me without me noticing?”

Rin reached out to slam the cufflink bomb into the bastard’s chest — a last desperate move—

But the man moved first.

In a blink, Rin’s wrist was snatched, twisted, forcing him to drop the cufflink. It fell over the edge of the building.

BOOM.

The blast rocked the rooftop. Heat scorched across Rin’s back as a fireball erupted below. Debris showered the sky.

“Shit—!!”

Before he could scramble away, the man shoved Rin face-first into the concrete, slamming his chest against the cold roof. His vision blurred. His ears rang. He barely registered the sound of handcuffs clicking around his wrist — metal shackled to pipe.

Then came a voice.

Low. Seductive. Dangerous.

“У тебя пятнышко на рубашке... Дай, я аккуратно сотру.”

“There’s a little stain on your shirt... Let me clean it off for you.”

The tone was calm — almost gentle. Like a man whispering sweet nothings to a lover right before pulling the trigger.

Rin couldn’t see him clearly — only shadows and smoke. But he felt the weight. The danger. The impossible stillness.

What Rin could make of this guy was his tailored coat, obsidian black, double-breasted, with rich satin lining that caught the moonlight like oil. Underneath, a black turtleneck clung to his torso, hinting at a lean, dangerous strength. His gloves — dark leather, pristine. His pants were custom-cut, fitted perfectly to his powerful legs, and then there were—

The shoes.

Rin blinked.

Exotic.

Black crocodile leather, sharp-toed, polished to the point they looked wet. Red-soled. Not red-bottoms. These were custom — the kind that said, “I can murder you and make it fashion.”

Every inch of this man screamed wealth, control, and surgical violence.

And he moved like smoke.

“That’s no regular merc.”

“That’s a ghost in designer shoes.”

Rin tried to look back — but his head was pinned too hard.

RIP.

His shirt was violently yanked open — the buttons scattered like teeth across the rooftop.

“Fuck!” Rin hissed, yanking against the cuffs, but they held tight.

The man crouched beside him, letting a thin stream of smoke curl from a lavender-tipped cigarette he’d just lit.

Then he hummed something.

Soft.

Eerie.

Like a lullaby from a dark fairy tale.

He let the cigarette fall beside Rin’s head. It sizzled slightly on the rooftop.

Then — he stood.

Walked.

And disappeared into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

Rin lay there, half-naked, chained to a rooftop in the middle of freezing Moscow, blood in his mouth, ears ringing, and no weapons.

“What the fuck just happened?”

“That wasn’t part of the mission.”

“That wasn’t even human.”

“And now he’s got my scent.”

Rin stared at the distant skyline.

Sirens could be heard from afar

And for the first time in a long, long time —

Scarlet didn’t feel like the apex predator.

He felt like a prey.

10:30 PM – Moscow Police Station

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered with that ugly clinical hum, casting sterile shadows across the dull green walls. The place smelled like cold sweat, cheap cologne, and bureaucratic paper rot. Rin sat on a hard metal bench, shoulders hunched beneath a rough, scratchy gray blanket that did nothing to fight off the chill in his bones.

His wrist throbbed — red, bruised, probably hairline fractured.

“That psycho almost yanked my whole damn arm out of its socket…”

He flexed his fingers with a wince. The pain shot up his arm like a threat.

“…but even more than the force, it’s the scent that won’t leave me. What the hell was that…?”

He tried not to remember, but he could feel it — the warmth of that stranger’s breath, heavy with something sharp and chemical, but not synthetic. Fermented spice, gun oil, and something ancient. The scent clung to his shirt like a lover’s mark. It hadn’t just smelled exotic — it smelled like danger carved into skin, like the scent itself could choke you if you inhaled too deep.

Rin shifted on the bench and stared at the cracked tile on the floor.

“He smelled like mystery. Like… expensive chaos. I don’t know how the hell I picked up so much in a moment that was half terror, half blackout—but it was there.”

He blinked hard.

“Alligator leather shoes. Crocodile, maybe. Custom. Not store-bought. Italian cuts. High-polish. One step away from being called ‘haute assassin.’”

His thumb rubbed the edge of the blanket as he sat there.

“That wasn’t some mafia grunt or street thug. That guy moved like a ghost who passed military drills for breakfast, and then maybe did ballet at night. He was fast — but not sloppy. Precise. No wasted movement.”

“And he left me there. Half-naked. Handcuffed. Shirt shredded. Either he's a sadist or a narcissist. Or both.”

“Was that a rescue? Or a message?”

He sighed.

“Either way — thanks for the trauma, Moscow.”

Just then, the door creaked open. A stout police officer stepped in, his uniform tight across his belly, face worn from decades of probably pretending to care. He approached Rin with a rehearsed look of empathy pasted across his face.

“Ah, Mr. Choi...” he began in a thick Russian accent, the syllables sticking like old gum. “Thank you for waiting. Again — very sorry for what happened to you. You are guest in our country. You should feel safe. This situation… very unfortunate.”

Rin said nothing. His silence was loud.

“We believe the group who attacked you is connected to a recent contract deal — very large one. Highly competitive. You are… well, you are high-value now. Jealousy breeds chaos, yes?”

The officer chuckled awkwardly. Rin didn't laugh.

“We are already investigating. I promise you — Russia will find who is behind this. You have our full cooperation. Do not let this affect your image of our country.”

“Too late.”Rin thought, expression unreadable.

Another officer peeked in through the door. “He still here? Let the man go. He’s been through enough.”

The first officer nodded. “Yes. Of course. You may leave now, Mr. Choi. We checked all your belongings — no trackers, no devices, no bombs. You are clean. You are safe.”

Rin lifted his gaze.

“You keep saying that word like it means something.”

The officer added, “Let me at least drive you back to your hotel. Is small gesture, but I insist. You were almost killed. This is… bare minimum.”

“Almost stripped too,”Rin thought, grimacing at the memory. “My shirt didn’t deserve that fate.”

He gave a tight nod. “Fine.”

The officer looked relieved, gesturing for Rin to follow.

As Rin rose, the blanket slipped slightly off his shoulders, revealing the deep bruising down his left arm. The officer hesitated.

“That injury… do you need a medic?”

Rin shrugged the blanket back over his shoulder. “No. I've had worse.”

“Besides, I don’t want your medics touching me. I don’t trust anyone with gloves anymore.”

11:20 PM – Inside a Russian Police Cruiser

The cruiser hummed quietly, the engine a soft grumble under the cold Moscow night. The heater buzzed low, pushing warm stale air that smelled like old coffee, dried sweat, and gun oil. Rin sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly over the blanket the station had thrown on him like a pity cape. His bruised wrist pulsed beneath the makeshift bandage, the stiffness creeping up to his shoulder.

Outside, Moscow passed in flashes of dim neon and misty car headlights. Inside, though? It was hell.

“Please shut the fuck up, please shut the fuck up, please—”

“So, uh… you Korean, yes? From South Korea? Big K-pop, yeah?”

The officer’s voice was casual, too casual. One hand on the wheel, the other gesturing animatedly.

“Here we go.”Rin thought, closing his eyes for two seconds before forcing them open again.

“I like BLACKPINK. My daughter loves them. You know BLACKPINK? You meet them before? They real skinny in person or camera lies?”

Rin blinked. “…No. I don’t know them personally.”

“Oh! But maybe you know… Kim Taehyung? BTS boy? My niece obsessed with him. You look like him a little. Same face, very clean. You wear makeup too?”

Rin stared blankly ahead.

“What the fuck kind of ride is this.”

“So what’s the deal with Korean women? They all like pale skin, right? Soft voices, shy types. I like that. You think they’d like Russian man? With strong hands?” The officer held up his palm as if Rin was supposed to inspect it like a farm tool.

“I’ve survived bullets, knives, a man built like a skyscraper, and now I’m being sexually harassed on the way to a hotel. Incredible.”

“…I’m not really an expert on Korean women,” Rin muttered, voice sharp enough to slice bone.

“You don’t have girlfriend? No way. You’re too pretty not to have girlfriend. Or boyfriend, who knows. It’s modern world, yes? No judgment.”

Rin turned slowly toward the man. “Do you always interrogate victims about their love life, or is this some kind of freaky Russian therapy?”

The officer laughed, totally unfazed.

“Oh no! I just like conversation. Makes time pass, eh? You Korean boys always so serious. You need to smile more. All work and no play.”

“I just survived a high-speed gunfight, two attempted murders, and got groped by a skyscraper in exotic shoes. Yes. Let me smile more, Yuri.”

Rin gritted his teeth.

“God, I wish that psycho came back and put this guy in a chokehold instead of me.”

The police officer finally pulled up in front of the hotel — a towering glass structure, all gold lights and valet staff waiting.

Rin opened the door without a word.

“Ah! Wait, Mr. Choi! You forgot this!” The officer handed him a small bag — his ID and wallet.

“Thanks,” Rin muttered.

“And don’t forget! Korean women — very cute! My daughter want to be one. Maybe she watch too many dramas, hah!”

Rin didn’t even flinch. Just walked off.

“This entire ride was a hate crime.”

The hotel was obnoxiously beautiful. The kind of place dripping with gold-plated light fixtures, velvet sofas, imported perfumes misting invisibly through vents. It smelled like money. Clean, pressed money. The floor beneath Rin’s feet shimmered with lacquered marble, his bruised limbs moving past business executives and drunk rich couples who had no clue someone had literally died less than an hour ago just two blocks from here.

But Rin wasn’t thinking about the lobby. Or the pain in his wrist.

His mind was stuck on one thing:

That cigarette.

It wasn’t store-bought.

It was crafted. Deliberate.

So Rin walked straight to the front desk, still wrapped in a hotel blanket like a beaten-up prince with murder in his eyes.

“Good evening,” he said coolly, though his voice was still hoarse. “Do you know any handmade cigarette shops around here?”

The receptionist, a young woman with her hair in a tight, nervous bun, blinked at him.

“Um, we actually have one inside the hotel,” she said. “On the mezzanine floor. Right near the wine cellar. It’s a luxury boutique.”

Rin nodded once. “Perfect.”

He took the elevator in silence.

The lights inside the shop were dim and amber-tinted, casting long shadows over shelves packed with boxes wrapped in velvet ribbons and old-school tins labeled in Cyrillic, French, and sometimes just gold-leaf initials. It smelled like old wood, incense, and the kind of tobacco that costs as much as a watch.

Rin stepped inside, trench coat still damp from the snow, hair slightly tousled from wind and chaos. The shop’s warmth wrapped around him like a blanket, but his expression didn’t shift. Calm. Cold. Focused.

“Welcome,” said the shopkeeper, a stocky man in a wine-colored vest, with fingers stained slightly brown from years of handling raw leaf. “What can I get you, sir?”

“I’m looking for handmade cigarettes,” Rin replied, voice sharp like glass under velvet.

“Of course. We have several. Turkish, Balkan, Indian blends… Do you know the name of the brand?” the man asked, already pulling out an ornate wooden box filled with carefully arranged sticks. “Or the wrapper type? Paper or leaf? Flavored filters?”

Rin gave a slight shake of his head. “No brand. It was dropped by someone I met earlier today. I’m trying to trace him.”

The shopkeeper paused.

Rin continued. “He wore crocodile leather shoes. Real ones. The kind that cost more than a mortgage. He smoked like he’d been doing it since birth. Every drag looked... rehearsed. Confident. Intentional.”

That got the shopkeeper’s attention. He squinted slightly, lowering the box.

“You’re not talking about a tourist,” the man muttered, now more interested. “And you say handmade? What did it smell like?”

Rin furrowed his brows, eyes narrowing in thought. “Strong… earthy. Not commercial. Rich, but subtle. I remember a musky base—definitely something like oud or vetiver. It lingered on my skin after he got close. There was also a faint sweetness... maybe clove, but less sharp. Warmer.”

The shopkeeper leaned back, tapping his lower lip thoughtfully. “You’re describing a layered scent profile. That’s custom. Clove, oud, vetiver? That’s not standard. That’s alchemy.”

He turned and walked to the back shelf, unlocking a smaller glass case. “Let me show you something.”

He returned with three slender boxes, each wrapped in textured black paper and sealed with an unmarked gold sticker. One box he opened gently, lifting a single cigarette and holding it out.

“Smell this. Indonesian base, Turkish wrap, filter dipped in cinnamon oil.”

Rin leaned in, sniffed once. Immediately shook his head. “Too spicy. This one’s louder. His was quieter. More refined. Expensive but... not showy.”

Second cigarette. “This one has hints of amber and tobacco soaked in cognac.”

Rin sniffed again, then grimaced. “No. Too sweet. His wasn’t fruity. It was… mature. Complex. Less perfume. More like an afterthought. Like danger that cleans up well.”

The shopkeeper whistled low under his breath. “You’re not just looking for the man. You’re trying to get into his head.”

“I need to find out what kind of person smokes something like that and walks around dropping it at a crime scene like it’s a calling card,” Rin said, bluntly.

The third box was opened. The second the lid cracked, Rin’s eyes widened slightly. The scent hit like déjà vu.

“That’s the one.”

Clove. Oud. A haunting vetiver dryness under it all. Faint smoke and something leathery around the edges. Clean. Dangerous. Male.

“What’s it called?” Rin asked.

The shopkeeper smiled faintly, like Rin had just passed a hidden test. “It doesn’t have a commercial name. But the blend is known here as Grobovshchik.”

“Gravedigger,” Rin translated flatly.

“Exactly.” The man nodded. “It’s a rare commission. Rolled by hand. Only sold through direct order. Usually to clients who have... very specific taste. The kind who pay extra to keep their names off our records.”

Rin tilted his head slightly. “So you don’t log your clients?”

“We log payment details. But the names? Often pseudonyms. Some pay in cash. Some through intermediaries. They pick up in person, no delivery. One of them has your description to the letter.”

Tall. Foreign. Quiet. Gloves. Precise. Custom blend. Expensive shoes.

Everything was clicking into place.

“Did he say anything else when he picked it up?” Rin asked.

The shopkeeper thought for a moment. “He speaks fluent Russian. But it’s not native. Accent’s faint… but there. Probably western Europe. German maybe, or Belgian. You know the kind—sounds like they studied in five countries but never belonged to any of them.”

“Did he leave a number? A return time? A card? Anything?”

“No. Just cash and silence.”

Rin ran a hand through his hair, sighing. Of course he didn’t.

“What about security footage?”

The shopkeeper stiffened. “Sorry. No cameras inside the shop. That’s part of our client policy. Privacy is the appeal here.”

Rin stared at him for a long moment.

Then he pulled out his phone and snapped a quick, clean photo of the Grobovshchik box. No warning. No ask.

“Thanks,” Rin said, already turning away.

He stepped back into the corridor, pulling out his phone and adding to his running notes.

Grobovshchik

Custom handmade cigarette

Clove, vetiver, oud = scent profile