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Chapter Text

Night descends like a slow poison over the water. The cranes creak as they finish their endless work, retracting into still silhouettes against the industrial skyline. A 5,000-ton ferry looms at the dock, its lights flickering under the sodium glow of the street lamps. Soon it will cut through the South China Sea, heading toward Shimonoseki by dawn.

The deck is alive with noise — tourists laughing too loud, couples snapping photos that will blur in the dark, businessmen clinking glasses of cheap whiskey in the dining hall. The wind on the balcony carries cigarette smoke and ocean salt.

And then there is Haoran Yue Darius.

He stands apart, near-invisible among the bustle. His suit is plain, his jacket folded over one arm, his posture relaxed. To the casual eye, he is just another passenger. But his expression is wrong — too still, too heavy. It’s the look of someone who does not belong in the crowd, a man who could be mistaken for stone if not for the slow, steady rhythm of his breath.

Inside his ear, a voice murmurs through the static of his earpiece.

“Target confirmed. Ryu Jianhong. Using the name Liu Cheng. Navy cap, cheap coat. He’s on the move. USB handoff happened minutes ago.”

Haoran tilts his wrist and checks his watch. 20:00 sharp. The whistle sounds across the port, splitting the night sea. The ferry shudders, chains groan, and the city lights of Shenzhen begin to recede.

His lips barely move.

“Then the hunt begins.”

Haoran descends the spiral staircase with unhurried steps. The corridor smells of fried oil and seawater. Families push strollers, lovers take selfies, drunks stumble between restaurants. Haoran’s eyes flicker briefly to each face — calculating, filtering, dismissing.

He doesn’t walk like a predator. He walks like a shadow. His presence is… unnatural. People don’t notice him, but they feel him. Conversations pause as he passes. Strangers shift uncomfortably without knowing why. An alpha’s aura lingers — not loud, not aggressive, but heavy.

When he reaches the lobby, his phone buzzes. He answers without hesitation.

“Hello.”

It’s not a greeting — it’s camouflage. Passengers glance at him, see a man on a call, and look away. Perfect cover.

As he moves, a woman catches his attention. Her coat collar is pulled unnaturally high, her movements too stiff. She stands by the vending machine, pretending to choose a drink. Haoran watches without watching — the slight tremor in her hand, the hesitation before slipping in a 1,000 yen bill, the way she waits until the crowd thins.

Green tea drops into the tray. She collects it, along with the coins, and walks away without looking back. A dead-drop, clean.

But Haoran is already turning his head. His voice drops, calm, flat.

“The courier is gone. Target is next.”

And then he sees him.

Ryu Jianhong (alias Liu Cheng) emerges from the lounge. Navy beanie. His stride is stiff, eyes darting, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He approaches the vending machine with deliberate slowness, feeding coins into the slot but never looking at the drinks.

Caution. Paranoia. Guilt.

The muscles in Haoran’s jaw tighten, but his smile is faint.

He approaches silently, then reaches over the man’s shoulder and presses a button for him. A drink clatters into the tray below.

Ryu stiffens, turning sharply. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You seemed indecisive,” Haoran replies softly. His tone is polite, his smile disarmingly faint. But his grip on Ryu’s hand is merciless, fingers digging into bone until the agent hisses in pain.

The crowd begins to take notice. Curious passengers slow, some whisper, some grin at the thought of a fight. Ryu’s panic spikes.

Haoran leans in.

“Liu Cheng? No… that’s not your real name, is it?”

The blood drains from the man’s face.

Desperation hits. Ryu slams his other hand into the vending machine lid, trying to pry it open, trying to grab what’s hidden inside. But Haoran’s foot comes down sharply, pinning it shut.

“You bastard—”

The man grabs Haoran’s collar. But the agent’s expression never flickers. He calmly takes Ryu’s wrist, twists it with quiet precision, and watches pain ripple across the man’s face. The tension builds. Passengers gather, whispering, some filming.

Haoran leans closer, his voice low, almost intimate.

“You’ve been sloppy. Too many eyes. Too much fear.”

The man’s lips tremble.

“You… you’re MSS—”

The words die as Haoran slams his head against the vending machine. A dull thud. Blood beads on his forehead. Screams erupt from the crowd.

The gun hidden in his jacket is seized before he can even draw. Haoran empties the weapon, pocketing it as if it were spare change.

And then — the hostage.

Ryu lunges, dragging a flight attendant into a chokehold, blade pressed to his throat. The passengers scatter in terror. The hostage trembles, urine staining his trousers.

“Give me the USB!” Ryu snarls. His eyes are wild, spit flying from his lips.

Haoran stares at him for a long, cold moment. Then, with deliberate care, he drops the USB. It clatters to the floor. The hostage scrambles to pick it up with shaking hands.

But Haoran keeps walking forward. Step by step.

“Don’t move!” Ryu screams. “I’ll kill him!”

Step.

Step.

Step.

Haoran’s eyes are flat, merciless.

“If you kill him, you die next.”

The weight of his pheromones bleeds into the air. The hostage sobs, collapsing to his knees, trembling like prey in the shadow of a predator. Ryu’s grip falters, sweat pouring down his face. His instincts are screaming at him to run.

And so he does.

He throws the hostage aside and bolts for the stairs, stumbling, wild. Haoran doesn’t chase. Not yet. He straightens his suit jacket, exhales slowly, and then follows at his own pace — steady, inevitable, like death itself.

The ferry has already left shore. There is nowhere to run.

The deck groaned under the weight of footsteps, the ferry rolling as the sea rose and fell in black waves.

“Don’t—don’t come near me!” Ryu Jianhong roared, his voice breaking with terror.

Haoran Yue Darius raised his pistol. Cold steel gleamed under the moonlight. The knife in Ryu’s hand looked pathetic in comparison, trembling like a shard of scrap metal.

Wei Zixin’s eyes darted nervously between the scene and his superior, Haoran, but then widened at something behind.

A muzzle flash lit the night. Sparks erupted with a deafening crack. The bullet flew true—but it wasn’t Ryu Jianhong who collapsed.

It was Hana Morozova.

Her ivory trenchcoat bloomed red at the sleeve as she fell, clutching her torn right arm. The Colt in her grip clattered to the deck, firing once into the sky as it hit. No one knew if her aim had been at Ryu—or at Haoran himself.

Haoran’s expression didn’t change. He turned his gaze back just in time to see Ryu fling away his knife and stagger to the railing. His shoulders heaved, his chest rising and falling with panic.

Then he jumped.

Haoran was already moving. His shoes thudded against steel as he rushed forward, Wei Zixin at his heels. They reached the railing in seconds, only to hear the hollow thud of a body striking the sea.

The waves split, foaming white. For a moment Ryu vanished beneath the black water. Suicide. Or so it should have been.

But then—headlights cut across the sea.

An old wooden fishing boat emerged from the darkness, lights low, hull battered from years of use. It had slipped past every surveillance net, every patrol.

A figure hauled Ryu aboard, stripping the wet jacket from his body. Buoys clinked against his chest—prepared flotation. A planned escape.

Ryu raised his hand from the boat, mocking, victorious, his grin twisted.

Wei Zixin cursed under his breath. Haoran simply raised his pistol and fired. The shots cracked the night, but the distance was long, the sea restless. Sparks burst off the wooden planks, but the engine roared on.

The ferry drifted farther away. The gap widened. The chance of capture narrowed.

Haoran exhaled slowly, sliding the pistol back into its holster. His voice was ice.

“Zixin. With me.”

Wei Zixin blinked. “Wha—Senior, wait, you’re not—”

But Haoran was already moving. He climbed the railing, his coat snapping in the sea wind. His watch flickered red with the tracker he had slipped on Ryu’s belt earlier. The dot moved steadily, pulling away.

“Senior, are you insane?!”

Haoran didn’t answer. He stepped off the railing and fell.

The air howled around him, black waves rushing up like jagged teeth. His body cut the sea with a violent crash, cold shock slamming into his muscles, stealing his breath. Saltwater flooded his mouth, pressure rattled his bones.

He kicked upward, broke the surface, and inhaled through clenched teeth.

Above the waves, the fishing boat was vanishing into the dark.

The roar of another engine broke the night. A motorboat slashed across the waves—Wei Zixin at the helm, wild-eyed, shouting over the storm.

“Really, Senior! You’ll drown yourself at this rate—get in!”

Haoran seized his hand, pulling himself aboard. Water streamed down his hair, his eyes colder than the sea itself. He stripped off his soaked jacket and threw his tracker-watch at Zixin.

“Follow the red dot.”

Zixin swallowed hard, gripping the wheel. The motor roared, the boat surged forward, cutting a furious trail of foam toward the fleeing shadows.

The wooden boat turned, a rifle muzzle flashing from its deck. Bullets tore the air. One ripped across the motorboat’s hull, splintering wood.

Zixin screamed, jerking the wheel. “We’re going to die out here!”

Haoran stood steady, bracing himself against the spray, his voice calm even under fire.

“Then die quieter.”

The chase became a dance of death. Spray, bullets, curses, laughter. Haoran’s hand finally seized the wheel from Zixin, his aura flaring sharp and suffocating.

Zixin nearly collapsed under the weight of it—this wasn’t just an alpha. This was something beyond. Something that made his instincts want to crawl.

The motorboat surged forward, headlong at the fishing boat.

“Senior—Senior we’re going to crash!” Zixin shouted, face pale, tears stinging his eyes from the salt.

Haoran’s grip never wavered. The boats drew closer, closer—then, at the last instant, he yanked the wheel, spinning it with brutal force.

The boats scraped violently, sparks showering across the dark sea. The fishing boat shuddered, hull gouged, its passengers staggering.

Haoran leapt aboard.

The deck stank of fish and gunpowder. Two figures scrambled to escape into the water, kicking frantically.

Haoran picked up a rusted fishing net, cast it high. The mesh unfurled like a black wing, slamming into the sea, wrapping the fleeing men. They thrashed, but every struggle pulled the cords tighter.

Zixin, shaking but loyal, worked the winch with desperate hands, pulling the net in. The captured spies hit the deck in a heap, soaked and gasping, glaring up at Haoran with hate.

Haoran only adjusted his cuffs, gaze flat.

“Operation concluded.”

Then, as the prisoners writhed, his eyes lingered coldly on Ryu Jianhong.

“You should’ve stayed on the ferry.”

Zixin stared, trembling. “What… what do we do now?”

Haoran didn’t answer. He was already searching the cockpit, retrieving a black suitcase hidden beneath the driver’s seat.

“Call headquarters. Tell them: target captured. USB recovered. Hana Morozova. is restrained on the ferry — Coast Guard will secure her.”

Zixin blinked. “What about you?”

Haoran zipped the case shut, stepping back into the motorboat. His voice was flat, final.

“I have other business.”

The engine roared. Spray engulfed him as he cut across the waves, leaving Zixin with two prisoners and a sinking wooden hull.

Zixin shouted after him, desperate.

“Senior! You’re abandoning me?!”

But Haoran didn’t turn back. His silhouette vanished into the storm.

The sea swallowed Zixin’s cries, until they were nothing more than wind and waves.

Shenzhen North Station was a storm of motion. Announcements echoed like distant thunder over a tide of footsteps, rolling suitcases, and the smell of steamed buns from a nearby kiosk. Screens above flickered departure times in red characters. The morning sun slanted through the glass ceiling, lighting up a thousand faces and a thousand destinations.

Haoran Yue Darius moved through it like a blade through water — silent, unflinching, his tall frame wrapped in a dark trench, duffel bag slung across one shoulder. His eyes flicked over exits and CCTV cameras without a single pause. It was habit. His body moved like a soldier’s, but his face was calm.

His phone buzzed. He glanced down. Mom. The corner of his lips softened. For a moment, the storm inside him stilled.

He climbed aboard the sleek high-speed train, ducked into his reserved seat, and sat. The duffel bag thumped to the floor. The doors hissed shut behind him.

“喂，媽……(Wai, ma…)” he said, leaning back into the seat. His voice lowered automatically, softer than the one he used at work. Hello, Mom…

The line crackled with warmth. His mother’s familiar voice came through, already laughing. “你喺邊啊？(Nei hai bin a?)” Where are you?

“係啦，喺火車上啦。生日快樂，媽。(Hai la, hai fo ce soeng la. Saangyat faailok, ma.)” Yes, I’m on the train. Happy birthday, Mom. His lips curved slightly. “希望個蛋糕仲喺度，唔好話俾我聽健俊已經切咗啊！(Heimong go daangou zung hai dou, mh hou wa bei ngo teng Ginzeon ji ging cit zo a!)” I hope the cake is still there and Jianjun hasn’t cut it yet!

From the background of the call came a younger boy’s shout: “如果你唔快啲返嚟，我食晒嘅！(Juk gwo nei m faai di faan lei, ngo sik saai ge!)” If you don’t come early, I’ll eat everything!

Haoran chuckled, shoulders shaking once. It was a sound that belonged to another man, another life. His mother scolded Jianjun gently in the background, then came back on the line. “快啲啦，或者雪糕蛋糕比健俊食晒啦！(Faai di la, waakze seut gou daangou bei Ginzeon sik saai la!)” Hurry up or the ice cream cake will be gone.

“我喺路上啦，愛你啊，媽。(Ngo hai lou soeng la, oi nei a, ma.)” I’m on my way. I love you, Mom. He ended the call with a faint sigh, staring at the screen until it dimmed. For a heartbeat, the hard lines of his face eased.

Then the other phone began to ring.

The work phone. The black one. No music tone, just a sharp vibration and a single chime, over and over.

Haoran shut his eyes. “點解打嚟呢…(Dimgaai daa lei ne…)” Why are they even calling me… His thumb rubbed his temple. He had finished the ferry mission, cleaned up what he could, even stayed off-grid for twelve hours. They weren’t supposed to call him.

The ringing didn’t stop. It buzzed again, again, a wasp in a jar. Passengers across the aisle began glancing at him, murmuring. The train speaker crackled: “尊敬嘅旅客，下一站將會停靠廣州南……(Zyun ging ge leoi haak, haa yat zaam zoeng wui ting kaau Gwongzau Naam…)” Dear passengers, next stop Guangzhou South…

“Oh my fucking god…” Haoran muttered under his breath in English. He yanked the black phone out of his pocket so hard the SIM tray clicked.

“咩事？(Me si?)” he snapped. What.

“啊，點啊？你喺邊啊？(Aa, dim a? Nei hai bin a?)” Chief Bo’s voice — warm but iron underneath. Ah, how are you? Where are you?

Haoran’s lips curled faintly. “好，咁關你咩事？(Hou, gam gwaan nei me si?)” Fine. Does it matter? His eyes flicked to the window. I knew it would be Chief Bo.

“我哋要傾吓，見面。(Ngo dei yiu king ha, gin min.)” We need to talk. In person.

Inside Haoran’s head, a different voice muttered: Is it because of the mess I caused on the ferry? The police were involved. Cleaning the aftermath must be a nightmare.

Aloud, he said coolly: “如果關於任務，已經做到最好啦。(Juk gwo gwaan jyu yam mou, ji ging zou dou zeoi hou la.)” If it’s about the mission, that was the best I could do.

“Ai,我知，我知，所以要傾吓。(Ai, ngo zi, ngo zi, so ji yiu king ha.)” I know, I know. That’s why we need to talk.

Haoran’s jaw tensed. “求下你俾我放假，俾我同媽慶生啦。(Kau ha nei bei ngo fong gaa, bei ngo tung ma hing saang la.)” Please, sir, give me a break. Let me celebrate my mom’s birthday.

“I know, won’t keep long,” Chief Bo replied in English this time, voice clipped.

Haoran switched back. “但係火車已經開咗，你要我跳窗啊？(Daan hai fo ce ji ging hoi zo, nei yiu ngo tiu coeng a?)” But the train is already moving. Do you expect me to jump out the window?

As if summoned by the words, the train screeched and lurched, throwing Haoran forward against the seat. Passengers gasped, luggage rolled.

“Dear passengers…” the intercom blared. “…temporary stop…”

On the line, Chief Bo’s voice was cold steel. “落車啦，直升機等緊你。(Lok ce la, zik sing gei dang gan nei.)” Get down. The chopper’s waiting. The call clicked off.

Haoran stayed very still for a moment, staring at his reflection in the window — the hard mouth, the eyes that belonged to no one’s son. Then he exhaled, long and slow, and pressed thumb and forefinger to his brow.

“If I don’t get down, the train won’t move,” he murmured. “Fuck. I hate my job.”

He rose. Passengers watched the tall man with the duffel bag stand and sling it over his shoulder with precise, military grace.

As he reached the door, he pulled out his family phone again. “喂，媽，我會遲啲到啦。你哋開始食先啦，好唔？愛你哋。(Wai, ma, ngo wui ci di dou la. Nei dei hoi ci sik sin la, hou mh? Oi nei dei.)” Hey Mom, I’ll be arriving late, okay? You guys should start without me, alright? Love you all.

He ended the call and stepped onto the platform.

Above him, the rotor thrum of a helicopter cut through the station air.

Chapter Text

Ministry of State Security

1:00 PM — Beijing

The rotors cut the air like blades, whipping dust and paper across the Ministry’s landing pad. Haoran Yue Darius stepped out of the chopper, the wind lashing against his hair and tugging at his jacket. His boots struck the concrete with precision, not the casual pace of a passenger, but the measured stride of a soldier.

He exhaled once. The heavy silhouette of the Ministry of State Security headquarters loomed before him — cold, angular concrete, lined with reflective windows that gave nothing back but silence. A place where truth was swallowed, secrets lived, and only shadows walked out.

Waiting for him at the entrance stood Chang, one of the Deputy Chief’s aides — an omega. His presence here, Haoran noted, was unusual. Omegas weren’t typically used as escorts unless the higher-ups wanted to exert subtle psychological pressure.

“啊，浩然。你来了。” (“Ah, Haoran. You’ve come a long way.”) Chang greeted with an obsequious smile, then in clipped English added, “Please, follow me.”

Haoran’s eyes narrowed faintly. Of all people, they sent him? What game are they playing at?

Without a word, Haoran adjusted the strap of his duffel and fell into step, his boots echoing in the sterile corridor as Chang led him deeper inside. Every turn felt heavier, the air staler.

Finally, Chang stopped at a door with a brass plate:

Chief Deputy Office — 1

Haoran frowned, his hand hovering just above his side. Deputy Chief’s office? But it was Chief Bo who called me. Why here?

Chang pushed the door open with a perfunctory bow.

“请进。” (“Please, go in.”)

Inside, two men looked up.

Chief Bo, relaxed in his seat with his signature fox-like smirk.

And beside him, impossibly, the First Deputy Chief himself, posture ramrod straight, eyes sharp with the kind of authority that pinned a man in place.

Haoran’s spine straightened instinctively, his body slotting into a stance of controlled ease. But inside, his thoughts were sharper than his expression: Chief Bo alone was one thing. But the Deputy Chief sitting in the same room? That’s trouble. What the hell are they scheming, dragging me into this circus?

“啊，浩然，进来，进来。” (“Ah, Haoran, come in, come in.”) Chief Bo’s smile spread like oil on water.

Haoran stepped forward, saluting crisply before letting his arms fall behind his back.

“I heard you completed your mission in Shenzhen,” Chief Bo began, almost conversationally.

Haoran’s gaze was steady, voice flat. “I did my best, sir.”

“Oh yes, yes, I know, I know…” Chief Bo waved a hand lazily. “But that’s not why I called you here.”

The Deputy Chief leaned forward, his voice colder.

“虽然你在任务中制造了比所需更多的混乱，但比起让情报被泄露，这不过是小小的代价，对吧，Chief Bo。”

(“While you did stir up more commotion than was necessary during your mission, that’s a small price to pay compared to preventing our intel from leaking, isn’t it, Chief Bo?”)

Chief Bo nodded in smug agreement.

Haoran’s jaw tightened. Annoying little shit. Always needs to remind me that he’s higher up. If he had been there in the field, he’d be a corpse already. His eyes rolled slightly before he caught himself, his posture still perfect.

Still, his mind was restless. Why are these two sitting together, smiling like conspirators? What the hell do they want from me?

Chief Bo slid a sleek black tablet across the polished wood desk.

“Here. Take a look.”

Haoran’s hand closed over the device, cold glass pressing into his palm. He powered it on — and froze.

The document glowed against the dimly lit room. His pupils dilated. His breath caught.

“This is…” he murmured.

Chief Bo’s smirk widened.

“Yes. It’s special intel we obtained recently.”

The Deputy Chief’s voice cut in, clipped and precise:

“虽然传言已经流传了一段时间，但这是我们第一次获得确凿的证据。三年前，中国与俄罗斯携手开发一种新型武器。据说这种武器与其他国家所见过的任何东西都不同。一些人甚至推测，如果它能成功制造出来，将彻底改变全球力量的平衡。”

(“Though rumors have been circulating for a while, this is the first time we’ve obtained solid evidence. Three years ago, China and Russia joined hands to develop a new weapon. It’s said this weapon is unlike anything the other nations have ever seen. Some even speculate that, if successfully created, it could completely shift the global balance of power.”)

“Project Tamara,” Chief Bo added, savoring the name like fine wine.

The Deputy Chief continued:

“We’re not sure if that name belongs to the weapon itself… or the alliance… or even the designer. We don’t know if it’s been completed. We need to find out.”

Chief Bo leaned back, eyes glinting.

“A lack of information leads to an imbalance of power. And if Tamara hasn’t been completed yet, and it’s within our power…” He paused, smile darkening. “…we must stop it from seeing the light of day.”

The Deputy Chief’s gaze was steel. “It doesn’t matter how.”

Bo’s voice dripped satisfaction, the kind of venom Haoran had learned to despise.

“If a small act of evil is necessary to prevent a much bigger one, then so be it. We’ll have to do a bit of stealing.”

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the air-conditioning.

Haoran lowered the tablet slowly, his reflection warping in the glass. His thoughts coiled like smoke.

In other words, they want me to find out what this weapon is. And if I can, steal the blueprints and intel. If not… destroy it completely.

His jaw clenched. His hands tightened. But his expression — still calm, serious, unreadable.

Happy birthday, Mama. Looks like I won’t be coming home after all.

Haoran’s gaze stayed locked on the tablet, his reflection warping in the dark screen. His fingers tapped against the edge once, steady, measured — the only sign that his mind was racing.

I’ve been dispatched overseas many times. After joining the MSS, I forced myself to become fluent in Japanese, Korean, even Russian. Every language mastered through sweat, bruises, and isolation. So there’s no reason I can’t go to Russia. His eyes flicked briefly toward the Deputy Chief, then back to the desk. But they must know — field experience is what decides whether a man returns alive. That isn’t in a language book. That’s in blood.

Chief Bo leaned back, eyes half-lidded, the picture of arrogance. His words, however, were deceptively mild.

“Technically speaking, you’re not the most eligible person for this job.”

Haoran’s jaw tightened. His voice came out cool, clipped.

“Then you should assign it to the most eligible person.”

A small silence fell. Chief Bo’s smirk deepened.

“Of course. Actually, he was already dispatched.”

Haoran’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

Chief Bo scratched the side of his temple, feigning discomfort. The Deputy Chief shifted, his gaze sliding away, suddenly fascinated by the paperwork stacked neatly on his desk.

“Ahem.” The Deputy Chief coughed into his fist. “I suppose… well, it didn’t work out.”

Haoran’s mind sharpened, gears turning. Didn’t work out. That’s the bureaucrat’s way of saying someone died. Conveniently vague. They’re testing how I’ll react.

Chief Bo dropped the pretense, his smirk folding into something colder.

“Logan Hughes. Elite CIA agent. He was dispatched to Russia on a solo mission. Four days ago, he was found unalive by a riverbank.”

Haoran’s eyes darkened, though his face stayed expressionless.

“At the time, he was working to uncover intel on Project Tamara,” Chief Bo continued. “Russian officials marked him down as an unregistered civilian. Which was to be expected, since he entered under a false identity. But…” Chief Bo’s fingers drummed on the table. “…it’s doubtful they simply brushed him off as such.”

The Deputy Chief gave a slow nod, his tone low. “The Kremlin doesn’t make accidents. They make examples.”

Haoran stood in silence for a long moment. His thoughts churned like stormwater. A CIA agent. Dead in Russia. Dumped like trash. If even the Americans couldn’t cover his tracks, that means surveillance there has sharpened. Tightened. A rat cannot cross without being seen. So why me?

Finally, his voice cut the tension, flat as steel.

“Surveillance in Russia must’ve become stricter after that.” His eyes flicked between the two men. “So… does the U.S. want us to do their dirty work?”

Chief Bo’s teeth flashed in a grin, sharklike. “You’re always so quick to take a hint. This is why I like you.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping just enough to feel conspiratorial.

“Since China is also involved, we’re technically at risk here. This isn’t just about Moscow and Washington playing their usual game. If Pyongyang gets their hands on Tamara… well, imagine what the peninsula will look like then.”

The Deputy Chief’s gaze was a hard line, but his silence was telling.

Bo spread his hands, smirk never fading. “We can’t just stand by and do nothing.”

Haoran’s lips pressed into a thin line. So that’s it. They’re sending me into the lion’s den. Because no one else came back alive. Because when all else fails, they toss the hardest missions onto the ones they know will bleed for it. Even if it means they won’t return.

“You just said Logan was found unalive four days ago… and now you’re sending me to follow his footsteps?” Haoran’s voice was sharp, his tone edged with disbelief, though his expression remained unreadable. His eyes narrowed slightly, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “You yourself said I’m not even qualified for this job, Chief.”

Chief Bo exhaled, folding his hands on the desk. His gaze lingered on Haoran with the sort of weariness only years of secrets and bureaucracy could carve into a man. “Because you are the best we have left, Haoran. Don’t misunderstand me—I wasn’t questioning your abilities. I’ve seen you leave for missions no sane man would volunteer for, and I’ve seen you come back alive when logic said you shouldn’t. That is why you are still here, and that is why I am entrusting you with this.”

Haoran’s eyes darkened. The best we have left? That’s not the same as being the best. It means others have already fallen, or they don’t dare risk them. So in the end, it’s me who gets sent to clean up the mess no one else wants to touch.

Chief Bo leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “This is your job, Haoran. You are an agent. Agents risk their lives not for glory, not for recognition, but because we protect what others never even realize is in danger. You know this better than anyone.”

Haoran didn’t answer immediately. His mind flickered back to countless assignments—overseas black ops, surveillance runs in hostile cities, firefights that ended with him bleeding in foreign alleyways. He had survived them all, but each mission carved something away from him. Protect, protect, protect… but who protects the protectors? he thought bitterly.

Bo’s tone shifted, softer now, almost manipulative. “Besides… I heard you knew Agent Logan Hughes. From our joint training camp with the U.S., wasn’t it?”

At that, Haoran’s face remained stoic, but something flickered in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, speaking flatly. “That was the only time we got along. A month at most. Nothing more.”

“That is exactly why you are the best choice.” Chief Bo smirked faintly, that maddening little curve of lips that Haoran had come to associate with his superior’s way of boxing people into corners. “You don’t let your feelings interfere with your work. You never have.”

Ugh. He’s changing the subject. Haoran’s thoughts snapped like a whip. Whenever he corners me with logic, he covers the rest with sentiment, as if it matters. He knows I won’t take the bait, yet he still throws it.

The room fell into a brief silence, broken only by the vibration of Deputy Chief Lin’s phone on the table. The man excused himself, stepping out into the hallway, leaving Haoran alone with Chief Bo.

The atmosphere tightened immediately. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, a mechanical buzz that seemed to underscore the weight of the conversation.

Bo’s gaze didn’t waver. He laced his fingers together, leaning forward slightly. “Agent Haoran Yue Darius…” He spoke Haoran’s full name with deliberate gravity, each syllable pressed into the air like a seal. “…continue Agent Logan’s mission. Go where he couldn’t. Uncover Project Tamara.”

“Am I really the best for this job... i'm sure there must be someone better suited than me.there has to be at least one person in the mss... ...or not. i guess i really am the only choice.” Haoran thought...

“is this really such a difficult proposition? i'd imagine this would barely even faze you,” chief bo said ...

“Yeah right" haoran thought annoyed

“Am I really the best for this job?” Haoran thought, his eyes narrowing as he studied Chief Bo. There has to be someone better suited than me. Someone in the MSS with stronger political connections, more experience in Russia. At least one person... His lips pressed into a thin line. …Or not. I guess I really am the only choice.

Chief Bo seemed to read his thoughts before they were spoken, leaning back in his chair with that irritating smirk.

“Is this really such a difficult proposition? I’d imagine this would barely even faze you.”

Haoran almost scoffed but caught himself. Outwardly, he remained stoic. Inwardly, his thoughts snapped. Yeah, right. Says the man who’s never had a gun to his temple in a freezing Russian alleyway.

He let out a dry breath, his words cutting sharp with sarcasm.

“Besides the fact that an elite agent was found dead overnight, this mission doesn’t sound dangerous at all.”

Chief Bo chuckled — a low, deliberate rumble, as if amused by Haoran’s grim wit.

Haoran’s gaze sharpened, but his thoughts were more complicated. From the moment I joined the MSS, Chief Bo took me under his wing. He taught me the ropes, molded me into the agent I am today. Now we’re close enough to trade sarcasm, to joke in moments like this… but none of that changes the reality. He’s still my superior. If he gives an order, I have no choice but to follow. I’m in no position to disobey him. Not without consequences.

Chief Bo leaned forward, his hands folding atop the desk, his tone shifting into something smoother, coaxing.

“I’ll give you as much support as you need. I’ll even prepare a team for you, exactly as you want.”

Haoran didn’t hesitate. His voice was firm, flat.

“I prefer working alone.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Chief Bo replied, a knowing glint in his eyes. He opened a drawer and retrieved a thick, sealed file, placing it on the desk with a deliberate motion. “But this isn’t your typical mission. It’s going to be quite dangerous this time around, and that’s why I don’t want to drag many people into this.” He slid the file across the polished surface. “Still, here is your gift.”

Haoran’s eyes flicked down at the label, and his expression hardened.

“Kim Bora,” he muttered.

Chief Bo wasted no time, his voice measured as he explained, like a professor lecturing a stubborn student.

“I hear a major petrochemical complex construction contract has been signed between a Korean energy conglomerate and the Russian state-owned oil giant, Rosneft. Its expected profit is several billion dollars. Naturally, such a lucrative deal demands celebration. The project group is set to host a gala in Russia, a party that doubles as an opportunity to survey the facility site. They’ve invited officials from major banks financing the project, along with representatives from international trading firms. And to make things even more interesting…”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“…prime ministers from both Korea and Russia, as well as key political and economic players, will also be attending.”

Haoran’s brow furrowed as he processed the implications. A party crawling with international elites. Layers of security. Hidden agendas. It’s not just a celebration — it’s a battlefield dressed in champagne and crystal chandeliers. One wrong step, and the whole thing becomes a bloodbath.

He raised his head, voice heavy with restrained irritation.

“Wait. So I’m to dress and act like this woman?”

Chief Bo smirked, almost gleeful. “Don’t behave as if you haven’t dressed as a woman for your other missions. And besides…” He tapped the folder with two fingers. “…she’s a dominant alpha. See for yourself.”

Haoran exhaled sharply through his nose, annoyance flashing across his features. “Does that make it any better?”

Chief Bo chuckled again, clearly enjoying Haoran’s discomfort.

“You’ll manage. You always do.”

Haoran clenched his jaw. He enjoys this. Every order, every manipulation — he finds humor in watching me squirm. But this isn’t a game. Russia isn’t a playground. If I slip up, I won’t come back. And all he’ll have left of me is another sealed file in a drawer.

Chief Bo’s tone hardened again as he continued.

“Anyway,” he said, gesturing to the documents, “from what I heard, an international trading firm by the name of Hanseong International played a critical role in sealing this contract. Kim Bora is an employee in the European department of that company. You can find her name on the official list of invitees.”

The file sat between them like a loaded weapon.

Haoran’s eyes lingered on it, his mind already racing ahead. Kim Bora. Hanseong International. Billion-dollar contracts, oil giants, prime ministers, and dead CIA agents. And now… me. Dressed as her. Dropped into the lion’s den with nothing but my instincts to keep me alive.

His face betrayed nothing, but inside, the gravity pressed down on him. This wasn’t just another mission. This was stepping into the same darkness that killed Logan Hughes.

And he was expected to walk out alive.

Chief Bo leaned back in his chair, his tone smooth, calm, reassuring—but Haoran knew better than to take comfort in it. “Relax. As long as the real Kim Bora doesn’t show up, your identity will be safe. Kim Bora is scheduled to leave one day before the rest of the Korean delegation. Of course, an agent in Seoul will prevent her from leaving the country. And don’t forget—our disguise specialist even managed to fool your own mother.”

That last line, delivered with a touch of smugness, might have drawn a laugh from anyone else. For Haoran, it only drew silence. His eyes dropped once more to the open file resting in his lap, his expression still and unreadable.

The glossy photograph of Kim Bora stared back at him. Polished. Perfect. Untouchable. Haoran’s gaze flicked down the page, scanning the physical details that had been meticulously recorded.

“She’s one seventy-six centimeters…” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost beneath the faint hum of the ceiling fan. He paused, measuring the number against his own height, calculating. “…Almost my height. Just a little shorter.” His thumb brushed the edge of the page, his brows furrowed in thought. “Most people won’t notice, right?”

But then his eyes caught another line further down in the personal notes, and he stilled.

Footwear preference: formal heels. Average height increase: five to seven inches.

A beat of silence. Haoran’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. His inner voice spoke with quiet irritation. Oh. Right. She wears heels.

The reality settled in like a cold stone in his chest. That means I’ll have to wear heels too. His lips tightened, his face carefully neutral, though inwardly his thoughts coiled with dry sarcasm. Perfect. That makes it even better.

He closed the folder partway, staring at the faint reflection of his face in the glossy cover. A shadow of himself, sharp and cold, staring back at him.

NORMALLY, I wouldn’t worry about a job like this at all, he thought, his mind weighing duty against reluctance. I’ve gone deeper than this before. Worn other faces. Buried my own name until even I forgot it. This is just another mission. Just another cover.

He inhaled deeply, holding the air for a heartbeat before letting it go. His body was calm, disciplined. But his thoughts did not quiet so easily.

I have no right to refuse my superiors, he reminded himself, the principle engraved in him from years of service. Unless I plan to quit altogether—and that is not an option.

And yet, the words that should have come so easily—the simple acceptance of the mission, the acknowledgment of his orders—caught somewhere inside him, lodged like a stone in his throat.

So why… why is it so hard for me to say I’ll do it?

The question lingered in the silence, heavier than the Chief’s words, heavier than the file in his hand. His eyes remained lowered, fixed on Kim Bora’s photograph, the elegant mask he would soon be forced to wear.

And for the first time in a long time, Haoran found himself hesitating.

Chief Bo leaned back in his leather chair, eyes narrowing with amusement as if he’d just moved the final chess piece across the board.

“This is a matter that could bring about a power shift for the entire world. If you pull this off, Haoran, it’ll be a huge plus for your reputation as well.” His lips curled into that familiar smirk, the one Haoran hated because it always meant Bo had already decided his fate.

Haoran slipped the thick folder into the inside pocket of his jacket, his face blank, his voice flat.

“I’m not interested in things like power and reputation. They tend to be way too exhausting to deal with.”

Bo arched a brow. “Yet you’re still agreeing to go on this mission?”

Haoran gave the smallest of shrugs, his tone edged with ice.

“Chief, how could I refuse my superior’s order? It’s an order from the great Chief himself.”

Bo’s smirk widened, his gaze sharp like a knife carving through silence.

“Are you sure that’s the only reason?”

Haoran paused, his expression unreadable. Then, with a faint sigh, he leaned back against the chair, tilting his head as though bored.

“Well, if I walk out, my career of having a 100% success rate will crumble.”

For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Bo let out a low laugh.

“Hahaha… yeah, good point. I almost forgot how proud you are of that perfect record.” He flicked his wrist dismissively, as though brushing away smoke.

“Can I go now?” Haoran asked, voice calm but clipped.

Bo held up a hand. “Ah, yes. But keep one thing in mind… ”

The Chief’s smirk deepened, his tone dropping into something darker.

“Bes Vorontsov.”

Haoran blinked. “Bes Vorontsov? Is that even a real name? Bes means devil.”

Chapter Text

Bo’s gaze didn’t waver. “Well, it is, Haoran. That’s what they call him. He is considered the core of the Kremlin.”

Haoran frowned, his brows drawing together, thoughts running sharp and fast.

The core of the Kremlin? What the hell does that mean? That he’s at the very center of Russian power? That everything revolves around him? Or does it mean he’s the last line of defense, silent but catastrophic if unleashed?

His eyes flickered as he tried to piece it together.

I thought surely people wouldn’t refer to someone as a deadly weapon… but it seems this man is supposed to be like a nuclear bomb. The core of the Kremlin, silent until the moment of detonation.

Out loud, he asked, “Huh… meaning what? He’s the center of Russian power, or what?”

Bo’s lips curved again. “Well, yeah, you could say it like that.”

Haoran’s jaw tightened, his gaze lowering to the polished floor. Just who is this guy that people refer to him as a demon?

He lifted his eyes again, voice sharp. “Does this guy have something to do with Logan’s death?”

Bo’s smirk vanished, replaced by something colder. “I can’t say for sure. It’s just a hunch. But you certainly won’t be able to avoid running into him if you’re going after the top figures in Russia.”

Bo leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. “He’s not called the Core of the Kremlin for nothing. So stay clear of him as much as possible. But if you do cross paths… don’t try to fight him.”

Haoran stared at him for a long moment. And then, unexpectedly, a grin curled across his lips. Not a warm grin, but a sharp, wolfish one.

Now I’m even more interested in this guy.

The thought lingered, dangerous and steady. He didn’t say it out loud, but Bo saw it in his eyes—the glint of curiosity mixed with the thrill of challenge.

A knock echoed on the heavy office door.

“Ah, please, come in,” Chief Bo said smoothly, without even glancing up.

The door creaked open and an aide stepped inside, carrying a bouquet of fresh roses, their crimson petals bright against the sterile air of the MSS building. Without a word, the aide placed them in Haoran’s hands and slipped back out.

Haoran stared down at the flowers, his brow furrowing. Roses. The stems were trimmed, wrapped neatly in dark paper. He lifted them slightly, his fingers brushing over the thorns that had been carefully removed.

“I’ve already prepared everything for you,” Chief Bo said, his tone far too casual for the weight of the moment. “You don’t have to waste any time, and you can save yourself the trouble of packing. Nice, right? Although…” his lips curved into that infuriating smirk, “you haven’t bought anything after that underwear purchase two months ago, so I really put a lot of thought into what to buy for your trip.”

Haoran’s eyes narrowed. He looked up slowly, his tone dry, laced with sarcasm.

“Eyy… seems you’re more interested in my underwear than in me.”

Bo chuckled, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “The flowers are for your mom. Tell her they’re from me—” he winked “—and wish her a happy birthday on my behalf.”

Haoran’s gaze hardened, his voice flat.

“I won’t tell her the flowers are from you. She’ll be upset if she learns the present is from the man who took her son away… even on her birthday.”

The room fell into a brief silence, broken only by the hum of the overhead lights. Bo chuckled again, softer this time, almost indulgent.

“你真体贴 (nǐ zhēn tǐtiē)… You’re so considerate.”

Haoran turned sharply, the roses still in his hand, his other reaching instinctively for the weight of the folder inside his jacket. He strode toward the door, his posture disciplined, steps steady.

His mind, however, was far less calm.

These roses… a flimsy gesture to cover the fact that he’s dragging me away again. My mother won’t care about the flowers. She’ll care that I’m not there. She’ll care that Jianjun will sit beside her at the table tonight with an empty chair where I should’ve been. And she’ll smile anyway, because that’s what she does. But I’ll know the disappointment in her eyes, even if she never says it.

His hand gripped the doorknob.

“Haoran.”

He froze. The Chief’s voice carried no sarcasm this time, no smirk, no jest. Just something heavy, something real.

“…Don’t die.”

Haoran’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn around. He gave only the smallest of nods, sharp and precise, before pulling the door open and stepping into the cold hallway.

Don’t die? Haoran thought, the echo of the words biting deeper than he expected. That’s the kind of thing you say when you already know I might not come back. That’s the kind of thing you say when you’re sending someone into a fire you wouldn’t dare enter yourself.

His footsteps rang against the polished floor as he left the office behind, his grip tightening around the roses.

But dying isn’t an option for me. Not yet. Not while I still have a mother waiting for her son, a brother waiting to eat cake, and a perfect record that hasn’t cracked. If Bes is truly the demon they say he is… then let him be. I’ll still go. Because it’s my job. And because refusing was never an option.

Ever since Dad and my sister Jin Xiu died, it has only been the three of us—Mom, Jianjun, and me. Just us.

Sometimes, when the house is quiet, I think about how fragile that “just us” really is. A family of four carved down to three, then clinging to the balance like it could break at any second. It’s a strange thing, the way death rearranges everything without asking permission. One absence becomes a silence at the dinner table, then an extra plate no one dares to use, then a space in your heart you learn to walk around instead of through.

Jianjun was too young to really remember Dad. Sometimes he looks at me like I’m supposed to be both brother and father. But I can’t be him. I don’t even know if I can be myself anymore.

It’s funny—children dream about being everything under the sun. The president one day, a doctor the next. An astronaut, a celebrity, a soldier. Dreams that change with the wind, because children don’t understand what it costs to hold onto a dream. I was like that too. Even back when I sat for the gaokao, the college entrance exam, I had no idea what I was chasing. I didn’t know I’d become an agent for the Ministry of State Security. Back then, I thought “spies” were something out of novels or cheap TV dramas. Now I know better.

My sister, though… Jin Xiu was different. Her dream never changed. She wanted to be just like Dad. He wore the uniform like it was stitched into his skin, and she admired him for it. She thought strength and service were the noblest things a person could offer. She used to say, ‘If Dad can do it, so can I. And if I do it, it’ll make him proud.’

And yet, she died with that dream still clenched in her fists.

Mom never forgave the uniform for taking him, and she never forgave the dream for taking her. She didn’t want any of us to step foot in the military, not ever. She was terrified of losing another child, terrified of watching another coffin lowered into the ground while neighbors whispered empty condolences. She wanted Jianjun to be a doctor, maybe. Me? She just wanted me to be safe. Safe was all she ever asked for.

But I wasn’t built for “safe.” Maybe I inherited too much of Dad’s discipline, or maybe I was cursed with Jin Xiu’s stubbornness. Either way, I walked into the one path Mom dreaded most.

Sometimes I wonder what it cost her, watching me put on the black suit and vanish into the state’s shadows. Did she feel betrayed? Did she feel like she was losing me the same way she lost Dad and Jin Xiu? Or did she just quietly accept it, because she knew she couldn’t stop me?

I tell myself I do this job for them—for her, for Jianjun, for the family name that was cut in half. But if I’m being honest with myself… I don’t know if that’s true anymore. Maybe I’m here because I don’t know how to be anything else. Maybe this is the only way I know how to keep breathing: to fight in the dark, to follow orders, to trade pieces of my humanity for the illusion of control.

Mom wanted safety. I chose danger. And every mission is just another chance to prove her fears right.

But not today. Not yet. Not while Jianjun is still too young to bury another sibling. Not while Mom still lights incense for Dad and Jin Xiu and whispers prayers into the smoke. I can’t join them in the earth. Not now.

Haoran chuckled lightly, eyes fixed on the dark tarmac beyond the oval-shaped airplane window. The chuckle wasn’t out of amusement—it was more of a release, an exhale of tension he didn’t want clinging to him before departure. The fluorescent glow of the cabin lights reflected faintly in the glass, doubling his image, a blurred overlay of Haoran the man and Kim Bora the disguise.

The phone in his hand buzzed once, the screen faintly illuminating his features. He brought it close to his lips and whispered, barely audible over the hum of the aircraft preparing for takeoff.

“Bié dānxīn, māma… wǒ huì huílái de.”

Don’t worry, Mom… I’ll come back.

He shut off the device and slipped it into his pocket. His expression hardened as though sealing away the vulnerability of that moment. When he leaned back into the seat, his voice was firm, quiet, resolute:

“Alright. I’m ready to go to Russia.”

The plane lifted minutes later, shuddering as it broke from the runway, the cabin pressing with the familiar pull of gravity. Haoran sat still, calm, as though the ascent didn’t affect him at all. He had endured jumps from helicopters at higher altitudes; this was nothing.

Halfway into the flight, Haoran unbuckled his seatbelt and rose without hurry, making his way down the narrow aisle. The bathroom was cramped, but it was enough. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and leaned against the sink.

From the small cabinet he retrieved the tools of his disguise. A wig of sleek black hair, parted and cut exactly to match Kim Bora’s recent photographs. Glasses with just the right prescription to fit her profile. He fixed both carefully, scrutinizing his reflection under the harsh white light.

The shoes came next. He adjusted the 12-centimeter heels strapped to his feet, flexing his ankles once to test balance. It wasn’t uncomfortable. He had trained in worse—heels were child’s play compared to running in combat boots on fractured terrain. To the average man, it would’ve been torment. To Haoran, it was simply part of the uniform.

The silicone inserts pressed against his chest, shaping his torso into the curve of Bora’s figure. He straightened the blouse, tucked it neatly into the waistband of his slacks, then unclicked the lipstick. One stroke across the lower lip, another for the upper, and a soft rub to even the color. He stared at his reflection for a moment, long enough to register that Kim Bora stared back. Same eyes, same posture, same air of poise. His disguise team had done their work well, but it was his discipline that brought the illusion to life.

He was about to adjust the collar when he caught it—the sound of raised voices muffled through the door. Commotion.

“Sir, please take your seat,” one of the flight attendants said firmly, though her tone strained with forced politeness.

The sharp protest of a man’s voice followed, slurred and aggressive. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

Haoran frowned. A drunk. Perfect.

He listened as the struggle escalated. The man’s footsteps were uneven, heavy, moving dangerously close to where he stood behind the door. Then—

The bathroom door shuddered as the drunk stumbled against it. The lock rattled. A second later the door flew open and the man crashed inward, catching himself against the small wall.

“What the hell—?!” the drunk slurred, reeking of cheap liquor. His eyes glazed over Haoran’s form without recognition, though confusion flickered in his drunken haze.

“Sir, let me—” a flight attendant rushed forward to intervene.

“Don’t f***ing touch me!” the drunk snarled, jerking away violently. The attendants exchanged worried glances, helpless to contain the chaos in the narrow aisle.

From farther down the cabin, another voice shouted:

“Captain, a drunk passenger is causing a stir in the cabin. I think we should let the control center know—”

Haoran’s jaw tightened. His thoughts raced, cold and precise.

If they report this, protocol demands an emergency landing. Nearest airport, immediate stop. All passengers offloaded. Baggage checks. Security sweeps. Re-boarding procedures. Hours of delay. Hours wasted.

He groaned under his breath. I hate getting involved in other people’s business. But this mission is time-sensitive. A delay could ruin everything. Best to keep this plane flying.

The drunk man turned toward him again, his unsteady gaze narrowing. “Who the hell are you supposed to—”

Before he could finish, Haoran moved. One hand gripped the man’s collar, the other braced his wrist. In a smooth, practiced motion he pulled the drunk inside the bathroom and shut the door behind them. The attendants gasped, frozen, but they didn’t intervene—the precision of his action was too fast, too deliberate, as if the chaos had simply been absorbed into order.

Inside, the man struggled, cursing under his breath, but Haoran’s grip was iron. He slammed the drunk lightly against the cramped wall, not enough to injure but enough to command silence.

“Shut your mouth,” Haoran whispered, his voice low, steady, and dangerous. His eyes, reflected in the mirror behind the drunk, held no trace of Kim Bora. They were all Haoran—sharp, cold, uncompromising.

The drunk faltered, fear cutting through the fog of alcohol.

Haoran leaned in, voice quiet but lethal. “If you don’t want to spend the rest of this flight unconscious in the cargo hold, sit down, stay quiet, and sleep it off. Understand?”

The man swallowed hard and nodded.

Haoran adjusted his grip, released him, and straightened his own appearance in the mirror without a flicker of concern. The lipstick hadn’t smudged. The blouse was still tucked. Kim Bora stared back at him, flawless.

Good. Crisis averted. Now, back to the real mission.

“Dear passengers, this is your captain speaking. We will soon be arriving at Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow…”

The voice droned on through the intercom, a muffled hum of routine instructions about seatbelts and cabin checks. Haoran barely listened. His gaze lingered on the city lights below, clusters of yellow and white scattered across the sprawling darkness. Moscow—cold, unfamiliar, and dangerous.

The plane touched down with a jolt, wheels screeching faintly against the runway before slowing into a steady roll. Haoran exhaled once, not out of relief but as a mental reset.

By the time he stepped into the terminal, the noise of the crowd folded around him: the rhythmic clicks of luggage wheels, the overlapping announcements in Russian and English, the murmur of tired passengers. His own heels struck sharply against the marble floor, distinct, deliberate, carrying the poise of Kim Bora’s persona. Every step was controlled—no stumble, no hesitation.

He checked the sleek watch on his wrist.

“Looks like I arrived a bit late… but still made it,” he thought, adjusting the drape of his coat. It was a subtle motion, but necessary—presentation mattered. A single misstep in appearance could unravel everything.

“Miss Kim!”

The call made him pivot. A man approached, his steps brisk, his face open with practiced hospitality. He was broad-shouldered but not imposing, wearing the tailored suit of a corporate professional.

“No scent,” Haoran registered immediately, his instincts sharp beneath the surface calm. I suppose he’s a beta. Less of a threat, but betas have their uses—useful as handlers, useful as watchers.

The man extended his hand with a wide smile.

“Hello! I’m Alexei Popov, an employee of Rosneft! I heard you were coming a day in advance and came out to escort you.”

Haoran’s eyes flicked briefly to the hand. Shaking it would cement the image of Bora’s civility, but too much eagerness could also betray nerves. He let the silence stretch for a beat before clearing his throat, deliberately neutral.

“But I didn’t receive any information about someone picking me up from the airport.” His brow arched faintly, skepticism sharpening his tone.

Alexei chuckled, the sound good-natured but perhaps too rehearsed. “Oh, but I definitely contacted your company this morning.”

Haoran’s phone buzzed. A vibration that cut clean through the noise of the terminal. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand and checked the screen. A single message glared back at him from Chief Bo.

他們會讓俄羅斯石油公司派人來機場接金姆

(Rosneft will send someone to the airport to pick up Kim.)

Haoran suppressed the sigh building in his chest. His expression remained unreadable, but in his head the groan echoed. At least you could have told me earlier. Would it kill you to be timely for once, Chief?

He slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. “I see.”

“You’ve come a long way. You must be tired,” Alexei said, his smile polite, his tone warm.

“Yes,” Haoran replied evenly, allowing the faintest trace of fatigue into his voice, the kind Bora might show. Then he added, coolly: “There was a small problem on the plane.”

Alexei’s eyes flickered with interest. “Ah. Did a drunk passenger cause any trouble?”

Haoran’s gaze sharpened, though his face betrayed nothing but mild surprise. “How did you know?”

Alexei gave a short laugh, tapping his chest. “Well, we Russians love to take a little bit of vodka—it’s just in our blood. Every flight, there’s always someone who drinks too much. It’s a national stereotype, but sadly true.”

Haoran studied him, measuring the cadence of his words, the slight shift of his posture. He’s casual, almost too casual. Does he really not know what happened on that plane, or is he probing?

Alexei gestured toward the baggage claim. “Come on then, let me help with your luggage.”

Haoran inclined his head slightly, a polite mask in place. “Thanks.” He didn’t protest, though he rarely allowed strangers to touch his belongings. If Alexei insisted, Haoran would allow it—but only because it played into Bora’s role.

As he followed Alexei through the crowd, Haoran’s thoughts moved in precise threads. First contact established. Beta, corporate employee. Too cheerful, but harmless on the surface. Yet this is Russia—nothing here is harmless. For now, play the part. Smile if needed. But never forget: every escort is also a leash.

The Mercedes purred softly as it slid through Moscow’s crowded streets, headlights weaving between endless red brake lights. From the backseat, Haoran sat poised, his posture composed and elegant—legs crossed, coat draped neatly, one hand resting lightly against his thigh. On the surface, he was Kim Bora, the refined Korean delegate. Inside, however, the sharpness of Agent Haoran Yue Darius never dulled.

Up front, Alexei wouldn’t stop talking. His voice filled the car like static—rambling about architecture, restaurants, even bits of Russian history that sounded rehearsed, like a tour guide who’d memorized his script years ago.

“…and over there, that’s the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. Beautiful, isn’t it? Moscow at night has a glow unlike any other city…”

Haoran tilted his head slightly, feigning polite interest, but his eyes drifted back to the passing blur of neon signs and stone facades. He didn’t reply.

He talks too much, Haoran thought, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. Does he ever breathe? Or is this his way of gauging me? Talking nonstop to see what I’ll give away?

“So how was your seat, Miss Kim?” Alexei asked suddenly, turning slightly as if expecting a warm response.

Haoran’s gaze didn’t even flicker. He kept his eyes fixed on the window, chin propped on his hand in quiet dismissal.

The silence stretched until Alexei laughed awkwardly. “Hahaha, you remind me of one incident—similar to yours. Once, I had to wait at the airport forever because of a troublesome passenger. Can you imagine? The chaos people cause…”

The car slowed abruptly. Honking blared outside. A sea of headlights clogged the boulevard, horns blaring like a symphony of frustration.

“Damn it, is it rush hour?” Haoran’s thoughts clicked with annoyance, his jaw tightening. This wouldn’t have happened if the plane had arrived on time. I should’ve beaten that drunkard half to death. Now I’m sitting here, trapped in Moscow traffic, listening to this idiot prattle on.

Alexei twisted back with a genial smile. “Um, Miss Kim? It seems we’ll be stuck in traffic for quite a while at this rate. Why don’t we take a shortcut instead? Our driver knows all the roads in Moscow inside and out. I’m sure you’d like to get your rest after such a long flight.”

Haoran gave him a single nod. “Please do.” His voice was calm, clipped, controlled. As soon as I get to the hotel, I’m going straight to bed. No sightseeing. No chatter. Just quiet.

The driver pulled away from the congested main road, slipping into narrower streets. The car wound through dimly lit alleyways lined with crumbling brick buildings and shadowy corners. Haoran leaned slightly toward the window, eyes sweeping left and right. Every detail registered—rusted dumpsters, graffiti smeared across cracked plaster, shadows cast by old laundry strung between windows.

I’ll give him this—the driver really does know these streets. Navigating alleys this narrow takes practice. But…

His eyes narrowed. Something clicked in his memory.

Hold on… didn’t I see that dumpster earlier?

The same crooked lid, half-hanging. The same dark stains streaking down its side. The same chipped window above, with gray fabric swaying faintly on a laundry line.

“I think we’re lost,” Haoran said flatly, his voice breaking the quiet hum of the car.

Alexei didn’t flinch. “How so, Miss Kim? We’re going the right path.”

“Are you sure?” Haoran turned his head fully now, his gaze cold, cutting. “Because we’ve been here before. That dumpster on the left—stains, lid half-closed. The building behind it too. Same cracks. Same brick color. Even the same laundry. Don’t tell me I’m mistaken.”

For the first time, silence pressed into the car. The driver kept his eyes forward.

Then—chuckle. Low, drawn-out, deliberate.

Alexei laughed. “You have a very good eye, Miss Kim. I didn’t expect that.”

Haoran’s hand moved before the laugh even died. Smooth, precise—his pistol was drawn, barrel glinting faintly under the passing streetlight. He leveled it at Alexei, his arm steady, his expression blank.

“Who are you?” Haoran asked, his voice quiet but sharp, the kind that cut deeper than a shout.

Alexei’s eyes flicked to the weapon, his grin widening. “That’s quite a dangerous toy you’ve got there, Miss Kim.”

“I said—who are you?” Haoran’s tone didn’t waver. His finger hovered just shy of the trigger.

“I told you already. Alexei Popov, here to escort you.” His smile didn’t falter, but there was no warmth in it now. It was the smile of a man testing how long he could play the game.

Haoran’s eyes narrowed. “But this Alexei doesn’t have ties to Rosneft, does he?”

The car jerked slightly as the driver brought it to a halt in the shadow of an unmarked alley.

“Well…” Alexei tilted his head, smirk sharpening. “Kind of.”

Before Haoran could react, the rear door beside him yanked open. A rush of cold Moscow air swept inside, carrying the faint scent of oil and iron. A heavy figure climbed in fast—a broad-shouldered man in black, movements precise.

Haoran’s gun hand rose instantly, but the stranger was faster, slamming into him with brutal force, pinning his arm down against the leather seat.

“It would be best if you cooperate with us, Miss Kim,” Alexei said smoothly from the front, watching the struggle with amusement. His grin widened, predatory now. “We wouldn’t want this trip to end before it’s even begun.”

Chapter Text

Pinned beneath the weight of the man, Haoran’s eyes burned—not with fear, but with cold fury. His mind worked faster than his pulse. So this is how Russia greets me. Fine. Let’s see who bleeds first.

The air inside the car thickened with tension. Haoran’s jaw clenched as the man in black pressed him harder into the seat, Alexei’s smug grin lingering like a stain in the front mirror.

These punks… are they trying to kidnap Kim Bora? But who the hell are they really? Criminal thugs? Foreign operatives? Doesn’t matter. If they know this much, it means they’ve done their homework. They’re not amateurs. Still, they think I’ll just sit quietly like some helpless woman…

His eyes glinted with cold contempt. Fools.

Alexei’s voice dripped with mockery. “Don’t try anything, Miss Kim. One move, and I’ll blow your head off.”

Who does this fool think I am? Some weak doll to be threatened into obedience? They really don’t know who they’re dealing with.

Haoran’s hand shot up in a flash, grabbing the thug pinning him and slamming his face viciously into the car window. Glass cracked with a sickening thud, blood smearing the surface. The man groaned, dazed.

But before Haoran could finish him, gunfire exploded outside.

“RATATATATATATA!” Bullets peppered the car, sparks flying, windows shattering into shards.

“Shit,” Haoran muttered, ducking low as glass rained down on him. The roar of gunfire echoed off the buildings, relentless, deafening.

The driver panicked, swerving violently to avoid incoming fire. Haoran’s mind remained sharp, cutting through the chaos. With one fluid motion, he pulled the slender dagger hidden in the heel of his shoe and pressed the cold steel to the trembling driver’s throat.

“Turn the headlights off and get us to the main road. Now.” His voice was low, commanding, dangerous. “Do as I say if you don’t want to end up like him.”

The driver’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, but he obeyed, veering sharply. The engine roared as the car shot forward into darker streets.

Haoran leaned back, dagger still pressed against the man’s neck, eyes scanning every shadow outside the shattered windows. For a fleeting second, something caught his attention above—on the rooftops. A shadow, massive, shifting unnaturally fast.

What the hell was that? Too big for a dog. Too big for any animal. Someone’s watching. Tracking. But from up there?

Before he could analyze, headlights flared from ahead. A car came screaming around the bend, barreling straight toward them.

“Look out!” the driver shouted, but it was too late.

The two vehicles collided with a violent screech of metal, glass exploding outward as steel crumpled. The world spun in a storm of sound and pain. Haoran’s head slammed into the doorframe—his vision blurred, warm blood trickling down his forehead.

“Ugh—” he coughed, tasting iron on his tongue. Dazed, he shoved the door open with his shoulder and stumbled out into the night. His legs shook, but his resolve didn’t.

“Wow…” he muttered bitterly, wiping blood from his brow. “First impression of Russia—and this is how they welcome foreigners?”

Around him, chaos lingered. Smoke hissed from the wrecked cars. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. But Haoran’s focus cut through it all like a blade.

I have no idea what’s going on here. But judging by how they knew my background, how they knew exactly when I’d arrive… this isn’t random. They’re not street thugs. No ordinary gang would pull this off. Could they be planning to hold Kim Bora hostage? Use her to pressure Russia—or Rosneft? Whoever they are, they’ve prepared well. And they won’t stop now. I need to disappear before I become a trophy on someone’s chessboard.

He staggered toward the boot of the wrecked car, reaching for his bag—his weapons, his documents, his lifeline.

But fate had other plans.

“Don’t move,” a familiar voice snapped coldly.

Haoran froze, a pistol barrel pressing against the back of his head. His bloodied lips curled slightly in irritation.

Oh my god. Why is this asshole still alive?

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, before rolling his eyes.

“Turn around,” Alexei ordered.

Haoran raised his hands, turning deliberately, his expression blank, unreadable.

“Don’t try anything stupid or I’ll shoot,” Alexei warned, stepping closer. He patted down Haoran’s sides roughly, searching for weapons. His hands moved to strip off Haoran’s coat.

That was his mistake.

In an instant, Haoran moved—flipping the coat into Alexei’s face and twisting it around his neck. The fabric tightened like a noose as Haoran pulled hard, choking him. Alexei thrashed, eyes bulging, trying to bring the gun up—too late.

Then—another barrage of bullets. Ratatatatatatat! Bullets sliced through the night, smashing into cars, spraying sparks. Haoran dragged Alexei’s body in front of him, using him as a human shield. Bullets tore into Alexei’s back, his screams muffled as Haoran maneuvered with clinical precision.

When the gunfire paused, Haoran shoved Alexei’s dying body aside and bolted.

The sound of his heels clattered sharply on the wet pavement as he sprinted down the street. His lungs burned, blood still dripping down his face, but his speed never faltered. Every corner he turned, bullets followed, smashing against walls and scattering debris around him.

Do they really want me dead this desperately? Just how many people have they deployed? This isn’t pursuit—this is a hunt.

He didn’t see the car until it hit him.

BAM!

The impact sent him flying, body crashing onto the asphalt with bone-jarring force. His breath left him in a violent cough, blood splattering from his lips.

“Ugh!!” Haoran groaned, forcing himself to roll onto his side, coughing up crimson.

From behind, voices rang out.

“Found him! He’s here!” the driver from earlier shouted, waving frantically to others spilling from nearby vehicles.

Haoran’s vision swam, his body screaming in pain. He planted a trembling hand against the ground and pushed himself upright.

I take down one scumbag, another one appears. How long must I repeat this crap?

His eyes narrowed, his breath sharp, his stance firm despite the blood soaking his clothes.

But giving up? That word doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. Not now. Not ever.

And with that thought, Haoran staggered forward again, forcing his battered body into a run—vanishing into Moscow’s shadows like a ghost refusing to die.

The abandoned building smelled of dust, mildew, and old smoke. Haoran pressed his back against the cracked wall, chest heaving quietly, blood dripping from a cut near his temple and sliding down to his jawline. His ears tuned to every sound—the faint hiss of wind slipping through broken windows, the distant shouts outside, and the crunch of boots on gravel below.

He lowered his head, peering through the jagged hole in the wall. Four shadows moved cautiously in the alley, rifles raised, voices sharp in Russian.

Four of them left now? Haoran thought, narrowing his eyes. But I could’ve sworn there were five just a moment ago. One’s missing.

Then he heard it. A creak from the stairs, slow but deliberate. Heavy boots pressing wood. The missing man.

So… the last one is coming upstairs. Hunting me. Tsk. Figures. Haoran’s gaze flicked to his rifle—empty. He cursed under his breath. Damn it, out of rounds… and no time to reload. Options are narrowing fast.

He slipped the belt from around his waist, the leather sliding silently through the loops. His fingers tightened around the buckle, breathing steadying.

Just a little more. Wait for him to step closer. Just a little more…

The man’s shadow lengthened on the wall before him, the faint metallic click of his rifle’s safety echoing in the corridor. Haoran’s pulse slowed. He crouched low, coiled like a spring.

The instant the soldier swung into view, Haoran lunged. The belt lashed forward, hooking around the barrel of the rifle. With a brutal yank, he twisted the weapon from the man’s hands and sent it clattering across the dusty floorboards.

“Chyort!” the soldier barked, reaching out.

Haoran didn’t hesitate. He looped the belt around the man’s throat, pulling it back with merciless precision.

The man thrashed, boots kicking against the floor. “Keeuuk—!” His strangled cries echoed off the peeling walls. Haoran leaned into the choke, muscles taut, jaw clenched.

Struggle all you want. It won’t change the outcome. Hesitation gets you killed. Regret comes later. For now, it’s survival.

The fight drained out of the man in violent shudders. His arms weakened, fingers twitching helplessly at the leather strap digging into his windpipe. Then silence. His body sagged, lifeless, and Haoran released the tension, shoving the corpse onto the floor with a dull thud.

Haoran crouched down, his hands swift and unflinching. He rifled through the dead man’s pockets, finding a handful of ammunition clips. He slipped them into his coat, his expression cold and unreadable. His hand reached for the discarded rifle, checking its weight, chambering a round with a sharp clack.

He exhaled once through his nose, calm returning to his bloodied face.

“Alright…” he muttered under his breath, voice low, steady. “Ready to move.”

He slung the rifle over his shoulder, belt back around his waist, then adjusted his disguise—wig slightly crooked, glasses smeared with sweat. To anyone else, he might look like a disheveled woman running from a mugging. But in his eyes burned the precision of a predator now armed and cornered.

The old wooden beams above his head groaned with the weight of footsteps. The mercenaries moved cautiously, sweeping their rifles from side to side as they searched the second floor.

“I heard gunshots up there!” one of them barked in Russian.

They came up in pairs, spreading out. Their flashlights cut across the cracked walls and piles of rubble. Dust hung in the air, stirred by their boots, a fog that blurred vision just enough to give shadows teeth.

But then—silence. No sign of Haoran. No breathing. No movement. Just the unsettling creak of the building itself.

One of the men muttered something under his breath, nervous, and then—

POW.

A single suppressed shot tore through the quiet. The first man dropped instantly, a neat hole between his eyes, his body collapsing like a sack of meat.

The second man spun, panic flashing in his eyes. He opened his mouth to shout—

Only to find himself staring down the barrel of a rifle.

“Boo,” Haoran said coldly, his voice little more than a whisper. He pulled the trigger, and the man’s scream was cut short, his skull snapping back with the force of the bullet.

Blood sprayed against the crumbling wall. His body twitched once, then stilled.

Haoran exhaled through his nose, lowering the weapon. His expression was calm, clinical, but his eyes burned with that cold fire. “Two gone,” he muttered, counting under his breath like he was ticking names off a list.

Then he looked at the rifle in his hands. The chamber clicked hollow when he tried the bolt. His jaw tightened.

Shit… I’m out of bullets.

He dropped the weapon quietly, listening for movement. That was when he caught it—a flicker, a silhouette darting across the rooftop of the building opposite. Too fast, too precise.

Haoran’s eyes narrowed.

There was definitely someone on that rooftop just now. I thought maybe I was seeing things before, but this time I’m sure. But there’s no way someone could hide themselves that quickly… unless they were trained. Military, or worse.

His muscles coiled tight, instincts flaring. He wasn’t the only predator here.

And then—gunfire erupted.

Rounds tore into the walls, splintering wood and shattering brick. The deafening RATATATATA rattled the air, dust and plaster raining down over him. Haoran hit the floor, rolling behind a collapsed beam as shards exploded around him.

Oh my gosh… just leave me the hell alone! he thought bitterly, teeth clenched. The fuck is this circus? First kidnappers, now rooftop ghosts shooting like they’re at a goddamn carnival. Is everyone in Moscow gunning for me tonight?

Bullets shredded through where he’d been seconds earlier, punching holes through the moldy wallpaper. He hugged the floor, calculating distances.

Stay low. Conserve strength. Don’t panic. Think, Haoran. Think.

He could almost hear Chief Bo’s voice in his head: An agent isn’t allowed to lose his head under fire. If you’re breathing, you’re still in the fight.

Haoran’s lip curled slightly, bitter amusement flickering across his face even as more bullets raked the hallway.

Well, Chief… breathing’s about all I’ve got right now.

His hand tightened on the strap of his belt, his other hand searching for the clips he’d looted earlier. He slid one into the sidearm holstered at his hip—click, ready.

His eyes lifted once more toward the rooftop.

Whoever that shooter is, they’re skilled. Too skilled to be some random thug. Which means… they’re not here for Kim Bora. They’re here for me too.

Chapter Text

Haoran leaned heavily against the cold metal rail of the balcony, chest rising and falling with sharp, controlled breaths. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, though the Moscow night air was biting cold. He lowered his gaze toward the ground several stories below, catching sight of two shadows slinking closer to the stairwell entrance.

“Shit… there are two more,” he thought, his brows furrowing. “They’re coming upstairs fast. And I don’t have a weapon left on me…”

His hand instinctively went to his side—empty. No gun. No knife. Nothing but his wits. His jaw clenched.

Then—

Bang! Bang!

The abrupt burst of gunfire echoed from inside the building, followed by a muffled scream that sliced the air in half. Haoran froze, his head snapping toward the sound. His pulse kicked up, not from fear, but from raw calculation.

“What the hell was that? Who fired? Don’t tell me another party is involved…” he thought, pressing his back against the wall.

For a long second, silence. Too much silence.

“They should’ve reached this floor by now. Why is it so quiet…?”

His eyes narrowed as he slid his fingers to his earlobe. With a practiced motion, he plucked off the small black stud—an earring most would mistake as decoration. He turned it in his palm, the faint red light inside winking back at him.

A mini bomb. His insurance. His last resort.

“Guess there’s only one way to end this,” Haoran thought grimly, lips pressed into a hard line. “I’ll wait for the right chance and blow them to pieces…”

His grip tightened around the tiny device.

And then—

RIIIIIPPPP!

The sudden, sickening sound of flesh tearing made his stomach tighten. Right at his side, a man’s face was ripped open, blood spraying in a grotesque arc against the wall. Haoran’s eyes widened. He hadn’t even heard footsteps. The victim staggered once, before a massive boot struck his chest, sending him plummeting off the balcony. His scream was cut short as his body crashed against the ground far below.

Haoran’s eyes darted upward.

“It’s him,” he realized instantly. His instincts screamed louder than his ears. “The unsettling gaze I kept feeling on me… I’m not imagining it. He’s real.”

The shadow detached itself from the corridor’s darkness and stepped forward. The figure loomed—towering—a height well over 200cm. The moonlight spilled across him, revealing broad shoulders and a body that moved with unnatural briskness for its size.

Haoran’s throat tightened.

“I can’t believe a guy that big can move that quietly… that quickly. He’s not human. Not normal. But even a murderous beast won’t survive a bomb shoved down his throat.”

His eyes narrowed, a predator ready to strike. “I’ll shove it in his mouth and finish this—”

But he didn’t get the chance.

The figure surged forward, impossibly fast. A single motion—Haoran was smashed against the ground, the balcony floor vibrating with the impact. His mini bomb slipped from his grip, clattering upward before exploding midair, the shockwave rattling the balcony rails. Sparks rained down, painting the scene in a fiery orange glow.

“Ugh—!!” Haoran let out, his voice breaking into a grunt as the figure pinned his wrists harshly behind his back.

The pressure was overwhelming. His lungs struggled to draw air. His chest heaved, but the weight and the pheromones pouring off the man felt suffocating. His vision blurred at the edges.

“Fuck… how did I get pinned down so easily? His pheromones… they’re suffocating me. It’s like being chained by poison gas…”

The man leaned down, his breath grazing Haoran’s ear as a strange murmur in Russian spilled forth.

“У тебя на рубашке что-то есть… Давай я сниму это для тебя, хм.?”

(There’s something on your shirt… let me take it off for you, hmm?)

Haoran’s jaw tightened, veins throbbing along his temple.

“Get your shit together, Haoran,” he barked at himself inwardly. “Focus. Think!”

His senses sharpened despite the suffocating presence. Every detail registered.

“His voice… it isn’t too deep or husky. Young. Early twenties, maybe. And those shoes… crocodile leather, hand-stitched. I saw the exact pair in a luxury magazine—around 4,000 dollars. What kind of assassin wears shoes like that? Who is this guy?”

The stranger tugged at Haoran’s shirt, fabric tearing slightly as if to mock his helplessness. But then, instead of finishing him, the man chuckled low in his throat.

A faint smell reached Haoran’s nose. Not nicotine. Not ordinary tobacco. Something sharper, darker, laced with an earthy undertone. He frowned, trying to place it, even as the man dropped the half-burned cigar at his side.

The figure released him without warning.

Haoran’s body jerked as he felt the metal bite against his wrist. His hand had been cuffed to the balcony rail. His instincts screamed for him to break free, but the man had already turned his back.

“Is he just going to walk away?” Haoran thought furiously, sweat dripping down his temple. “That’s reckless. He’s leaving behind evidence without a care. Or maybe… he doesn’t care if I find him again.”

The shadowed man hummed softly as he walked off—an eerie, almost childish lullaby echoing in the night air. The sound gnawed at Haoran’s nerves more than the fight itself.

And then—silence.

Haoran slumped against the railing, his cuffed wrist straining against the cold steel. His chest heaved, mind racing.

“What the fuck just happened…?”

The city sprawled below him, indifferent. The night wind stung his skin, but Haoran barely felt it. He was trapped, humiliated, yet alive. And he hated that more than anything.

11:50 p.m. — Moscow Police Station

The sterile hum of fluorescent lights filled the quiet room, the kind of buzz that sank into your bones after a while. The smell of cold coffee, disinfectant, and worn paper lingered faintly in the air.

There sat Haoran—or rather, Kim Bora, as the world currently knew him—wrapped in a wool blanket that smelled faintly of dust and old fabric softener. His hair was slightly disheveled, one wrist wrapped in a temporary splint. A single desk lamp cast a harsh cone of light over the table, making his face look paler than usual.

He stared at his bandaged wrist in silence for a moment before letting out a quiet, humorless exhale.

“I can’t believe I dislocated my wrist in the short time I got pinned down,” he thought bitterly, tilting his head back against the chair. “That guy’s strength was inhuman. I barely lasted ten seconds before he had me flat on the ground.”

His jaw tensed. The words he wasn’t saying filled the space around him.

“What a ridiculous situation. Kidnapped, almost killed, and then ‘rescued’ by some stranger who vanishes into thin air after stripping me and leaving me cuffed to a balcony railing. Is that what people call a rescue now?”

He adjusted the blanket over his shoulders, the movement slow and deliberate. His wrist throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

“If the police had arrived even a few minutes later, I’d have been a corpse instead of sitting here freezing my ass off in a blanket like some fragile civilian. Tch.”

Across from him, a middle-aged officer with a thick mustache flipped through a stack of reports. His nameplate read Sergeant Mikhailov, and his weary face showed more concern than suspicion. When he finally looked up, his eyes were sympathetic in that official, trained way.

“Miss Kim,” Mikhailov began in accented English, choosing his words carefully, “we believe this incident was caused by a group unhappy with the recent oil contract your company signed. It’s a very large project—many people, both inside and outside, would be… envious of such a deal.”

He set the papers down and leaned slightly forward.

“But please… do not let this event affect how you feel about Russia. This country… we are not all like those criminals. I promise, we will find out who was behind this. No matter what it takes.”

Haoran blinked slowly, expression unreadable. The kind of stillness that made people uncomfortable.

“Too late for that,” he thought flatly. “I’m already forming some pretty strong opinions.”

He didn’t bother voicing it, though. No point. He’d had enough diplomacy for one night.

He nodded faintly, just enough to appear cooperative. “I understand. Thank you for your concern,” he said aloud, voice smooth and calm, betraying none of the irritation swirling under the surface.

Inside, though, his mind was already somewhere else.

“I just want to go to the hotel, take a scalding shower, and pass out for twelve hours. My bones ache, my wrist’s a mess, and my pride’s even worse.”

The door creaked open with a low metallic squeal. Another officer poked his head in, his tone hesitant.

“She’s still here, sir,” the younger man said to Mikhailov, then turned to Haoran. “Madam, we checked your belongings again—no tracking devices, no hidden transmitters. Everything appears clean.”

He paused, his eyes flickering awkwardly toward Haoran’s face before quickly darting away. “Uh… for your safety, perhaps you’d allow me to drop you off at your hotel personally?”

Haoran looked up, expression impassive, though internally his brow arched.

“He’s blushing. Seriously?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He was too tired to react properly, so he simply gave a faint nod.

“That would be appreciated,” he said evenly.

“Whatever. A free ride’s a free ride,” he mused. “At least one thing’s going right tonight.”

The young officer practically beamed at the chance, clearly flustered by the opportunity to escort the so-called “Miss Kim.” He stammered something about the car being ready and hurried out again, leaving Haoran alone with his thoughts and the soft ticking of the station clock.

He glanced at his reflection in the small, grimy mirror across the room. His disguise was still intact—the subtle contouring that softened his features, the long coat that masked his build, the delicate earrings that hid weapons. No one here saw the real him.

“This persona’s holding up well,” he thought, adjusting the collar. “Though if I have to keep pretending to be this demure ‘Miss Kim’ any longer, I might actually lose my mind.”

He rose from the chair, blanket slipping from his shoulders. For a moment, his shadow stretched long across the tiled floor.

The sound of laughter echoed faintly from the hallway—officers chatting, probably about the “foreign beauty” who survived an ambush. He ignored it.

As he walked toward the door, his mind replayed the fight on the balcony, the stranger’s voice, the scent of that strange smoke.

“Who the hell was that man…?” he thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. “His movements weren’t random. He was trained. Military? Mercenary? No… something different.”

The hum of the lights flickered once as he stepped into the corridor, the blanket now folded neatly over his arm.

“I’ll find him,” he decided quietly. “No one humiliates me and walks away.”

Outside, the snow was starting to fall again—soft, slow flakes drifting through the streetlights. Haoran pulled his coat tighter around him as the police escort opened the car door with a shy smile.

He gave a curt nod and slid inside, his mind already turning over everything that had happened.

For most, tonight would be a nightmare. For Haoran, it was just the beginning of another mission.

“After you, Miss Kim,” he said, his tone just a little too friendly.

Haoran gave him a polite nod, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen loose from his bun before lowering himself into the front seat. But as soon as he sat down, he felt something soft beneath him—a delicate fabric crushed under his coat.

He reached under and pulled it out slowly. It was a silk scarf, faintly perfumed with some woman’s floral scent.

“...Great,” Haoran thought flatly, holding the scarf by two fingers as if it were radioactive. “Someone’s perfume and germs. Just what I needed tonight.”

The officer chuckled when he saw the expression on Haoran’s face. “Ah—sorry about that!” he said with an awkward laugh, quickly snatching the scarf from Haoran’s hand and tossing it into the back seat. “My wife left that in here earlier. Hahaha, women, you know how they are—always forgetting something!”

Haoran turned his head slightly, offering a faint, polite smile.

“If I were your wife, I’d forget you somewhere too,” he thought coolly, then looked back out the window.

The car pulled out of the station parking lot and onto the dimly lit road. Streetlights passed in slow rhythm, their reflections stretching across the windshield like fading gold lines. For a moment, silence filled the car—just the hum of the engine and the muted rumble of tires against wet asphalt.

Then, predictably, the officer decided to talk.

“So… Miss Kim,” he began, his tone trying for casual curiosity, “you mentioned earlier that there was someone else at the scene. A man, right? Wearing… what was it? Expensive leather shoes?”

Haoran inhaled quietly through his nose.

“I just told him this at the station,” he thought, suppressing a sigh. “Does he have memory issues, or is he fishing for a different answer?”

He leaned his head slightly against the seat and spoke evenly, his voice carrying that calm, controlled precision of someone used to being obeyed.

“It was crocodile leather,” Haoran corrected without looking at him. “Not cowhide. Though it’s possible it was cowhide embossed to look like crocodile skin… but no, I’m certain it was genuine. Dark brown, U.S. size thirteen or fourteen. Practically brand new.”

He paused, his mind replaying the brief flashes of that encounter—the glint of polished leather, the smell that lingered after.

“The pair would cost at least 250,000 rubles,” he continued. “And he wasn’t the type to wear replicas. Which means he was either very wealthy… or wanted to appear that way.”

The officer gave a short, low whistle. “Two hundred fifty thousand rubles? That’s quite a bit for a pair of shoes,” he said, chuckling. “Alright, alright, let’s just say it was crocodile leather then.”

Haoran didn’t respond. He just exhaled through his nose, gaze still fixed outside. The snow had started falling heavier now, each flake catching in the amber streetlight before melting against the glass.

“This man laughs at everything,” he thought wearily. “Doesn’t he get tired of hearing his own voice?”

For a few minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic squeak of the windshield wipers. Then, once again, the silence shattered.

“So, Miss Kim,” the officer began, his grin returning as he glanced sideways at Haoran. “Which Asian are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Haoran blinked once, slow. “...Korean,” he said after a pause.

The officer nodded enthusiastically, tapping the steering wheel with his thick fingers. “Ah, Korean! I’ve heard Korean women are very beautiful. Just like you, Miss Kim.”

Haoran’s eyes flickered sideways, his face unreadable.

“He’s actually flirting. Incredible. I’m sitting here with a sprained wrist and dried blood on my coat, and he thinks this is a date.”

He smiled faintly—polite, distant. “Thank you,” he said softly.

The officer grinned even wider. “So… are you single?”

That earned a blink from Haoran. A pause. Then, smoothly, he turned his gaze to the windshield.

“Where the hell is this conversation going,” he thought dryly. “Is he trying to get himself fired?”

“No,” Haoran said finally, tone even. “I’m married.”

The officer raised his eyebrows. “Oh wow, your husband—or wife, maybe?—must be a very lucky person,” he said, still fishing.

Haoran didn’t look away from the passing lights. “They are,” he said shortly.

There was another moment of silence. The officer chuckled nervously, clearly not getting the hint.

“But tell me, Miss Kim,” he said suddenly, “is it true what they say about Asian women? That they’re… you know… very submissive?”

That was the last straw.

Haoran exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. He turned his head, just enough for his cold, dark eyes to meet the man’s. The faint smile was gone now—only calm, cutting seriousness remained.

“Just drive the car,” he said, voice quiet but firm, carrying that weight that made the officer’s hand freeze on the wheel. “You talk too much. Fucking nosey”

The man blinked, startled, then gave an awkward laugh that didn’t sound genuine anymore. “R-right… sorry, Miss Kim. Long day, I guess.”

Haoran leaned back in his seat again, crossing his legs and letting the silence reclaim the car.

“Finally,” he thought, closing his eyes for a moment. “Peace and quiet.”

11:57 p.m. — The Hotel Lounge

The night air outside was cold enough to bite through fabric, and by the time Haoran stepped out of the police car, the tips of his fingers were numb. The luxurious hotel before him shimmered under golden lights — the kind of place where diplomats and oligarchs brushed shoulders with movie stars. His breath fogged faintly as he adjusted the blanket draped around him, then straightened his posture, ignoring the dull ache still pulsing in his wrist.

The driver, the same overly chatty police officer, tried to open the door for him.

“Careful, Miss Kim. The steps are slippery.”

“I’m not porcelain,” Haoran muttered under his breath, stepping out and brushing past him. The lobby doors parted automatically, releasing a wave of warmth and faintly perfumed air. Expensive cologne, polished marble, and the faint hum of a string quartet playing somewhere near the bar. Moscow — ruthless, extravagant, and utterly indifferent.

He walked to the front desk, unbothered by the curious eyes that followed. His dark hair, still slightly tousled from the earlier chaos, cast soft shadows over his sharp eyes. There was no trace of panic on his face now — only precision, calm, and quiet irritation.

“Добрый вечер, madam. How can we help you?” The receptionist asked, smiling with that professional hospitality reserved for guests in fur coats and diamonds.

“Hello,” Haoran said, voice low but clear. “Are there any shops around here that sell handmade cigars?”

The receptionist blinked, surprised. “Handmade cigars? Ah, yes, actually—there’s one right here in the hotel. You’ll see it if you go around the back of the lobby. The sign says La Flamme Russe.”

Haoran nodded once. “Thank you.”

The Cigar Lounge

The room was warm, softly lit, and filled with the scent of cedar and tobacco. Behind the counter stood an elderly man with a neatly trimmed beard, his silver hair tied loosely behind his neck. Every shelf gleamed with boxes — Cuban, Dominican, Nicaraguan — each arranged like treasures behind glass.

“Welcome, madam,” the man greeted with a polite smile. “What can I get you tonight?”

Haoran’s eyes scanned the rows of cigars before meeting his gaze. “There’s one I came across once,” he said slowly. “I remember its scent, but not its brand.”

“Ah,” the old man said, eyes glinting with interest. “You must have a sharp nose. Most of the cigars here are from the Dominican Republic. Dominican cigars are considered among the best — smooth, rich, with a clean finish. The one you’re holding right now,” he gestured, “is quite popular in the U.S. — famous for its gentle flavor.”

Haoran examined the cigar between his fingers, the texture dry and light. “How much?”

“Seven dollars per cigar. Quite affordable, for its quality.”

“Mm.” Haoran frowned faintly, setting it down. “No, that’s not it.”

The man tilted his head. “In that case… could you tell me more about the one you’re looking for?”

Haoran leaned slightly against the counter. “The man who smoked it was wearing four-thousand-dollar shoes.”

That earned a low whistle from the shopkeeper. “Then he must’ve been very rich — and very particular. People like that don’t smoke average cigars. They chase perfection. Perhaps…” He gestured toward a polished wooden box. “These have a dry yet complex scent — spicy, earthy, with hints of leather and dark chocolate. Would you say the aroma was something like that?”

Haoran thought for a moment, brows furrowed. “It was earthy, yes. But not soil, exactly… not leather either. And it had a sweetness — faint, distant. Not like honey.”

“Did it smell like burning wood?”

“Yes.”

“Spicy?”

“No.”

“Hmm. What did it look like?”

Haoran’s voice dropped lower, focused. “It had already been smoked down. Only the thick, blunt end was left. But the scent — it lingered. Deep, velvety, refined.”

The old man’s expression shifted — recognition sparking. “Ah… perhaps this.”

He carefully opened a humidor, retrieving a box of darker cigars wrapped in fine gold foil. The air thickened instantly with an aroma so strong it was almost tactile. “These are heavier, with a sweet, velvety scent. The notes are balanced — smooth, not overwhelming. Would you like to try one?”

Haoran took one, brought it to his lips, and puffed slowly. Smoke curled upward like silk ribbons. He analyzed the texture, the burn, the aftertaste.

This burns slower than leaves... the ash holds its shape well. Not flaking. Good craftsmanship.

But after a few seconds, he exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It’s similar, but not quite. The scent I remember was richer. Heavier. And this doesn’t have that earthy undertone.”

The old man’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Wait here.” He poured a glass of pale golden alcohol — Medovukha, honey-based, faintly sweet. Then he lightly dipped the cigar’s tip into it.

“That damp texture you’re remembering was likely achieved by dipping the cigar tip in aged whiskey,” he explained. “Whiskey brings out the deeper notes — leather, oak, smoke. Try it now.”

Haoran took another puff. The difference was immediate — rounder, deeper. Still, his brow creased. “Closer, but still not it. It’s missing something. A layer.”

“Hmm…” The man chuckled softly. “If the scent is even richer than this, then I can think of only one brand. A limited collection, released years ago. The tobacco was hand-selected and aged through double fermentation — stored under precise conditions. Warm, steady, humid. Every leaf was inspected by hand. Only two thousand boxes were made, and they sold out almost instantly in Europe.”

He paused, letting the story breathe. “Each cigar cost over five hundred dollars. Worth it, for those who knew what they were tasting.”

Haoran’s gaze darkened slightly. Four-thousand-dollar shoes. Five-hundred-dollar cigars. Whoever he is… he’s used to consuming luxury. And that kind of man doesn’t just kill — he collects destruction like art.

“So,” Haoran asked, “you have any here?”

The old man chuckled, almost wistful. “If I did, I’d probably just keep one to admire it. They’re impossible to find now.”

Haoran didn’t reply. He reached into his coat pocket and placed a few bills on the counter.

“No need, madam,” the man protested lightly. “You didn’t even find what you were looking for.”

Haoran picked two cigars from the shelf anyway. “Don’t worry. I’ve already gotten my answer.” He turned to leave, his tone calm, final. “Thank you.”

As the door chimed softly behind him, the old man exhaled a slow puff from his own cigar, watching the mysterious “Miss Kim” disappear into the corridor.

Meanwhile, Haoran’s expression hardened once more as he stepped into the cool hallway air.

He wears four-thousand-dollar shoes… smokes five-hundred-dollar cigars…

He slipped his hands into his coat pockets, the scent of tobacco still lingering in the fabric.

He’s got the taste of a king and the conscience of a corpse.

Chapter Text

Steam curled up into the air, gathering in a foggy haze around the bathroom mirror. The muffled hum of the city outside barely reached the quiet marble walls of Haoran’s suite. The warm water streamed steadily over his shoulders, tracing the faint bruises blooming across his skin — silent proof of what had happened.

He tilted his head back under the shower, eyes half closed, letting the heat numb the tight ache in his muscles. Droplets slid down his face and along his jawline before disappearing down the drain. His breathing was even, measured — but his thoughts were anything but calm.

The police’s explanation for the kidnapping was highly plausible, he thought bitterly. Some business rivals, upset about the contract, hired thugs. Typical. Predictable. It all fits neatly in the report.

A faint scoff left his lips. But that doesn’t explain him.

His mind replayed the encounter in flashes — not images, but sensations.

The cold air of the warehouse.

The echo of footsteps behind him.

And that voice — low, calm, composed.

Crocodile leather shoes... he remembered. A burning cigar. A calm tone that didn’t belong in a scene like that.

He pressed a hand to the tiled wall, water streaming down his forearm, over the bruise that ringed his wrist. That man wasn’t like the others. There was something about him — something deliberate. The way he moved, the way he didn’t hesitate, not for a second.

Haoran’s jaw tightened. No hesitation, no mercy.

His body remembered what his mind wanted to forget — the weight of that hand pressing him down, the cold surface against his back, the raw helplessness that flooded through him.

Just his presence alone had suffocated him. It wasn’t fear in the ordinary sense — not panic, but an animal instinct, primal and undeniable. Like prey recognizing the predator in the dark.

It felt like being thrown into the wild naked and defenseless, he thought. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe properly. My body just... knew. If I twitched wrong, if I even tried to resist, I’d be torn apart.

The water grew hotter, almost burning now, but he didn’t move away. His reflection in the glass door was blurred by steam — a ghostly figure half hidden behind mist.

Haoran let out a long exhale. “Tch.” The sound was sharp, cutting through the silence. This is ridiculous, he told himself. I’ve been through worse. Torture, ambushes, near-death missions… so why does this one man linger in my head like smoke that won’t fade?

He reached up and peeled the synthetic mask from his face — the soft prosthetic skin that shaped “Kim Bora’s” features. Underneath, the real Haoran emerged: his sharp jawline, his slightly slanted eyes, and the exhaustion clouding his expression. He placed the mask on the counter with deliberate care, watching it lie there like a stranger’s face.

“...He gives me chills,” he murmured to himself. His voice echoed faintly off the marble walls. “No one’s ever pinned me down that easily before.”

He looked down at his wrist, now purplish-blue from the earlier struggle. He touched it gently, tracing the bruise with a detached sort of fascination. His grip wasn’t just strong — it was absolute. Controlled. Like he knew exactly how much force to use to make it hurt, but not break.

The thought sent an involuntary shiver crawling down his spine. He clenched his jaw, forcing his mind back into discipline. Enough.

He turned off the shower. The hiss of water faded, replaced by the ticking of the clock outside the bathroom — slow, steady, unnerving.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Haoran stepped out into the dimly lit suite. The curtains were half open, revealing the glittering skyline of Moscow. City lights blinked in the distance like stars drowning in fog.

He poured himself a glass of water, watching the condensation bead on the side. The police think it was simple retaliation. Maybe it was. But then who was that man?

He ran a hand through his wet hair, leaning his weight on the counter. No records. No name. No trace. Just that cigar — that scent. And those shoes.

He let out a long sigh, the kind that carried both irritation and fatigue. “It’s best to let go of bad memories as soon as possible,” he said quietly, as if saying it aloud could make it true.

But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

That stranger’s shadow had already burned itself into the back of his mind.

The sharp knock at the door cut cleanly through Haoran’s thoughts. He blinked, drawn back from the fog of memory.

“Oh right… I ordered room service,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair as he walked toward the door.

The corridor light spilled faintly into the room when he opened it. A hotel staff member stood there, pushing a silver tray draped in white linen, the faint aroma of steak and coffee rising from the covered dishes.

“Thank you,” Haoran said curtly, taking the tray and shutting the door quietly behind him. He wheeled it toward the sitting area, his movements precise, controlled — the reflexive discipline of someone who didn’t waste motion, even when he was bone-tired.

He exhaled sharply, and looked over at his luggage. Good thing none of my stuff was destroyed, he thought, crouching to unzip his briefcase. Losing that would have been worse than getting shot.

He took out the sleek black laptop and flipped it open. The boot-up tone had barely finished when a call request flashed across the screen — Incoming call: Chief Bo.

Haoran rubbed his temple. “Perfect timing,” he muttered.

The moment he answered, a familiar voice cut through the static.

“你迟到了 (You’re late),” Chief Bo said flatly.

Haoran rolled his eyes, sinking into the chair. “为什么你不能为我挑选一个更安全的人来秘密行动？(Why can’t you pick someone safer for undercover missions?)”

The Chief gave a short, dry laugh. “If you’re going to meet high-profile people, you ought to be disguised as someone important enough to be kidnapped.”

Haoran’s lips twitched — not in amusement. “You sound like you knew this would happen, Chief Bo.”

“废话 (Nonsense),” Bo replied, taking a sip of coffee from somewhere off-screen. “I simply believed you’d make it back alive no matter what dangers you faced… since you’re such an excellent agent.”

Haoran’s brows furrowed. “What happened anyway? You said someone from Rosneft would come to escort me.”

“Yes, I did,” Chief Bo said, his voice slightly distorted through the weak connection.

“Are you sure the person who contacted was actually from Rosneft?” Haoran asked, his tone cool, almost too calm.

There was a pause — just long enough to confirm his suspicion.

“You weren’t showing up no matter how long the guy waited,” Bo said finally. “So he tried contacting Pyongyang — we just barely managed to block the call. You said your plane was delayed because of a disturbance, right? That must’ve been why you and the Rosneft employee missed each other. Apparently, another Asian who arrived before you claimed to be Kim Bora. They only found out he wasn’t later on. Meanwhile, you got kidnapped by the fake one.”

Haoran went still. His eyes narrowed slightly, reflecting the cold blue light of the laptop screen. Right. Everything started going wrong from the moment I got on that plane.

He remembered the disturbance — the drunk man, the commotion, the security shuffle. Too convenient. How did he know? Because they were all in on the scheme together. I should’ve known the setup was too neat.

A faint scowl crossed his face. And I let that bastard die too quickly. Should’ve squeezed something out of him before putting a bullet in his head.

His eyes dropped to his wrist — the bruise darkening to an ugly violet. His fingers flexed around the tender spot, tracing it absently. And now, there’s him.

He looked back at the screen. “Right now, let’s focus on the guy who almost broke my wrist,” he said. “I encountered a ruthless killer today. On my terms though — do you have any hunch who he could be? I’d like to know who he was, and why he was there.”

Chief Bo leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “Did you see his face?”

Haoran paused. “…Uhh, nope.”

“Then how the hell do you expect me to know who it is, Agent Haoran?” the chief snapped. “I can’t say. It’s impossible to confirm anything if you didn’t even see his face. And you said they made four thousand of those cigars. That means, at most, four thousand people bought them. It’ll take forever to track them all down. On top of that, those crocodile shoes weren’t even limited edition.”

Haoran leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. The soft hum of the minibar filled the silence. He’s right, he admitted internally. Even if I narrow it down by location, purchase record, import trace... I’d still be chasing smoke.

He drummed his fingers on the armrest. But men like that leave traces — not fingerprints, but habits. Expensive shoes, rare cigars, and a taste for chaos. People who live like that aren’t invisible for long.

The bruise on his wrist pulsed faintly with each heartbeat. He stared at it for a long moment. That kind of strength… that precision. Whoever he was, he’s trained — military, maybe, or black-ops. But not amateur mercenary work. His control was too deliberate, his presence too calculated.

He glanced at his reflection on the darkened laptop screen — his own expression hard, eyes cold and analytical, the faintest shadow of exhaustion behind them.

“我会找到你… (I’ll find you…),” he murmured under his breath, almost like a vow.

The Chief was still talking, his voice echoing through the laptop’s speakers — steady, unhurried, that same maddening calm that always came before he dropped more unwanted news.

“Hey, Haoran… you listening?”

Haoran blinked, dragging himself out of his own thoughts. His focus had drifted somewhere between the bruises on his wrist and the now-cold food sitting untouched on the table.

“What?” he said flatly, rubbing his temple.

“I said,” Chief Bo repeated, with exaggerated patience, “I know you prefer to work alone. But I can’t help worrying about you — seeing you get into this much trouble right off the bat. And that’s why…” He paused, just long enough for Haoran to dread what was coming next. “…I already found someone who’s going to help you. He’s very familiar with the geography, and he knows the way money and power flow in that country.”

Haoran’s expression didn’t change, but his stare hardened slightly, that subtle shift that only those who knew him would recognize as annoyance. “You never mentioned this before, Chief Bo,” he said, unimpressed, his tone clipped and cool.

Bo gave a little shrug, as if the details were irrelevant. “Well, I’m mentioning it now, kid. He’s going to come to you first — in about two days. I’ll send over his picture when the time comes, so make sure you get a good look at it.”

Haoran leaned back in his chair, dragging a slow hand down his face. “Ughh,” he exhaled, the sound closer to a groan than a word.

Bo ignored it completely. “Oh, and you’re to meet the officials starting tomorrow. So study as much about the oil refinery’s construction as you can.”

Haoran’s eyes widened slightly, mouth opening — “Wait, wha—”

But before he could finish, the line went dead.

“Byeeee,” Chief Bo’s voice echoed faintly in his memory, followed by the soft electronic beep of a disconnected call.

Haoran stared at the blank screen for a few seconds, the reflection of his own face dim in the dark glass. His fingers twitched slightly before he muttered under his breath, “That snake.”

A second later — ding!

His phone vibrated on the table beside the untouched tray of food. He picked it up and saw the name flashing across the screen: Chief Bo. Again.

Except this time, it was just a message. An attachment.

He tapped it open. His eyes narrowed at the sight of a single file name: ‘BRIEFING_MATERIALS_—_READ_AND_MEMORIZE.pdf’

He opened it.

His jaw slackened slightly.

“Six hundred pages…” he muttered aloud.

His thumb flicked through the endless scroll of technical data — refinery schematics, geopolitical analysis, trade route logistics, economic forecasts, coded diagrams, names of every minister attending the event. Page after page of dense text and images.

Who does he think I am… a machine? Haoran thought grimly, the corners of his mouth twitching in disbelief.

He exhaled, slowly, setting the phone down beside the laptop. The glow from the screens painted his face in a cold light, accentuating the faint bruises on his jaw and the quiet exhaustion in his eyes.

For a long moment, he just sat there — silent, motionless — before his gaze slid toward the untouched plate of food on the tray, and then to the bed, soft and perfectly made.

They’re so close, he thought, eyes flicking between the two, but so far.

He slumped back in the chair, finally allowing the stiffness in his shoulders to ease. The tension that had kept him upright since the plane, since the kidnapping, since the briefing, finally began to slip away — just a fraction.

The corners of his lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but close. “Feels like I’m back in high school,” he muttered, his tone dry and quiet.

He reached over and picked up the fork, absently spearing a piece of cold food as the glow of the laptop flickered across his face.

His mind, however, refused to rest. Two days until the new contact arrives. Tomorrow, I’m supposed to blend with government officials and international investors. And tonight, six hundred pages to memorize.

He sighed again, closing his eyes briefly. At least I’m still alive. For now.

The conference building’s interior was polished marble and gold trim — ostentatious in that distinctly Russian way, where even the light felt expensive. Haoran, dressed neatly in Kim Bora’s tailored suit skirt and cream blouse, looked like the picture of composure. Beneath that calm, however, every muscle in his body ached from exhaustion. The events of the past two nights — the kidnapping, the police interrogation, the bruised wrist — still throbbed faintly at the edge of his awareness, like ghosts that refused to leave.

“Miss Kim, are you feeling alright? I heard you got into some trouble the day you arrived here,” one of the program coordinators asked, his tone overly polite — the kind that hinted at curiosity rather than concern.

Haoran forced a small smile, adjusting his glasses with deliberate grace. “I’m fine, really. Sorry for making you worry,” he said softly, the faint trace of an accent adding authenticity to his disguise.

The man nodded, relieved. Another participant leaned in, his expression full of sympathy. “Please, I feel awful that you had to go through something like that in my country. My deepest apologies, Miss Kim.”

Haoran bowed his head slightly, offering the kind of polite reassurance he’d perfected over years of undercover work. “No, you don’t need to apologize. I should’ve been more careful myself.” His tone was perfectly balanced — gentle, diplomatic, harmless.

Inside, though, his mind was moving like clockwork.

Almost 12:30…

He flicked his wrist to check the time.

The program was supposed to start at noon. Thirty minutes late, and still no appearance from Rosneft’s CEO. Suspicious.

The air in the conference lounge had grown thick — a mixture of stale perfume, coffee, and nervous chatter. The diplomats around him were starting to look restless, their polite smiles faltering as the delay dragged on. Haoran had already spent twenty minutes nodding through small talk about trade policies and construction logistics — all topics he had flawlessly memorized from the 600-page file Chief Bo had dumped on him last night.

But now, he’d had enough.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said, rising gracefully and straightening the short suit skirt. The movement was smooth, elegant — but internally, he was gritting his teeth.

I can’t listen to another word of this empty chatter. They’re all too comfortable playing politics while I sit here pretending to be a fragile Korean investor.

As he walked out into the hallway, the hum of conversation faded behind him. The corridor was quieter — the click of his heels echoing softly against the marble. Then, a voice, low and furious, broke the silence.

“Where the hell is even the CEO? What do you mean you’re bringing in a substitute? It’s almost 1 p.m.!”

Haoran slowed, glancing subtly from the corner of his eye. The man on the phone looked agitated — tall, sharp-suited, clearly not just another junior staff member. His tone dripped with restrained anger.

Rosneft employee, Haoran thought immediately. Middle management, maybe logistics or PR. Knows more than he should.

He made a mental note of the man’s face, then turned left, scanning the corridor. Two journalists at the far end. A janitor rolling a mop bucket. Good. No one close.

He slipped quickly into the men’s restroom. It was risky, but he needed privacy — real privacy.

Inside, the space was cool and sterile, the sound of dripping water echoing faintly. Haoran exhaled, locking the door behind him. The act of lowering his mask — the literal one on his face and the metaphorical one of Kim Bora — was almost instinctual. He leaned over the sink, splashing cold water across his cheeks, watching droplets run down his pale reflection.

“I memorized every damn line of that file,” he muttered under his breath. “Spent the whole night learning about pipeline construction and export percentages… and now the CEO doesn’t even show up.” He dried his hands roughly. “It’s like all that effort’s just gone straight down the drain.”

He was reaching for a paper towel when the faint, deliberate click of footsteps echoed down the tiled hallway.

Slow. Heavy. Confident.

Haoran froze, his entire body tensing instinctively.

Those steps… deliberate. Not hesitant like most employees. Someone who knows they belong everywhere they go.

The door creaked open. A low, calm voice followed — smooth and dangerous, like silk brushing over a knife’s edge.

“Нет, я пришёл, потому что мне было скучно, но оказалось, что это место ещё хуже, чем я себе представлял. Настолько скучно, что это убивает меня,” the man said, chuckling softly. (No, I came because I was bored, but it turns out this place is even worse than I imagined. So boring that it's killing me)

Haoran’s heart skipped a beat.

That voice…

The man’s tone was the same one he’d heard two nights ago — that quiet, unhurried rhythm, every syllable dripping with authority.

“Если вы поручите мне уборку, то я думал, что того, что я сделал в прошлый раз, было достаточно.” (If you entrust me with cleaning, then I thought that what I did last time was enough.)

Haoran’s pulse spiked.

Then came the scent.

It hit him like a memory crashing through a locked door — that smell.

That distinctive, intoxicating mix of smoky wood, charred tobacco, and dark rum, with a faint trace of warmth underneath, like the embers of a dying fire.

Even without a cigar between his lips, the man carried the aroma like it belonged to him.

The scent… the same one from the alley. The same man who pinned me down like I was nothing. Calm. Merciless. Completely in control.

Haoran’s breath caught in his throat. His palms grew damp; heat crawled up his neck. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing for a full three seconds.

It’s him…

The air in the restroom felt suddenly smaller, denser. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him — wide-eyed, tense, the polished mask of Kim Bora threatening to crack.

What is he doing here? Why here, of all places?

Chapter Text

The scent of cinnamon, caramelized sugar, and melting chocolate filled the vast marble kitchen — warm, sweet, and deceptively homey against the backdrop of their cold, gothic mansion. Outside, the October wind howled faintly through the window cracks, rattling the panes like ghostly fingers drumming for entry.

"Haoran i hope you appreciate this art i just created..." Gerya murmured

He stood by the counter in a black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his pale hands dusted with flour as he carefully arranged pumpkin-shaped cookies onto a tray. The golden glow from the oven painted his sharp features in an almost angelic light — if angels ever smirked like devils.

He had just finished dusting a batch with powdered sugar shaped like spiderwebs when he heard it — the soft, deliberate click of high heels on the hardwood floor behind him.

Click... click... click...

The rhythm was slow. Too slow. Each step deliberate. Measured.

The corners of Gerya’s lips twitched upward. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was — the air itself had changed; colder now, heavier.

When he finally glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed with amusement.

There stood Haoran.

Dressed as the Silent Nurse from Silent Hill.

The costume was... disturbingly accurate — the tightly wrapped, bloodstained bandages obscured most of his face, the pale uniform clinging to his lean, athletic frame, and those heels — impossibly tall — clicked with every step like nails against wood. His head was tilted at a grotesque angle, the vertebrae in his neck audibly cracking as he shuffled forward, jerky and unsteady, mimicking the eerie gait perfectly.

“N...n...need... my... med...icine...” Haoran rasped, his voice distorted and low, each syllable stretched unnaturally, just like in the game.

Gerya froze mid-motion, then let out a low chuckle — the sound echoing softly through the room. “You are insane,” he said, his tone both impressed and entertained.

Haoran’s head tilted the other way now — a sharp, quick motion followed by another spine-popping crack. He twitched forward, dragging his heel just slightly, the movement chillingly inhuman.

“Is this... my... dosage?” he hissed, stepping closer until the distance between them was only a breath apart.

For a second, Gerya almost dropped the cookie tray. Almost.

Then Haoran broke character — laughing under his breath, that familiar, deep chuckle slipping through the gauze. With a tug, he ripped the bandages off, revealing that infuriatingly calm — and slightly smug — face beneath.

"WOW!!"

“You told me to go all out for Halloween,” he said, laughter softening his usual seriousness as he reached for one of the still-warm cookies.

Gerya blinked at him, torn between admiration and disbelief. “You did go all out,” he said, leaning back against the table, smirking. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the real thing had crawled out of the TV.”

Haoran shrugged, plopping a cookie into his mouth, crumbs dusting the corner of his lip. “So... do you like it?” he asked, voice muffled slightly as he chewed.

The question hung in the air for a moment — playful, teasing, but with that strange undercurrent that always ran between them.

Gerya’s eyes trailed over him slowly — from the blood-stained bandages hanging loosely around his shoulders down to the glossy red heels still glinting in the light. His smirk deepened.

“Like it?” Gerya said finally, voice dropping to a low purr. “I love it. But I might need... a private check-up from Nurse Yue later. Just to be sure I’m... stable.”

Haoran rolled his eyes, tossing him a glare that didn’t quite reach his lips. “You’re never stable,” he said dryly, turning away to pour himself some water.

“Exactly,” Gerya murmured under his breath, licking a smudge of icing off his thumb.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Gerya just watched him, eyes half-lidded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The flicker of the flame caught the faintest glint in his pupils—like gold melting in shadow.

“You really are something else,” he murmured. “You could walk into hell itself dressed like that and I’d still follow.”

Haoran’s lips curved faintly. “You already have.”

Gerya chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “And look where that got me.”

Haoran took another step—then another—until the distance between them was gone, until he could feel the faint warmth radiating off Gerya’s skin. His fingers brushed against Gerya’s wrist—light, uncertain for just a moment—and then steadied.

“Happy Halloween,” Haoran murmured, voice low, the faintest trace of amusement in it.

“Happy Halloween,” Gerya echoed, his tone softer than Haoran had ever heard it.

The words hung there—simple, quiet—before Gerya leaned in. The kiss that followed wasn’t heated or rushed; it was unhurried, gentle, tasting faintly of sugar and spice. Haoran’s hands found their place at Gerya’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth; Gerya’s fingers slipped into Haoran’s hair, careful not to disturb the remaining bandages still clinging loosely to his shoulders.

The world outside—the wind, the thunder, even the flickering candles—faded into silence for a moment. Just warmth and breath and the faint taste of cinnamon on their tongues.

When they finally parted, Gerya smiled against Haoran’s lips, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know, I was half expecting you to start whispering ‘medicine’ in that creepy voice again.”

Haoran smirked, eyes half-lidded. “Tempting. But I figured this was better.”

Gerya laughed softly, forehead resting against Haoran’s. “You’re right,” he said, his tone gentler now, his usual sharpness fading. “This is better.”

Outside, the wind howled again, rattling the mansion’s tall windows. But inside, the candlelight softened, the shadows stilled—and for a moment, in that dark and eerie place, there was nothing but warmth between them.

Happy Halloween 🎃 🦇👻

Chapter Text

That low, rumbling chuckle rolled through the air like smoke. Haoran’s reflection stiffened in the mirror before he even turned.

“Hmm… alright, I’ll call you later,” the man said, his tone calm, controlled — the same deep, composed cadence Haoran could never mistake. He slid his phone into his pocket, water running quietly as he approached the sink.

Haoran’s stomach twisted.

Why must this crazed killer appear right now? he thought, lowering his head slightly to avoid drawing attention. It’s like fate’s playing some kind of sick joke on me.

He dared a glance sideways.

The man’s tall frame filled the mirror’s edge — a figure that seemed to command space itself. Sharp suit, tailored perfectly, hands steady as he washed them. There was no hurry in his movements, no awareness of threat — only confidence. That kind of dangerous calm that came from knowing you were the predator, not the prey.

Haoran swallowed hard.

Considering how wealthy he is, it’s not all that surprising to find him here. Men like him float in and out of high places — hotels, conferences, private lounges. They all reek of money and secrets. But the problem is…

He straightened slightly, clutching a paper towel with deliberate casualness.

The problem is, I’m trapped in a closed space with him.

The air felt thicker, heavier — each breath scraping against his lungs like sand. He tried to focus on mundane things: the soft hum of the fluorescent light, the faint smell of disinfectant mixing with that distinct, smoky sweetness he could never forget. But the scent was intoxicating — earthy, warm, dangerous. The smell of fire restrained just before it consumes everything.

Whatever. I need to leave. Now.

He wiped his hands quickly, tossed the towel, and turned for the door. His heels clicked against the tile — one, two, three steps away from freedom — until that smooth, unhurried voice sliced through the silence.

“Ms. Kim…”

Haoran froze mid-step. His hand hovered near the door handle. His reflection stared back from the metal frame — wide eyes hidden behind glasses, the faint tremor in his lips masked by forced calm.

“I have no idea what you’re doing in the men’s washroom,” the man continued, amusement curling around his words, “but won’t you even say hello to me? I’m quite sure this isn’t our first encounter. I never knew Koreans were this rude.”

His English was flawless — rich and precise, each word carrying that faint purr of accent, as if he was savoring the taste of every syllable.

Haoran’s breath caught. His pulse spiked violently. He knows. He remembers.

Then came the last line, soft and taunting, with a glint of mockery that made Haoran’s blood run cold.

“Whatever happened to the old Korean sense of respect?”

The world tilted for a second — not physically, but mentally. The walls felt closer, his heartbeat impossibly loud. Without thinking, Haoran’s instincts took over. He turned and bolted out of the washroom, his heels clacking sharply against the marble floor.

He didn’t even know where he was running to — only that he needed distance.

By the time he stopped, his lungs were burning. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the erratic hammering of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his blouse. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, his breathing ragged.

Who the hell does he think he is… to scare the shit out of me like that? he thought, his jaw tightening. Does he enjoy this? Playing with people like they’re toys? Or is he just that kind of man — the kind that doesn’t even need to raise a finger to make you feel small?

His body still remembered the feeling from that night — the weight of the man’s arm pinning him down, the oppressive calm in his voice, the deadly stillness in his eyes. It wasn’t brute force that had terrified Haoran most — it was control. The absolute, unshakable composure of a predator who never needed to try.

A sharp buzz in his pocket startled him. His phone.

Haoran exhaled shakily, forcing a smirk. “Wow, great timing…” he muttered, pulling it out. “Who’s it now?”

The screen lit up with a new message from Chief Bo.

Incoming File: New Partner Assignment

“Wow,” Haoran said, voice dry, “of all times, the Wi-Fi decides to not actually work.” He tapped the message, and the photo began to load — slowly, pixel by pixel.

He groaned, rubbing his temple. “Seriously? Right now? I just got stalked by a walking death sentence and now I’m supposed to babysit someone new?”

But before he could even see the full image, a voice came from directly behind him — close enough for the warmth of breath to brush his ear.

“Oh my…” The man’s voice. Calm. Deep. Amused. “Is that me?”

Every hair on the back of Haoran’s neck stood on end. His fingers froze on the phone. He didn’t need to look. He didn’t dare to look. Because he already knew.

The reflection of that tall, composed figure appeared in the black mirror of his phone screen — sharp suit and that faint curl of a smile.

Haoran turned his head slowly, every muscle tense, his heartbeat a drumbeat in his ears.

There he was. The man from the alley. The killer from his nightmares. The ghost who moved like smoke and smiled like sin.

Chief Bo… have you lost your goddamn mind…?

Haoran’s thoughts raced, colliding with each other in a storm. You can’t be serious. Out of all people — out of every agent, every contact, every lowlife in Russia — you send him? The man who nearly broke my wrist, who crushed me like I was made of paper?

He felt his throat tighten. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

Of all places, all disguises, all missions… you make me work with the one man who can kill me before I even blink.

And yet — somewhere in the blur of fear and disbelief — another thought crept in, darker, quieter, one he didn’t want to acknowledge.

If he’s my partner… then at least I’ll finally know what he’s really after.

Haoran’s lips parted slightly, his voice low, trembling between shock and fury.

“Chief Bo… you absolute bastard.”

The hallway was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. Haoran stood before his suite door, staring at the metal number plate for a long moment — as though he could will it to give him strength before stepping inside.

"The stand-in for the CEO of Rosneft never showed up either," he thought, brushing his thumb across the keycard. "Because of that, I finished my task for the day earlier than planned. But the real problem begins now..."

The lock beeped, the door slid open — and Haoran froze.

There he was.

Perched casually on the edge of the table like he owned the place, a glass of amber liquor balanced loosely in his gloved hand. His posture was easy, almost lazy — yet every inch of him exuded an unsettling stillness, the kind of calm that warned of hidden claws.

“Ah, there you are,” the man said without even turning his head. That familiar, infuriatingly smooth voice rolled out lazily. “Come in, come in.”

Haoran’s jaw tensed. He’s talking like this is his room… he thought, shutting the door behind him, slow and deliberate.

He took a step forward, eyes sharp as steel. “Why did you do it?”

Gerya turned his head slightly, one brow raised, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Relax, partner… We must do some pleasantries first, innit?” he said in his thick, velvety accent, setting his drink down and standing. His height immediately cast a long shadow across the carpet. “The name’s Gerya.”

He extended his hand toward Haoran — gloved, steady, deceptively polite.

Haoran’s eyes flicked to it, unmoving.

The same hand that tore a man’s face apart… and now he wants a handshake?

He didn’t move, didn’t blink — the air between them sharp with unspoken hostility.

The silence stretched, only broken by the faint ticking of the wall clock.

Then, without warning, Gerya’s fingers caught Haoran’s chin, tilting his face up with disarming gentleness.

“Hey, princess,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “What are you thinking about? You don’t look good… you sick or something?”

Haoran’s eyes flashed. He slapped the hand away — hard. The sound cracked through the quiet room like a gunshot.

“WELL,” Haoran said, his voice sharp and cold, “I THINK I MIGHT FEEL BETTER IF I PUNCHED YOU A FEW TIMES. You almost dislocated my wrist, asshole.”

For a moment, Gerya simply looked at him — then chuckled softly, the sound deep and rich, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Well,” he said, with an easy shrug, “sorry about twisting your wrist. I was just having a bit of fun.”

Haoran’s glare darkened. “You think that was fun?”

“Depends who’s asking,” Gerya replied with a lazy smirk, pouring himself another drink. “So, what’s your name?”

“You know it,” Haoran said flatly.

“Hmm…” Gerya tilted his head, pretending to think. “Hard to pronounce, though. You got something easier? Or should I just stick with Princess?”

Haoran exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience thinning. Is this guy for real right now? he thought, suppressing the urge to throw something.

“You can pronounce Haoran,” he said coolly.

Gerya just shrugged again, that damned smirk never leaving his face. He looked him up and down — not in a lecherous way, but with an unnerving curiosity, like a cat observing a cornered bird.

Haoran felt his muscles tighten. I don’t like the way he’s staring at me… It’s like he’s trying to peel away every layer until there’s nothing left.

Without another word, Gerya moved across the room, his long coat brushing lightly against the furniture. He began mixing random bottles of alcohol together in a glass, humming softly — something in Russian, low and old-fashioned, almost melodic.

Haoran watched, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. “You said you went to the police station, right?” he asked, his tone sharp, deliberate. “How long have you been watching me?”

Gerya didn’t even look up as he poured another liquor into the glass. “From the beginning.”

The words dropped like lead.

Haoran’s eyes narrowed. From the beginning?

That meant from the airport. From the alley. From the rooftop. Every step, every breath — he’d been under surveillance this whole time.

“Why are you being so wary of me?” Gerya continued, swirling the drink. “All I did was help out a comrade in danger.”

Comrade in danger… Haoran’s jaw tightened. You call nearly breaking my wrist and leaving me cuffed to a rail “help”?

He leaned back slightly, arms folded, voice low. “Looks like you’ve been watching me since I landed at the airport. That day… were you just waiting for an opportunity to approach?”

Finally, Gerya looked at him — those sharp, icy-blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “Maybe I was,” he said softly, “maybe I wasn’t. Depends what you call an ‘opportunity,’ Agent Haoran.”

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were when you first met me?” Haoran pressed, his voice calm but dangerous.

Gerya took a sip of his strange concoction — immediately spat it back into the glass, grimacing in disgust. “Ugh. That’s terrible.” He set the drink down and wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. “Anyway, HQ told me to wait until today.”

Haoran blinked, trying to process that. “HQ told you to wait…?”

Gerya leaned back against the table, arms crossed, the faintest of smiles curling at his lips — a smile that hovered somewhere between charm and menace. His eyes, cold and sharp as glass, flicked toward Haoran with quiet amusement.

“Mm-hmm,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, voice lazy yet deliberate. “Said it would be more ‘fun’ that way. Guess they wanted me to make a grand entrance.”

He paused — then laughed, a low, dark sound that didn’t belong to someone entirely sane. “Nah, I’m just kidding,” he said, pushing himself off the table, his boots clicking against the floor. “I wouldn’t have had to take action at all that day… had you not gotten yourself into trouble.”

The smirk that followed was the kind that made Haoran’s jaw tighten.

Haoran exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. He doesn’t seem human at all, he thought, his pulse drumming steadily in his neck. So I naturally assumed we would have nothing to do with each other. And yet… he’s the partner HQ sent.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a quiet groan, the frustration settling deep in his chest. Why him? Of all people — why him?

“You sure left a nice first impression,” Haoran said finally, his voice low, words cutting through the tension like a blade. “You even offered me a show… of you ripping someone’s face off like it was a piece of paper.”

His tone was steady, but there was something bitter underneath — a trace of disbelief, disgust, maybe even a flicker of unease. He looked away as he said it, not wanting to give Gerya the satisfaction of seeing the distaste in his eyes.

Gerya chuckled softly, the sound oddly melodic. He moved closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator taking its time with prey. “Come on,” he said, the teasing lilt in his voice grating against Haoran’s patience, “stop behaving like some holy child for crying out loud.”

He leaned in slightly, eyes glinting under the half-light. “Think about it,” he continued, his tone turning quieter, more thoughtful — disturbingly philosophical. “Every person out there wants to be special. Even when it comes to death, anyone would prefer to go out with a bang.”

Haoran’s brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing — he wanted to see where this line of madness went.

“So,” Gerya went on, a smirk tugging at his mouth, “how disappointed would the guy be — the one I killed — if all he got was a short article in the papers about a simple ‘gunshot victim’?” He gave a soft, humorless laugh. “At least if I ripped his face off, they might write a few extra lines about him. Something worth remembering, you know?”

Haoran stared at him, his expression unreadable. Inside, though, his thoughts were spinning. This man is… deranged. Detached from human value — like everything is a story to him, a piece of performance art.

He drew in a slow breath through his nose and exhaled. “If you ever end up killing me,” Haoran muttered dryly, “please make it as boring as possible.”

The corner of Gerya’s mouth lifted again — that same infuriating, knowing smile. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, almost sweetly, “I won’t hurt you…”

He paused, his tone shifting, deeper now, the air thick with unspoken meaning. “…as long as you don’t hurt me.”

Haoran’s gaze sharpened. There was something in the way Gerya said it — not a threat, not exactly a promise either, but something that sat right between the two.

“Believe it or not,” Gerya continued, casually swirling the last of his drink in his glass, “I only attack in self-defense.”

Haoran didn’t respond, but his fingers twitched slightly at his side. Self-defense? he thought. That’s his excuse? That’s what he tells himself to sleep at night?

Gerya noticed the flicker of skepticism in his expression and smiled wider, stepping closer again — close enough that Haoran could smell the faint hint of smoke and vodka on him. “Now…” he said softly, tilting his head, “I should ask you — why are you pretending to be holy?”

Haoran’s eyes met his, cold and steady.

He didn’t answer right away. He wanted Gerya to feel that silence — the weight of it, the tension that crept like frost between them.

Pretending? he thought. He thinks this is an act? That holding on to your humanity makes you a liar?

“I’m not pretending,” Haoran said finally, voice low and measured. “I just don’t glorify blood.”

For a heartbeat, Gerya said nothing. Then that dangerous glint returned to his eyes.

“Oh, but you do,” he murmured. “You just hide it better than I do.”

Haoran’s pulse tightened in his throat — not out of fear, but anger. The audacity of that smirk, the confidence in those words. He’s trying to get under my skin, he realized. Trying to see what’ll make me crack.

Haoran’s phone buzzed sharply against the table — a vibration that sliced clean through the tension of Gerya’s last words. He glanced at the screen, brows furrowing. Another message from HQ. Another photo attached. He tapped it open.

A man’s face appeared — composed, expression calm, maybe even kind at first glance. The sort of man you’d pass on the street without a second thought. But something in his eyes, Haoran noticed, was still. Too still.

“Mhm…” Haoran muttered, half under his breath. “This must be Bes Vorontsov.”

He tilted the phone slightly, studying the man’s features — sharp nose, pale complexion, perfectly symmetrical face. Almost too perfect. “Doesn’t look like a psychopath,” Haoran murmured. Then, with a dry exhale, he added, “Ah, well… you can’t judge by the cover.”

Before he could continue scrolling, a pale hand reached over and snatched his wrist. Gerya, leaning closer than necessary, craned his neck to get a look at the photo. His touch was cold, deliberate — the kind that lingered a second too long.

“Nosy as ever,” Haoran said curtly, tugging his hand back, though his tone stayed even.

Gerya smirked faintly, ignoring the glare.

“I was told to be careful around this guy,” Haoran said, still looking at the screen. “You know him by any chance?”

The question hung heavy. Gerya’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly — the humor in his face dimming, if only for a breath.

“Yes,” he said finally, his voice lower, quieter. “He’s a very dangerous man. I suggest we don’t cross paths with him.”

Haoran’s eyes flicked upward at that. “I see,” he said, tone measured. “So was he involved with Logan’s death too?”

That name made Gerya blink. His smirk returned, but this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Agent Logan? You mean that American?” He gave a short chuckle. “Could’ve been the psycho’s doing. Could’ve not. Forget about him, and let’s focus on our jobs.”

Haoran studied him in silence. His thoughts turned cold, heavy. Even Gerya’s calling him a psycho… that says a lot. What kind of person makes a man like him hesitate?

“I can’t fathom the kind of person he must be if even you refer to him as a psycho,” Haoran muttered, half to himself.

Gerya laughed softly — a sound that carried mockery and amusement all at once. “Awww, you think I’m crazy?”

Haoran’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, please shut it.”

“Touchy,” Gerya teased, though his smirk faltered just slightly as he turned toward the window.

Honestly, Haoran thought grimly, I could’ve been told this guy was Bes Vorontsov himself, and I wouldn’t have questioned it. But if even Gerya considers someone else insane… then I’d best not cross paths with him. Nothing good will come out of it.

He exhaled, pushing his thoughts aside, and spoke in that low, precise tone of his. “I was told you knew all about the flow of money and power in this country.”

Gerya turned back, that mischievous grin sliding easily back into place. “Of course, princess. I can get you connected to whoever you need.”

Haoran ignored the nickname. “Then for starters,” he said, “I need a list of people who are familiar with the underground arms trade — financiers, developers, merchants. Every layer of it. I want to know them all. I need to enter their world if I’m going to find Tamara.”

The air shifted. For just a second, Gerya’s smile faltered — eyes widening ever so slightly before he masked it again. He crossed his arms slowly.

“I see…” he said, tone unreadable. He didn’t even notice the faint shimmer of energy that pulsed from him — the subtle, instinctive release of pheromones.

It hit Haoran like a wave.

“Ugh—!!” He stumbled, one knee almost giving way as his hand shot out to steady himself on the table. His body trembled involuntarily — heart hammering, lungs tightening as that heavy, intoxicating scent filled the air.

Gerya blinked in mild surprise. “Oh… oh, sorry,” he said lightly, fanning the air with his hand as if to dispel smoke. “My bad, didn’t realize I was leaking it again.”

“Y-You f—” Haoran choked, breathing uneven. “You f*cking bastard… stop releasing your pheromones…”

Gerya grinned apologetically, still fanning the air lazily. “Relax, relax — there, it’s gone now.”

Chapter Text

The oppressive weight faded, and Haoran straightened slowly, still catching his breath. His face was stern again, but his eyes burned with restrained irritation.

“What are you then?” he demanded. “An alpha or some… special type of omega?”

“Uh… nope,” Gerya replied, lips curving upward. “Neither of the above. I’m an Enigma.”

Haoran’s eyes widened slightly — genuine surprise flickering across his usually stoic face.

Enigma.

That word carried weight. A rare gender classification, so uncommon it bordered on myth. Their pheromones were said to be unstable — unpredictable. A breed that could override even an omega’s cycle or force an alpha’s instincts to bend. The “alpha of alphas.” Power embodied.

“An Enigma…” Haoran said slowly. “That’s… very rare. One in a million.”

“I know, right?” Gerya said, smiling with childlike pride. “I’m so special.” Then, his gaze sharpened again, head tilting as he studied Haoran. “I’m guessing you’re an alpha, huh?”

Haoran crossed his arms. “Yeah. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yeah, it is.” Gerya straightened his posture, stretching languidly. “Well then, let’s save the dominance test for later, shall we? I’ll get everything ready. Let’s meet tomorrow.”

He turned toward the door, already half gone when Haoran followed, keeping his expression cold. But just as he was about to shut the door, a foot blocked it.

“Oh, what now…” Haoran muttered, exasperation creeping into his voice. Can’t he just leave like a normal person?

“Fuck off already, I’m tired,” he thought bitterly.

Gerya leaned against the doorframe, smirk curling back into place. His eyes glinted with something darker, playful yet deliberate. “I’d like to rip that mask off,” he murmured, voice dipping low, “and get to know the real you as well.”

Haoran froze — not out of fear, but sheer confusion at the sudden audacity. Before he could respond, Gerya stepped back, giving a lazy little salute before walking away down the hall, his silver hair catching the dim light.

Haoran stood there for a moment, staring at the retreating figure. Then, finally, he shut the door with a quiet click.

“That guy’s got issues…” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple.

He sank into the nearest chair, gaze drifting toward the window where the city lights shimmered in the distance. His mind churned — half with strategy, half with irritation. An enigma. Of all people they could’ve paired me with… they give me a manipulative lunatic.

Haoran leaned back, arms crossed, the faintest scowl forming on his face.

Still, he thought, if he knows the underground like he says… I’ll have to keep him close. But I’ll be damned if I let him get under my skin again.

The elevator was moving down in perfect silence — the kind of silence that presses against your eardrums until it feels like a sound of its own.

The dim golden light above flickered slightly, casting restless shadows over the four men standing inside.

Gerya stood at the center, calm as ever, one hand slipped into his pocket while the other toyed lazily with a silver cigar case. His suit, dark and immaculate, caught faint glimmers of light each time the elevator trembled. One of the men beside him — broad-shouldered, shaved head, clearly nervous — fumbled with a lighter before finally offering it to him.

With the soft click of flame, Gerya brought the cigar to his lips. The ember flared bright orange for an instant, painting his face with a sinister warmth. Then came the slow exhale — smoke unfurling like pale silk ribbons into the tight air.

“Сэр, что нам теперь делать?” one of the men asked cautiously. His Russian carried a tremor of fear.

(“Sir, what do we do now?”)

There was no response. Just the sound of the elevator’s hum and the faint, rhythmic tick, tick of Gerya’s heel tapping the metal floor.

He smiled then — faintly, like someone remembering an inside joke. The kind of smile that was all charm and no warmth.

The silence stretched until it snapped under his soft, amused chuckle. He turned his gaze on the man who had spoken — eyes glinting like ice catching moonlight.

Then, with a voice as smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous, he said,

“РАЗОРВИТЕ ЕГО НА КУСКИ. ЛУЧШЕ НЕ ОСТАВЛЯЙТЕ НОР, КОТОРЫЕ МОГУТ ОБЕСПЕЧИТЬ ПОБЕГ.”

(“Tear him to pieces. Better not leave any holes that could offer escape.”)

The men froze — no one dared move. His words, though spoken softly, carried the weight of an execution order.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Gerya turned back to his cigar. He took another slow puff, the tip glowing briefly in the dimness, and let the smoke curl lazily upward before stepping forward just as the elevator chimed.

Ding.

The doors slid open, revealing a long corridor bathed in cold white light. Gerya stepped out first, his shoes clicking rhythmically on the marble — click...click...click — the sound elegant, almost musical.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. Orders from his lips were law enough.

As he walked, he began humming softly — a haunting tune that echoed faintly off the walls.

🎵 “Фигуры грациозно танцуют...”

(“Figures dancing gracefully…”)

🎵 “В моей памяти...”

(“In my memory…”)

The melody of Once Upon a December floated from him like perfume — sweet and nostalgic, yet eerie when paired with the smoke and the scent of power radiating off him.

His hum deepened as he strolled through the corridor, passing mirrors and portraits with the same careless grace of a predator at ease in its domain. He paused only once — by a window overlooking the city. He exhaled another stream of smoke, watching it fog against the glass before dispersing into the air.

“So many little mice in this city,” he murmured in English now, his tone soft, almost affectionate. “Running in circles, thinking they’re safe in their holes.” He smiled faintly. “How boring the world would be without chaos to stir them.”

Behind him, the elevator doors closed with a mechanical hiss — sealing away whatever fate awaited the unfortunate target of his command.

He adjusted his gloves, straightened his tie, and began walking again — humming the same lullaby, softer now, like a whisper carried by the wind.

🎵 “Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember…”

By the time the last note faded, the hallway was empty — except for the faint trace of smoke and the echo of his footsteps.

Haoran sat before the mirror, the pale morning light slipping through the curtains and cutting across his reflection. The face staring back wasn’t his own anymore — it was Kim Bora’s: delicate, poised, flawlessly composed. He adjusted the edge of the silicone mask carefully, ensuring the seams aligned with his jawline. A soft click from the magnetic clasp under his chin confirmed the perfect fit.

His fingers moved with military precision — no wasted motion. He smoothed out the edges, dabbed a bit of concealer where the light caught it, and tested the elasticity of his new face with a subtle frown. The mask moved naturally. Too naturally.

“Convincing enough,” he muttered quietly, his voice now tuned into the soft, polished tone of Kim Bora. It was eerie how quickly he could vanish behind another identity.

Next came the stockings — thin, almost transparent — and the heels. He hated this part. His expression remained neutral, but a flicker of irritation showed when he adjusted the strap of the left heel.

“Five to seven inches,” he thought, recalling the file. “Just enough to ruin my day.”

He took one careful step forward, then another, testing his balance. The rhythm came back faster than expected. He’d done this before — infiltration missions that demanded elegance and deception, both of which he despised but mastered nonetheless.

Then — knock, knock.

Haoran froze mid-step, gaze flicking toward the door.

“Who could that be?” he thought, eyes narrowing. “There’s still a lot of time left before housekeeping.”

He exhaled quietly through his nose, tilting his head slightly as if to listen to the silence behind the door.

“Wait… is it Gerya?” His tone in his mind was flat, but the annoyance was clear. “Wow. Didn’t take him for an early bird.”

He straightened, adjusted his wig slightly, and moved toward the door, each step calculated — smooth, silent. He gripped the handle and cracked the door open just enough to peek through.

A woman in a hotel uniform stood outside, a covered serving tray in her hands.

“Room service, ma’am. May I come in?” the lady said with a polite bow.

Haoran blinked, momentarily thrown off. “I’m sorry,” he replied smoothly in his soft, feminine voice, “but I think you’ve got the wrong room. I never ordered room service.”

The woman glanced down at the notepad in her hand, then looked up again. “An order was placed to be sent to Room 1090, ma’am.”

Haoran’s mind sharpened instantly. Room 1090. His room.

He didn’t remember authorizing any order — which only left a few possibilities. None good.

“Was it Gerya… or someone else?” he thought, his face remaining perfectly composed.

“Ma’am,” the woman continued, “it’s from the CEO of Rosneft.”

Haoran’s eyes flickered. That name sent a small chill down his spine. He masked it with a faint, polite smile.

Figures, he thought bitterly. Even if he’s my ‘comrade,’ he’s still a murderous psychopath.

He let the woman in, watching as she set the tray down. The aroma hit him instantly — rich, luxurious, expensive. There was caviar, delicately plated foie gras, even a small silver bowl of imported fruit. Everything looked extravagant, calculated to impress.

If this is from the CEO of Rosneft, he thought, it’s supposed to be a gift of apology for yesterday. After all, he didn’t show up at the luncheon he arranged… and his stand-in was a no-show as well.

He exhaled quietly through his nose, lowering his gaze to the tray. If I refuse this, they’ll hear about it — and I’ll just draw more suspicion. There’s no reason to be rude and attract unwanted attention like an idiot.

Still, something felt off. The precision of the plating. The way the lid of the dish was slightly ajar.

But getting an extravagant gift during my mission feels… random. Too random.

Haoran reached out carefully, using the tip of a knife to lift the edge of the tray’s cover. Beneath it was an envelope — matte black, sealed with gold wax.

He broke the seal.

Inside, a single card.

One word.

“BOOM :)”

For a split second, Haoran’s brain refused to process it — then instinct kicked in. His stomach dropped.

“Shit—!” he hissed, voice dropping into his natural tone as he bolted for the door.

The explosion hit before he could even reach the handle.

BOOM!

The force launched him across the room like a ragdoll. His shoulder slammed into the far wall, ribs cracking on impact. The air left his lungs in a sharp, wet gasp as he hit the floor, spitting blood.

The blast had torn the curtains, shattering the windows and scattering debris everywhere. Flames licked the edges of the furniture, and the smell of gunpowder and burning carpet filled the air.

Haoran groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow. His body screamed in protest.

He could barely hear — his ears were ringing, a high-pitched hum swallowing everything else. Through the haze, he registered the chaos outside. Alarms blaring. Screams. The smell of smoke.

He staggered toward the door, blood dripping down the side of his face. He needed to move.

Then—

BOOM!

Another explosion ripped through the floor beneath him, shaking the walls. The lights flickered and died.

Haoran barely managed to brace himself against the doorframe as plaster rained from the ceiling.

Screams echoed down the hallway. Somewhere above, another explosion — BOOM! — then another, and another. Different floors. Controlled, deliberate.

They’re not just after me, he thought, teeth gritted. This is a coordinated hit. Someone’s cleaning house.

He stumbled into the hall, one hand clutching his side. Smoke filled the air, red emergency lights flashing intermittently. He could hear people shouting — staff, guests — panic flooding every corner.

His mind, however, stayed razor-sharp despite the pain. There’s no time to think. The elevators will be targets. The stairwell—

A deafening crack behind him — another blast. The air pressure nearly knocked him off balance again.

He didn’t look back.

He ran.

The heat of the flames chased him down the corridor, the roar of the collapsing ceiling mixing with the chaos of terrified voices.

Whoever planned this knew my room. Knew my alias. Knew when I’d be alone.

Every instinct screamed the same truth — someone inside Rosneft wanted Kim Bora dead.

And as he tore down the emergency stairs two steps at a time, the last thing that crossed his mind wasn’t fear — it was fury.

I’m going to find out who did this… and I’ll make sure they regret letting me live.

The morning sky was choked with smoke — thick, gray, and curling upward like a shroud over the city. What had once been a luxury hotel now looked like the ruins of a warzone. The air stung with heat and the acrid bite of burning plastic. Sirens wailed from every direction — ambulances, fire trucks, police cruisers — an orchestra of chaos cutting through the rising sun.

Haoran stumbled out of the haze, his once-immaculate disguise now reduced to ruin. The wig was half-singed, the fine suit torn and covered in ash. One heel was gone; the other clacked unevenly against the concrete as he limped forward, his arm clutched protectively around his ribs.

He inhaled sharply — the air burned in his lungs.

“...oww, my ribs hurt,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his tone caught somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief. “For a second there, I thought I was going to heaven.”

Blood streaked the corner of his lips. He wiped it away quickly before anyone could notice, trying to steady his breath.

“Please, ma’am,” a voice called. A firefighter in soot-stained gear jogged toward him, holding a medical kit. “You’re unable to feel pain right now because you’re in shock. You’ll regret it when your senses return later.”

Haoran didn’t even bother looking at him. His patience was already frayed thin.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said curtly, voice hoarse. “Mind your damn business.”

The firefighter frowned. “I’d like to, ma’am, but I need to follow protocol.”

Haoran’s expression darkened. “As you can see, I’m not bleeding anywhere, so stop worrying me.”

He winced as he shifted his weight. The man was right — his body felt strangely numb, too calm for the extent of his injuries. Adrenaline was still flooding his system.

But then another, more pressing problem struck him — the mask.

He could feel the heat had weakened the adhesive. It was peeling, ever so slightly, near the jawline. Panic crawled up his spine.

“Damn it,” he thought, rubbing the back of his neck subtly. “Not now. If this comes off in front of everyone, I’m dead.”

“Well, that’ll be for the doctor to judge,” the firefighter said, gesturing to his team.

Before Haoran could react, two of them grabbed his arms from either side.

“Wait—hey! I said I’m fine!”

“Yeah, yeah,” one of them said, grinning faintly. “Tell the doctor that.”

Haoran tensed. He could’ve thrown them off easily — in another place, at another time. But here, surrounded by police, medics, and a hundred cameras, he couldn’t risk a scene. He bit back his instinct to fight.

Fuck… I can’t even knock these guys out with this many people watching. But at this rate, they’ll find out I’m not the real Kim Bora.

His gaze flicked around, scanning faces, exits, potential cover points. He was already calculating his next move when—

He saw him.

Just for a second.

Across the smoke and the chaos, a tall figure stood near the perimeter — black coat, brown hair gleaming faintly in the dim light. The man’s eyes, sharp and cold as frost, met Haoran’s for a fleeting instant.

Then he was gone.

Haoran froze.

“...What was that?” he thought, his chest tightening. “He looked familiar.”

And then it hit him.

The photo from HQ — the one he’d studied countless times. The dossier labeled “VORONTSOV, BES.”

His pulse quickened. “It’s him… Bes Vorontsov.”

The man Russia called its biggest psycho.

The one name HQ had underlined with a single note: “Do not engage under any circumstances.”

A sick realization washed over him.

“They say the culprit always returns to the crime scene,” he thought grimly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one behind this entire act of terrorism. But why here? Why now?”

He took a shaky step back, still gripping his ribs. His breathing was uneven now, part pain, part fury.

“Shit. I lost all my weapons in the fire.” He brushed a trembling hand down his neck, feeling the silicone give way slightly. The edge of Kim Bora’s jawline threatened to slip.

“Think, Haoran. Think fast.”

He glanced toward the waiting ambulance. The paramedics were getting ready to lift him in.

“I’ll look for the right time to escape… on the way to the hospital,” he thought.

They opened the doors.

Now or never.

He clenched his jaw, twisted his body, and shoved both firemen aside in one clean movement. They stumbled, caught off guard. Before they could recover, Haoran sprinted — barefoot on one foot, the other still in a heel — heading in the direction where he’d last seen Bes.

“Why is he after me?” Haoran thought, weaving through the smoke and sirens. “Out of all places, why here?”

He dodged a paramedic and leapt over a hose line, ignoring the shouting behind him.

“As long as I haven’t been found out,” he reasoned, “he should still think I’m Kim Bora… or maybe he’s unsatisfied with the contract between Russia and Korea.”

Then—

SCREEEEEECH!

A black car screeched to a halt right in front of him.

“Shit—when did they get here?” Haoran thought, instinctively pivoting to the side.

The car doors burst open — armed men jumped out, guns drawn. The first shot cracked the air like thunder. Haoran ducked, sprinting behind a burned-out taxi.

The next bullet whizzed past his ear. Too close.

He gritted his teeth, grabbed the only thing he had — his remaining high heel — and hurled it with perfect aim. It struck one of the gunmen square in the forehead, buying him a second’s advantage.

He took off again, lungs burning. The sound of gunfire echoed behind him. Civilians screamed.

“What country is this even?” he thought angrily, darting into a side street. “Shootings in broad daylight?”

But before he could get far, another vehicle cut him off — a matte-black sedan sliding into his path.

The driver’s door swung open. Haoran threw his arm out to slam it shut again, pinning the man inside for just a heartbeat.

Then — the roar of a motorcycle.

He barely saw it coming. Reflexes kicked in — he bent backward in one fluid motion, the bike grazing inches above him. His body arched low, the world slowing to a crawl around him.

He hit the ground, rolling to his feet. But he’d forgotten about the car.

The driver kicked the door open hard, catching Haoran off balance.

“Stop making a fuss,” the man snarled, grabbing Haoran by the collar. “And get into the damn car.”

Before Haoran could react, the man drove his fist into his stomach — a precise, brutal hit.

“Ugh—!” Haoran gasped, the world spinning as pain exploded through his core. His knees buckled.

The last thing he registered before darkness claimed him was the faint thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades cutting through the smoky sky — heavy, deliberate, closing in.

And then everything went black.

Chapter Text

The world came back to Haoran in pieces—pain first, then sound, then breath.

A searing ache ran through every nerve as if his body were trying to remind him he was still alive. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, and his ribs screamed each time he inhaled.

“W-what’s… going to happen to me now?” he thought bitterly, the question trembling inside his skull. “Am I going to get all my fingers chopped off and be drowned in a river… like Agent Logan?”

His eyelids fluttered. The world was a blur of motion and muted noise — the hum of an engine, the rattle of metal, a faint vibration under his head. He was panting, chest heaving shallowly, trying to orient himself.

“Ugh…” he groaned, blinking until the shapes came into focus. The smell of gunpowder and engine oil hit him next. He realized he was in a car — backseat, wrists loosely bound, still in his torn disguise. The leather beneath him was sticky with blood — not his.

“I’m… slightly away from meeting my maker,” he thought grimly. “But where the fuck is Gerya?”

His head throbbed. The voices of men came from the front seat — low, rough, Russian.

“It’s him,” the driver said suddenly, as if in recognition.

Haoran’s senses sharpened immediately.

Him? Who the hell—

“Open the window,” another voice ordered.

A sharp whir filled the air as the tinted glass rolled down, letting in a blast of cold wind — and Haoran’s blood froze at what he saw outside.

The sky was trembling with the blades of a helicopter — the same sleek black one from earlier. It hovered just above the treeline, the sun glaring behind it like a burning halo. Inside, unmistakable in his pristine white fur coat, sat Gerya.

“...You’ve got to be kidding me,” Haoran thought, horror clawing up his spine.

Bes Vorontsov was in the passenger seat beside him, calm as a man waiting for tea. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips as he lifted a shoulder-mounted missile launcher, his pale fingers wrapping around the trigger.

The missile’s metallic tip glinted against the morning light, locked precisely onto the helicopter above.

Haoran’s eyes widened. “No…” he whispered — and then louder — “NO!”

He lunged sideways, grabbing at the launcher, but the missile had already fired. The shockwave deafened him for a second. He braced for the explosion — the helicopter’s fiery death —

But fate flicked the path just a hair. The missile veered off, smashing into a nearby high-rise. The building burst open in a roar of dust and flame, glass raining down like glittering knives.

The moment’s reprieve didn’t last.

In the helicopter, Gerya’s grin widened — a sharp, delighted curve. He leaned forward, his white coat flaring like angelic wings, and grabbed the mounted M134 Minigun. The weapon spun up with a low, beastly growl.

Then came the sound —

Ratatatatatatatatatatatatata—!

The air tore apart.

Haoran’s instincts kicked in. He ducked low, shoving Bes aside just as bullets shredded through the windshield. The driver didn’t even have time to scream — a spray of crimson painted the dashboard before the car swerved violently off the road.

Haoran’s hand slammed into the door as the world spun.

Then — SPLASH.

The car plunged nose-first into the lake. Icy water rushed in instantly, swallowing the interior whole. The shock of cold made Haoran’s body jolt back to full awareness.

He opened his eyes underwater — the world a murky blur of blood and bubbles. Gerya’s bullets still sliced through the surface above, streaks of silver light tearing through the water like underwater lightning.

“That asshole,” Haoran thought furiously, his lungs screaming for air. “Has he forgotten his partner’s still in the damn car?”

He fumbled at the seatbelt, unbuckling it with a sharp jerk, then kicked the door — once, twice — until it cracked open with a rush of air bubbles. He pushed through the opening, swimming upward, but his chest felt heavy, his arms burning with fatigue.

Almost there. Just a little more.

Then — a hand.

Cold, iron-strong fingers clamped around his leg.

Haoran looked down — Bes Vorontsov. Still alive. Still smirking even as his pale hair floated around him like seaweed.

“Fuck—let go of my leg!” Haoran thought, kicking frantically. Bes didn’t budge. His grip tightened, pulling Haoran back into the abyss.

Panic flared in his chest. “LET GO OF MY LEG!”

He twisted sharply and kicked again, this time catching Bes square in the face — but the man didn’t release. Not until a stray bullet from above tore through the water, hitting Bes’s hand and painting the water crimson.

Haoran didn’t hesitate. He tore free and swam with every ounce of strength left in him. His lungs felt like they would explode. The surface shimmered above him — light, air, life.

He broke through with a desperate gasp.

“PUAAHHH!”

Air. Finally, air. He coughed, choked, spat out lake water, every breath a knife in his ribs.

“Shit… I’m all out of energy from that struggle,” he thought weakly. “I don’t know if I can even make it back to land…”

The world blurred again — the water’s chill numbing his limbs — when suddenly a hand grabbed his wrist and yanked him out.

He landed hard on the muddy bank, coughing violently, his chest heaving. When he looked up—

There he was.

Gerya.

The morning light hit him from behind, haloing his tall figure in pale gold. The enormous white fur coat draped around his shoulders caught the breeze, giving him the eerie majesty of a fallen angel — beautiful, cold, and lethal.

He was smiling down at Haoran, that same sly, infuriating smile — too calm for the chaos still echoing behind them.

“Wow,” Gerya said, his voice low and almost amused. “You actually managed to survive.”

Haoran coughed again, blood and water staining his lips. He glared up at him, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.

“Wouldn’t have been as hard,” he rasped, forcing himself to sit up, “had you not tried to kill me!”

Gerya’s smirk deepened. He crouched down so their faces were level, his tone suddenly soft, almost playful. “Now, now, don’t be dramatic, sweetheart. I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was trying to kill him. You were just… in the way.”

Haoran clenched his jaw. “That distinction doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Didn’t think it would,” Gerya replied, brushing a lock of damp hair from Haoran’s forehead with the back of his glove. “But you’re alive — which means you’re tougher than you look. And I do so love surprises.”

Haoran swatted his hand away, eyes narrowing. “You’re insane.”

Gerya chuckled softly. “Maybe. But I’m your insane partner, remember?” His voice dipped, laced with mocking warmth. “You’ll thank me later.”

Haoran looked away, jaw tight. “This man’s a walking disaster. Charming, dangerous, and completely unpredictable… but for now, I need him alive. I can’t afford to lose my lead.”

Meanwhile, Gerya straightened to his full height, pulling the fur coat tighter around him. His expression changed — the smirk still there, but colder now, thoughtful. He looked down at Haoran like one might admire a rare animal that had escaped its cage.

“So… what happened to Bes?” Gerya asked casually, his tone light but with a strange, almost musical cruelty behind it. He was staring at the water as if expecting a body to float up any moment.

Haoran exhaled sharply, his voice steady though his ribs screamed in pain. “I dunno. He got shot, and I kicked his face ‘cause he wouldn’t let go of my leg.” He winced at the memory, brushing his wet hair back.

Gerya hummed softly. “Im impressed. And where are your shoes?” he asked, turning his gaze to Haoran’s bare, bruised feet.

“Don’t ask me...” Haoran muttered, exhaustion and irritation blending in his voice. He was trying to maintain composure, but every muscle in his body screamed for rest.

Gerya’s eyes, however, were fixed elsewhere—on Haoran’s face.

"The fuck are you looking at?"

“That really looks disgusting, you know,” Gerya murmured with a smirk, tilting his head as he gestured at Haoran’s cheek.

Haoran frowned, confused at first, until his fingers brushed the edge of the prosthetic mask half peeling off. His heart sank. “Shit…” he muttered under his breath.

“Why don’t you just rip it off?” Gerya asked smoothly, almost teasingly, his tone hovering between curiosity and mockery.

Haoran stared at him for a long second, silent. His instincts screamed at him—this man wasn’t just curious, he was the kind of predator who liked to toy with his food before devouring it.

He turned his back, muttering under his breath, “Tch tch tch… It’s clear what he wants here. He must be curious about what it feels like to skin someone. How repulsive.”

The wind howled, sweeping his wet hair across his face.

“Shit, it’s freezing,” Haoran muttered, crossing his arms before glancing back—Gerya was still following him.

“Can you stop following me? It’s creepy,” Haoran said coldly.

Gerya smiled faintly, shrugging like a cat caught doing nothing wrong. “Not following. You just happen to be walking the same path as me.”

Haoran gave him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Sure.”

He raised his hand as a taxi approached. “Taxi!” he shouted—but the car drove past without stopping.

Gerya chuckled, an elegant, low sound that grated on Haoran’s nerves. “Pft… Probably because of your peeling face,” he said, smirking. “Why so stubborn? Just peel it off.”

“It’s not that I’m stubborn,” Haoran muttered, trying to keep calm. “It’s—”

Before he could finish, a hand suddenly reached toward his face. Haoran reacted instantly, slapping it away and stepping back, his eyes flaring with anger.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Haven’t you heard of personal space, you asshole?” Haoran barked, his voice sharp and commanding.

Gerya only leaned in closer, lowering his head to meet Haoran’s gaze. The space between them tightened, electric with tension. His expression was unreadable, his tone almost childlike in its curiosity. “Why so resistant?”

“Why are you so persistent, dumbass?” Haoran shot back, his jaw tight.

“Tsk, tsk…” Gerya clucked his tongue softly, that unnervingly calm smirk never leaving his lips. Then, with one fluid motion, his hand shot out again—faster this time—and before Haoran could react, the cold air brushed against his real skin.

“HEY—WAIT!” Haoran hissed, but it was too late. The mask came off, fluttering in Gerya’s hand like some symbolic unveiling.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. Gerya’s eyes widened faintly—not in shock, but in fascination. He studied Haoran’s real face like an artist studying a rare piece of art, the faint smirk curling back into his lips.

Haoran’s thoughts spiraled. What is he staring at? He should’ve already seen my real face from the HQ files… so why this reaction?

Gerya tilted his head, the fur collar brushing his jawline. “So which part of you is Chinese?” he asked, his tone mocking yet oddly curious. “Because your skin is… tanned. Like—tan.”

Haoran’s brow twitched. “Ever heard of mixed race, you idiot?” he said flatly, his voice dripping with irritation. “My dad’s Black. What do you expect?”

Gerya chuckled quietly, his eyes glinting with interest. “Ah… exotic. That explains the eyes. Sharp. Dangerous. You don’t look like someone who breaks easily.”

Haoran turned away, ignoring the probing tone. But Gerya’s words slithered around him like smoke, deliberate and slow.

“You know,” Gerya murmured, stepping closer, “it’s amusing, really. You pretend to be this cold, unshakable man. But your eyes—they give you away. You’re calculating. Controlled. Yet underneath…” He smiled, his breath a whisper of winter air against Haoran’s ear. “…you’re terrified of losing that control, aren’t you?”

Haoran didn’t move. His jaw tightened, but his voice was even, unflinching. “You talk too much.”

Gerya laughed softly, stepping back with that same infuriating poise. “Maybe. Or maybe I just enjoy watching people flinch when I press the right nerves.”

Haoran glared at him, his mind cold and sharp like a blade. This man is dangerous. Every word is a test. Every smirk is a calculation. I can’t give him what he wants—any weakness, any emotion—and he’ll use it like a knife.

“Anyway,” Gerya said lazily, handing the card to Haoran with the kind of indifference that only came from someone who knew exactly how much control he held.

Haoran blinked, staring down at the card in confusion. “…What’s this?”

“My card. What does it look like? A love letter?” Gerya replied smoothly, his voice calm, almost amused. His gaze dropped, scanning Haoran from head to toe. “You should look for something proper to wear. You look like a total mess.”

His tone wasn’t concerned—it was assessing. Judging. Calculating.

Haoran could feel that gaze tracing over him, not with desire, but with scrutiny—the same way one might inspect a weapon to see if it was still sharp enough to use.

“Great. Now he’s evaluating me,” Haoran thought bitterly, his jaw clenching as Gerya’s eyes swept up and down again. “Like I’m some stray dog he picked up off the street.”

“For now,” Gerya continued, slipping his gloves back on, “stay low. More people might try to hunt you down.”

Haoran narrowed his eyes. “Stay low? What’s that supposed to mean? You want me to dig myself a little burrow?” he thought, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying it aloud. “Is that supposed to be some kind of Russian proverb, or just his way of saying, ‘crawl somewhere and disappear’?”

He watched as Gerya adjusted his coat collar, utterly unfazed by Haoran’s glare. Then—buzz.

The sharp sound of Gerya’s phone cut through the quiet. He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and smiled faintly—a small, knowing smirk that never reached his eyes.

“Mmh, yes. What is it?” he said softly in Russian, his voice dropping into that smooth, commanding tone that could make even a threat sound elegant.

“Alright. I’ll be there,” he said after a pause, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

Then, without another word, he began walking away.

Haoran’s brow furrowed. “Wait—just like that?” he muttered, half to himself. He followed, his boots squelching on the wet pavement. “At least he could tell me what the hell is going on. Aren’t we supposed to be partners? Or is that just another one of his games?”

But Gerya didn’t slow down. Didn’t even glance back. His stride was smooth, deliberate, confident—like he already knew Haoran would follow without needing to ask.

A yellow taxi pulled up beside the street. Gerya opened the door, one hand on the roof as he turned back briefly—his eyes glinting like polished ice.

“Try not to get yourself killed before I call again,” he said with a faint smile that could’ve been mockery or concern—or both.

Before Haoran could reply, the door shut, and the car began to roll forward.

“Wait—huh? Where are you even going?” Haoran said, taking a step forward.

No answer. The taxi merged into the traffic, disappearing among the blur of vehicles.

Haoran’s hands clenched into fists. “HEY! YOU FUCKI—” He stopped mid-yell, the words turning into a frustrated groan. “Ughh!”

The sound of the waves crashing against the pier filled the silence again. Haoran stood there, dripping, shivering, staring at the street where Gerya had vanished. His breath came out sharp and shaky, partly from the cold, partly from irritation.

“At least tell me where I am…” he muttered under his breath. “Unbelievable. He’s probably halfway across the city already, sipping vodka and smiling about how clever he is.”

Chapter Text

Haoran Yue Darius (浩然·岳·達流斯)

Age: 26
Date of Birth: March 9, 1999
Height: 179 cm (5’10”)
Ethnicity: Half Chinese (maternal) / Half Nigerian (paternal)
Nationality: Chinese-Nigerian
Languages: Mandarin, English, Russian (functional fluency), Yoruba (basic understanding)
Allergies: None

Physical Traits:

Hazel eyes that shift shade under light — sometimes amber, sometimes greenish.

Tanned golden-brown skin tone.

Long black afro hair, usually styled in cornrows or twists, depending on his mood or mission needs.

Several piercings — small, discreet ones hidden under clothing (ears, nipples,navel, tongue, dick and lower abdomen-back).

Braces on his teeth — something he never got removed due to being on constant assignments.

Lean, defined build with toned arms; carries himself with quiet discipline.

No tattoos.

Personality:
Serious, methodical, and instinctively cautious. Haoran rarely speaks unless he has to, and when he does, his words carry weight — calm but sharp. He gives the impression of being perpetually on alert, the kind of man who notices exits before people. His humor, when it shows, is dry and often unintentionally cutting. Can't cook.

Behind the composure, Haoran struggles with deep-seated trust issues and an underlying loneliness — products of being caught between cultures, expectations, and secrets. Despite the emotional distance he maintains, he has a powerful sense of duty and moral conviction. He also can play the electric guitar.

Habits and Quirks:

Braids or redoes his hair when anxious or thinking.

Often mutters thoughts under his breath in Mandarin.

Cleans and organizes his surroundings almost compulsively.

Doesn’t like people touching his head — or his hair — without permission.

Still calls his mother weekly, no matter where he is in the world.

Notable Details:

Fights with sharp precision; prefers close-range combat over firearms.

Keeps a worn silver locket tucked inside his shirt — his younger brother Jianjun’s photo inside.

German Aleksandrovich Vorontsov (Герман Александрович Воронцов)

Age: 24
Date of Birth: November 8, 2001
Height: 214 cm (7’0”)
Ethnicity: Russian
Nationality: Russian
Languages: Russian, English, German, Mandarin(would later learn because of Haoran), Arabic, French, and several dialects (polyglot)
Allergies: Honey and nickel
Physical Traits:

Pale, almost translucent skin, often compared to porcelain.

Icy blue eyes — sharp, cold, and unnervingly observant.

Blonde hair, slightly long and tousled, sometimes slicked back depending on mood.

Extremely tall and athletic, with the kind of effortless physical dominance that makes people uneasy.

No scars — his skin is unnaturally unblemished, which adds to his eerie composure.

Tattoos: spine, chest, lower abdomen.

Personality:
German is the definition of an enigma. A mind that thrives on manipulation, subtlety, and control. He’s charming when he wants to be, cruel when he needs to be, and unpredictable at every turn. People often mistake his smirks for arrogance, but behind them lies a calculating intelligence that sees several moves ahead.

He enjoys studying people — their weaknesses, reactions, and tells — as though dissecting a puzzle. There’s a strange elegance in everything he does, even when it’s violent. To him, chaos is just another pattern waiting to be understood.

He calls Haoran “котёнок” or "Kisa" (kotenok – kitten), partly to tease him and partly because he finds Haoran’s fiery resistance amusing — a small flame against his own icy composure.

Habits and Quirks:

Constantly switches languages mid-sentence just to throw people off.

Has a habit of brushing invisible dust off his sleeves — a tell when he’s irritated.

Keeps his gloves spotless; hates being dirty or sticky.

Dislikes sweet foods, especially anything honey-based.

Plays the violin and piano flawlessly. Has a very beautiful singing voice.

Notable Details:

Background almost entirely classified — even within his own organization.

Known among underworld circles as “The White Serpent or bes” for his cold efficiency and hypnotic composure.

Shows no emotional response under stress — his calm is legendary, almost inhuman.

Rumors suggest he was a linguistic prodigy recruited into intelligence before turning 16.

Chapter Text

The shabby hotel was a ghost of better years — creaking floorboards, walls the color of damp paper, and an air so stale it felt like it hadn’t been breathed in decades. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered every few seconds, humming softly like it was too tired to stay alive.

Haoran stepped out of the small, foggy bathroom, a threadbare towel wrapped loosely around his waist. The mirror behind him was cracked, distorting his reflection into fractured pieces. He ran a hand through his damp hair, sighing.

“Damn,” he muttered, his breath fogging slightly in the cold. “And they said this was the most expensive room? There isn’t even hot water…”

He glanced around — the wallpaper was peeling, cobwebs hung like lace from the corners, and the bed looked like it had survived a war. “Wow. A lot of webs,” he thought grimly. “As long as there’s a bed, I guess it’s cool.”

But the moment he lay down, the old mattress released a puff of dust into the air. Haoran coughed violently, sitting up with his eyes watering. “Ugh—! When was the last time this place was cleaned?” he groaned, waving his hand to fan away the dust before finally collapsing again.

His body felt heavy — bruised, sore, exhausted beyond measure. His muscles ached from the explosion, the chase, the cold. He stared at the ceiling, the cracks forming faint patterns like constellations.

Haaah… I should catch up on some sleep. I don’t even have the energy left to lift a finger, he thought, closing his eyes slowly. His breathing began to steady.

But his mind refused to quiet down.

Come to think of it… I haven’t spoken to Mom or Jianjun since I got here.

He frowned faintly. All my stuff was destroyed in that explosion. I can’t let her think she’s lost another child…

Haoran turned on his side, staring at the wall. I know how my mom is. If she doesn’t hear from me soon, she’ll call the embassy herself.

He exhaled, long and tired, then opened his eyes again. He sat up, wrapping the towel more securely around his waist.

At the reception desk, an old man was slumped over, snoring softly behind a dusty glass counter. The only sound was the ticking of a crooked wall clock.

Haoran walked up quietly and knocked on the table. “I would like to make an international call,” he said, voice calm but firm.

The old man blinked awake, squinting. “You get money?” he asked in broken English, his accent thick.

“Yes,” Haoran replied, pulling out the sleek black credit card Gerya had given him. He pushed it across the counter. The old man’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of it — the kind of card that screamed power and wealth. Without another word, he nodded and handed Haoran the dusty phone.

The ringing on the line was long — one, two, three beats — then, finally,

“喂？你好?” (“Hello?”)

Haoran’s breath caught for a moment. Then, softly, “你好，媽媽，我是浩然…”

(“Hello, Mom. It’s Haoran…”)

“浩然……哦天哪浩然你去哪裡了？你還好嗎？一切都好嗎？”

(“Haoran… oh my God, Haoran, where have you been? Are you alright? Is everything okay?”)

Her voice trembled with panic and relief. Haoran’s chest tightened. For a second, he forgot how to breathe.

As if I knew, he thought bitterly, his gaze lowering to the dusty floor.

He forced a small smile and replied gently, “我很好，我很好……我只是丟了手機，所以我之前沒能打電話。”

(“I’m fine, I’m fine… I just lost my phone, that’s why I couldn’t call before.”)

“Oh, we thank the heavens you’re fine… but—親愛的，你怎麼會丟手機呢？”

(“Dear, how could you lose your phone?”)

Haoran chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “說來話長啊，媽媽。建軍怎麼樣了？”

(“It’s a long story, Mom. How’s Jianjun?”)

“建軍還好，今天還開學了……他就走了。”

(“Jianjun’s fine, he started school today… he just left.”)

Haoran smiled faintly. “哦，那太好了……我很高興大家都很好……我很高興你們倆都很好。”

(“Oh, that’s great… I’m glad everyone’s fine. I’m really glad you’re both doing well.”)

His mother’s voice softened. “我希望你也能照顧好自己…不要錯過飯菜。”

(“I hope you’re taking care of yourself too… don’t skip your meals.”)

Haoran let out a quiet laugh, the first genuine one in days. “我不是……我得走了，我稍後會給你打電話。愛你。”

(“I’m not… I have to go now. I’ll call you later. Love you.”)

He hung up slowly, his hand lingering on the receiver. For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at nothing. The line’s empty hum echoed faintly in his mind — a reminder of everything he was fighting to protect.

Then—

Growl.

Haoran blinked and glanced down at his stomach. “Right… food,” he muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me,” he said to the old man behind the counter, “do you know where I can get good food around here?”

The man blinked sleepily, scratching his head. “There is one… three blocks down…” he mumbled.

Haoran nodded. “Thanks.”

But before he could turn to leave, the towel around his waist suddenly loosened—

—and slipped to the floor.

For a split second, silence. The old man’s eyes widened in horror.

Haoran froze, blinking down. Then his face twitched. “…Seriously?”

The old man quickly turned away, waving his hands. “You! You wear clothes!”

Haoran groaned, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, yeah. I guess I’ll need clothes too,” he muttered under his breath, pulling the towel back up.

He exhaled deeply, half in exhaustion, half in disbelief. “From facing explosions, guns, and psychos… to arguing with old men in hotels. What the hell is my life even?”

The restaurant was dimly lit and smelled faintly of cabbage, old grease, and despair — not exactly the kind of place anyone would voluntarily eat in. The wallpaper peeled at the edges, the floor was sticky in some spots, and the flickering overhead light buzzed like a trapped insect. Haoran sat at a creaky table in the corner, his posture tense and his expression serious, as if he were about to interrogate the food rather than eat it.

He stared at the chipped bowl in front of him — a dull red soup that looked like it had been sitting there since the Soviet era. The borscht’s oily surface reflected the pale yellow light above. Next to it, a plate of dumplings steamed faintly, though the scent was less appetizing and more… suspicious.

“Can’t believe that old man recommended this place to me…” Haoran thought, his brows knitting together. He picked up the spoon with reluctant resolve. “The least he could’ve done was mention that the food looked like a war crime.”

He scooped up some of the borscht and took a cautious sip. His expression twisted immediately — a mix of shock and disgust. “Eeh!! What is this?!” he thought, fighting the urge to spit it out. The taste was sour and earthy, with a strange metallic aftertaste. But his stomach growled audibly, reminding him that disgust wasn’t going to fill him up. With a grimace, he forced himself to take another spoonful.

“The things I do to survive…” he muttered under his breath.

As he ate, his mind drifted — the exhaustion and stress of the past few days pressing down on him like a physical weight.

"I’ve definitely been on a bad luck streak since coming to Russia," he thought, setting down his spoon with a sigh. "There’s no other way to explain how complicated things have become. First, I got assigned a mission I wasn’t even supposed to take… then I get kidnapped on day one. As if losing all my equipment in that damn explosion wasn’t enough."

He leaned back slightly, rubbing his temples. The faint chatter of the restaurant seemed far away.

"And that guy — Gerya. The so-called ‘partner’ I didn’t ask for. He’s more trouble than help. The kind of man who smiles when you’re bleeding, who probably enjoys watching you squirm. I’d be lucky to not end up dead at his hands before this mission is even over."

Haoran exhaled sharply, forcing the bitterness out of his lungs. "No point complaining. I need to move forward. Report to HQ, update them that I’m still alive, and maybe get some backup before things get worse. But…" He frowned. "How the hell am I supposed to contact them? My comm device is gone, my network ID burned. And this is a top-secret mission. I can’t exactly walk into a random place and ask to use their phone. I’d blow my cover in seconds."

He stared at the empty bowl in front of him. "Then there’s Gerya… Is he really my only option now? That manipulative bastard. I don’t even have his contact info. He just handed me his damn card and vanished like smoke."

Haoran sighed and stood, brushing crumbs off his coat. “I’ll like to pay my bill,” he said, his tone flat but polite.

The woman behind the counter didn’t even look up from her phone. She was chewing her gum with exaggerated slowness, the popping sound echoing through the quiet restaurant.

“Three thousand five hundred rubles,” she said in a thick accent, snapping her gum again.

Haoran blinked, baffled. “Three thousand five hundred? For this slop? Even the rats wouldn’t eat this without a complaint.” But he was too tired to argue. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Gerya’s sleek black card, sliding it across the counter.

“The card,” he said simply.

The woman raised a brow but said nothing. She swiped it through the machine. The moment she did, her expression changed — eyes narrowing, her gum chewing slowing. She glanced at Haoran, then over his shoulder. Without a word, she walked over to a nearby table where two uniformed policemen were eating. She leaned in, speaking in hurried Russian, pointing in Haoran’s direction.

Haoran stiffened. His instincts screamed danger. “Are they talking about me?” he thought, his hand subtly moving toward his side, where his weapon would’ve been — if he still had it.

Within seconds, the two officers approached him. One of them — tall, stocky, with a sharp mustache — grabbed Haoran’s arm.

“Sir, please come with us,” he said in accented English.

“Uh… at least tell me what I did?” Haoran replied calmly, though his pulse had quickened.

One of them flashed the card reader. “The card you just tried to use has been reported stolen,” he said coldly.

Haoran’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible. I used it earlier — to buy clothes, to make a call—”

“Move it,” the second officer barked, shoving Haoran by the head.

That was the wrong move.

Haoran’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with restrained fury. “Don’t touch my head,” he said sharply.

The officer sneered. “What? The pretty half-breed doesn’t like being touched?” he said mockingly, his tone dripping with disdain. “Tell your black father to teach you some manners before you start acting like a big man in our country.”

Everything inside Haoran went still — cold and sharp like glass.

The next second, he moved. His elbow shot backward into the man’s gut, knocking the air out of him. Before the other officer could react, Haoran’s fist connected with his jaw — clean, controlled, precise. Both men stumbled back, stunned.

Haoran’s breathing was steady, his stance defensive but measured. “I’m not going to prison in someone else’s damn country,” he muttered.

The door suddenly opened, letting in a rush of freezing air. A shadow stretched across the floor, long and familiar.

Haoran turned — and there he was.

Gerya stood at the entrance, his expression unreadable, a faint smirk curving his lips. His silver-blonde hair caught the dim light, and his coat swayed gently as if even the air made room for him.

“Gerya…” Haoran muttered, disbelief and irritation mixing in his voice.

Before he could say anything more, one of the officers recovered, lunged forward, and tackled him from behind — slamming him against a table. Haoran struggled, but the man had already cuffed one of his wrists.

“All this time, that bastard just stood there watching,” Haoran thought angrily, his teeth gritted. “Does he enjoy this? Watching me squirm like a spectacle?”

Just as the officer was about to shove Haoran forward again, Gerya moved.

He stepped forward calmly — almost too calmly — and in one swift, effortless motion, his hand closed around the officer’s throat. The man’s feet lifted off the ground, his eyes bulging in shock as he gasped for air.

The restaurant went silent.

Gerya turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting Haoran’s. The smirk returned — lazy, dangerous, confident.

“Why don’t you and I,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet and twice as deadly, “have a chat first?”

The officer in his grasp kicked weakly, clawing at Gerya’s arm, but it was useless. Haoran, still half-bound, stared — not sure whether to feel relieved or wary.

“This guy…” he thought, his heartbeat steady but his mind alert. “He’s not my savior. He’s a predator — and right now, I just happen to be the one he hasn’t decided to eat yet.”

Chapter Text

The handcuffs clicked once more before they finally came loose.

Haoran rubbed his raw wrists, glaring after the policemen who scurried out of the restaurant. The smell of gun oil and sweat still lingered in the air, mixing with the staleness of cheap vodka and overcooked soup.

He exhaled sharply, his chest still tight from adrenaline. His eyes followed Gerya through the dirty glass windows as the Russian spoke calmly to the officers outside. Even from where he sat, Haoran could read his body language—loose, confident, smiling like he owned the place.

The policemen nodded at whatever he said, their expressions softening. Then Gerya casually slipped something into one of their palms. Moments later, they laughed, shook his hand, and left as if nothing had happened.

Haoran’s jaw tensed.

“What the hell did he do?”

The door jingled as Gerya walked back in, his boots clicking lazily against the tiles. That damned smirk was still plastered on his face, smug as ever.

“What did you do…?” Haoran asked flatly, his tone caught between irritation and disbelief.

Gerya shrugged, brushing invisible dust off his immaculate white coat.

“Nothing much,” he said, his lips curling into a proud little grin. “Just gave them a little something to buy a few drinks.”

Haoran stared at him, his thoughts spiraling into a sharper, colder place.

“Of course… bribery. Classic him. I was wondering how the hell he found me this fast. But it looks like he already had everything figured out during that brief encounter.”

He clenched his fists under the table, watching Gerya like a hawk.

“He seems relaxed, even carefree… but that’s exactly what makes him dangerous. Underestimating him would be suicide.”

“So his plan was to track me down through the card he gave me. If I strayed too far away from where he wanted me, he’d just report the card as stolen—force me out into the open. And when I got caught? He’d show up, play the savior, and regain control.”

Haoran’s lips twitched in disgust.

“It didn’t even matter to him that I could’ve ended up in a cell. And when he fired at Bes’ car, knowing I was still inside… that sealed it. This guy—this manipulative bastard—is the devil incarnate.”

Gerya noticed his glare and tilted his head with a knowing smirk, his icy eyes meeting Haoran’s dark ones.

“Why the look, sweetheart?” he asked mockingly. “You look like you’re about to stab me with that stare.”

Haoran ignored the jab, standing up and crossing his arms. His voice was cold, clipped.

“What’s keeping you so busy, huh? Why’s it practically impossible to find you?”

Gerya chuckled, a low, musical sound that made Haoran’s jaw tighten.

“Awwwn… what’s this? You missed me? You want me by your side all day so you can admire how gorgeous I am?”

Haoran’s eye twitched.

“No, Sherlock. I want to sew that fucking mouth of yours shut.”

He didn’t say it aloud, but it echoed in his head like thunder.

Before he could retort, a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye—just outside the restaurant window.

Instantly, his instincts kicked in. Without hesitation, he grabbed Gerya by the tie and yanked him down, their faces suddenly inches apart.

The sharp scent of Gerya’s cologne mixed with gunpowder and smoke filled Haoran’s nose. Gerya’s eyes widened for a brief second, then that infuriating grin returned.

“Oh my,” he drawled, lips curling, “do you want to kiss me or something?”

Haoran’s expression didn’t flinch. His eyes remained focused, scanning the window behind Gerya.

“Someone keeps sneaking glances this way,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “They must’ve followed you here. You should’ve been more careful.”

Gerya blinked once, his smirk softening into something more calculating.

“Oh? And what do you want me to do about it?”

Haoran released the tie, shoving him lightly back.

“Take care of it, of course,” he said, his tone curt.

Gerya chuckled, straightening his collar as if nothing had happened. “So bossy. You sound like my ex.”

Haoran scowled. “Do you want me to help you or not?”

Gerya’s eyes flicked toward the door, his demeanor instantly shifting—his lazy amusement folding neatly into deadly calm. When he looked back at Haoran, that smirk had turned razor-sharp.

“Thanks,” he said smoothly, “but no thanks. Wait here for me.”

He turned toward the door, the faint hum of “Once Upon a December” slipping from his lips again—soft, haunting, deliberate.

As the door closed behind him, Haoran’s stomach tightened.

The bell above the restaurant door chimed faintly — ding.

Haoran looked up from the table, his expression sharpening instinctively.

Only two minutes had passed since Gerya walked out, yet there he was again — striding back in with that usual eerie calm, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeves as if he’d just stepped out for a smoke, not a confrontation.

“He’s back already? Two minutes… What the hell did he even do?” Haoran thought, his eyes flicking to the faint bruising along Gerya’s knuckles — the kind of bruises that didn’t come from accidents.

The Russian’s gloves were off, his coat collar slightly turned up, but his grin was still intact — smug, deliberate, untouchable.

He sat down across from Haoran with a fluid, feline grace, resting his chin on his hand as though this were just another casual meeting over tea.

“So,” Haoran asked warily, “what happened?”

“I handled them,” Gerya replied simply.

That was all. No explanation, no embellishment — just those three words.

But they carried a weight that made Haoran’s stomach knot. He could tell from the faint specks of red on Gerya’s cuff — barely visible but definitely there — that “handled” probably meant brutalized.

“Last time he ripped someone’s face off… what did he do this time? Gouge out someone’s eyes? Break bones for sport?”

Haoran thought grimly, his eyes narrowing.

“Whatever it was, he looks disturbingly pleased with himself.”

Then — SNAP!

The sharp sound of fingers snapping jolted Haoran out of his thoughts.

“Hey, kisa,” Gerya teased, leaning across the table, his smirk widening, “this isn’t the time to daydream. Look at this.”

He slid something across the table — a thick, cream-colored envelope with gold-embossed lettering.

Haoran blinked, then took it carefully, reading the elaborate print.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“An invitation,” Gerya said, his tone light, but his eyes gleamed with that cryptic, dangerous amusement again.

“A banquet is going to be held at the Winter Palace to celebrate the new trade contract between Russia and China.”

Haoran’s breath hitched for a moment. He’d heard about this event. He was supposed to infiltrate it under the guise of Kim Bora — before everything went up in flames.

He frowned deeply.

“Right… I was planning to attend that occasion disguised as Kim Bora. But because of that terrorist attack, my plans have all gone to hell.”

He glanced back at the date on the card.

“Wait a second… this is different from the original schedule. Was it rescheduled because of the incident at the Chinese consulate? If so, security will be doubled. Maybe even tripled. How the hell am I supposed to infiltrate the venue now?”

He was still thinking it through when Gerya reached over — and snatched the invitation back.

“Let’s just say this one’s for the amateurs,” Gerya said, waving the card lazily between his fingers, that ever-present grin curling on his lips. “The real party begins after this.”

Haoran’s eyes narrowed.

“The real party?” he repeated cautiously.

Gerya’s smirk deepened. “Mm. The Vorontsovs own a manor near the Winter Palace. The head of the family — the actual CEO of Rosneft — is close friends with the President. His second son runs half the black market in Eastern Europe.”

He paused, resting his elbow on the table.

“I hear they’ll be throwing an afterparty once the banquet ends. It’s not your average social event — think of it as a masquerade for Russia’s underworld. Crime lords, arms dealers, politicians, oligarchs… anyone who wants to show off their power and money will be there.”

Haoran’s brows furrowed, thoughts clicking rapidly.

“The Vorontsovs… those same monsters again. How fitting.”

“So what’s your point?” Haoran said out loud.

“My point,” Gerya said smoothly, “is that if you want information on Tamara, that’s where you’ll find it. You want to know who funded it, who built it, who ordered the killings? They’ll all be there — drinking champagne under crystal chandeliers, pretending they’re not devils.”

Haoran’s hands clenched slowly on the table. “Is it the same Vorontsovs I think it is?”

“Yes, honey,” Gerya replied without missing a beat, his tone both mocking and oddly endearing.

Haoran’s eyes hardened. “You’re telling me they’d throw a party when a member of their family just died?”

That earned him a low chuckle from Gerya — the kind that made Haoran’s blood run cold. The Russian leaned in, voice dripping with that dark, playful malice he was so famous for.

“And do you think he’s actually dead?”

Haoran’s head snapped up. “What?”

Gerya’s grin widened, his eyes glinting like shards of ice. “Sorry to break it to you, darling… but I heard they found only two bodies in the river. And from the autopsy records I got my hands on — Bes wasn’t one of them.”

Haoran’s chest tightened. His throat went dry.

“That’s impossible… he was shot, dragged underwater… The temperature alone would’ve frozen him solid. No one could’ve survived that. Unless…”

He swallowed hard.

“Unless he really is the devil incarnate.”

He looked at Gerya, who just sat there with that same unreadable smile, like he already knew exactly what Haoran was thinking.

“Does he know something he’s not telling me?” Haoran wondered, his suspicion sharpening again.

“But Gerya,” he said slowly, forcing composure into his voice, “how sure are you that we’ll even find information about Tamara at that party?”

Instead of answering, Gerya reached into his coat and pulled out a thick brown envelope. He laid it on the table and slid it across to Haoran.

“See for yourself.”

Haoran opened it carefully. Inside were a dozen photos, documents, and a handwritten list of names. He frowned, scanning the first few lines — all researchers, scientists, engineers.

“These… these are the people who worked on Tamara?”

“Mm-hmm,” Gerya said, sipping the coffee that had long gone cold.

“So what happened to them?”

“They’re all dead.”

Haoran froze. “What?”

Gerya’s voice was calm, disturbingly calm.

“Every last one of them. Wiped out. Families too.”

Haoran stared at him in disbelief. “How? Why?”

Gerya smiled faintly, resting his chin on his hand again.

“Good question. Glad to see your brain’s back online.”

Then, almost lazily, he began to explain.

“Tamara isn’t just a weapon. It’s the weapon — something far more lethal than any of its predecessors. That’s why it’s so deeply classified. Everyone talks about it in whispers, but no one knows what it actually is. The name alone makes governments tremble. That’s the kind of fear we’re dealing with.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting in the dim light.

“People are terrified of something they don’t understand — and that’s precisely what makes it powerful. The mystery is its weapon.”

Haoran was silent, processing every word.

“But once it’s complete,” Gerya continued, “the mystery loses its value. And the people who built it? They become liabilities. Some of them might’ve wanted to leak information, sell secrets to the West… So, the solution?” He made a slicing motion across his throat, his smirk widening.

“Erase them. Every single one.”

Haoran’s stomach twisted.

“Tamara… the most feared weapon in history. And every person tied to it, gone.”

Gerya’s voice dropped an octave, smooth as poison.

“Of course, there are always survivors. The Vorontsovs, for instance. They were deeply involved in Tamara’s research, and yet they’re still very much alive. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

Haoran’s eyes narrowed again, his mind running through the possibilities.

“If the Vorontsovs were involved in the project — and every other developer was eliminated — then they must’ve orchestrated the massacre themselves. That would make them the sole owners of the world’s most dangerous weapon. The only ones who know what Tamara truly is.”

His pulse quickened as the realization sank in.

“They’d have the power to hold entire nations hostage… and no one would even know how.”

Haoran leaned back, his jaw tightening.

Across the table, Gerya smiled like a cat who’d just watched a mouse figure out it was trapped.

“Looks like you’re starting to understand,” he said softly. “Welcome to the real Russia, dorogoy.”

Chapter Text

Haoran’s brow furrowed as he stared across the table at Gerya, who looked far too calm for someone proposing a suicidal idea. The Russian’s smirk hadn’t faded once since he’d mentioned infiltrating the Vorontsov manor, and that only made Haoran’s unease deepen.

“But we can’t just walk into the lion’s den like that,” Haoran said, his tone sharp and level. “Not without a plan, not without intel, not without—”

“Chillax, kisa,” Gerya cut in, raising a finger as if scolding a child. “Please. You think HQ didn’t already think this through?” He leaned back in his chair, exuding that frustrating, infuriating confidence of his — the kind that made Haoran want to knock some sense into him. “Let’s get up. Time to move.”

Haoran stared for a beat longer, studying him.

“He’s too relaxed. Too casual. Either he really has everything figured out… or he’s playing another one of his games.”

Still, Haoran rose, slipping his hands into the pockets of his long coat, his expression unreadable.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Lead the way.”

They drove for nearly half an hour, the car weaving through narrow backstreets, then along a road that grew quieter with every passing mile. The city lights faded behind them, replaced by long stretches of fog and the silhouettes of abandoned buildings.

Haoran’s gaze swept over the landscape — crumbling stone walls, skeletal trees, and the distant outline of an old chapel standing alone in the snow. The building looked ancient, its steeple cracked, its stained-glass windows shattered and blackened with soot.

The car came to a halt, and Gerya stepped out first, humming softly under his breath — an unnervingly cheerful tune that echoed through the empty air. Haoran followed, his boots crunching over gravel and frost.

“An abandoned church,” Haoran muttered under his breath. “You’re kidding me.”

Gerya smirked. “Come on. You’ll see.”

He pushed open the heavy wooden door — it groaned on its hinges, releasing a gust of cold, stale air that smelled faintly of mold and dust. Inside, the chapel was dimly lit by the pale glow filtering through broken windows. Long-forgotten pews were draped in cobwebs, and the altar stood cracked and half-collapsed, its crucifix lying in fragments on the floor.

Yet, Gerya didn’t hesitate. He strode down the aisle like he’d walked it a hundred times, his gloved hand trailing lazily along the edge of the pews.

Haoran followed, silent but alert. His instincts were humming.

“This isn’t just some random place. Gerya never does anything without reason. Whatever’s here… it’s hidden deep.”

They reached the back of the chapel, where a small trapdoor was partially concealed beneath a layer of dust and rotting wood. Gerya crouched, brushed off the grime, and pulled it open. A cold draft of air blew out from the darkness below.

“After you,” he said with mock courtesy.

Haoran gave him a flat look. “You first.”

Gerya chuckled, clearly amused. “You really don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“Not when they smile before jumping into hell,” Haoran replied dryly.

Gerya grinned wider — then descended.

Haoran followed, his boots hitting metal steps that spiraled downward into pitch-blackness. The air grew colder, damper, thick with the scent of oil and rust. His breath came out in faint clouds as he muttered, “Jeez…” He coughed as dust filled his throat. “How far down is this thing?”

Gerya didn’t answer. He kept moving, his steps steady and sure, like he knew exactly where they were going.

“Typical,” Haoran thought grimly. “He loves keeping me in the dark. The more he controls the pace, the more he can pull the strings.”

Finally, they reached the bottom. Gerya stopped before an old iron door and glanced over his shoulder, his grin returning.

“Ready?”

Before Haoran could answer, Gerya pushed the door open.

The room beyond was empty. Completely, eerily empty — just bare concrete walls, a single hanging lightbulb flickering weakly overhead… and in the center, a small wooden table.

On that table sat a chessboard.

Haoran blinked, momentarily thrown off. “You dragged me all the way down here for a game of chess?”

Gerya only hummed as he approached the table, brushing invisible dust from one of the pieces — a black knight. He set it down on the board, then began moving pieces methodically, each one landing with a soft click.

Haoran crossed his arms. “If this is your idea of a joke—”

“Shh,” Gerya interrupted, his voice low and measured. “Watch.”

The moment he placed the white queen down, the air changed.

A faint mechanical whir began, deep within the walls. The ground trembled softly beneath their feet.

Haoran’s eyes darted around the room as gears turned behind the concrete, unseen mechanisms grinding into motion. Slowly — impossibly — the walls began to shift.

Panels slid away, revealing layers of hidden compartments. Within seconds, the empty room transformed into something entirely different.

What had once been bare stone was now lined with steel panels, each one filled with meticulously arranged weaponry and equipment. Rows of rifles, sidearms, knives, silencers, smoke grenades, and data drives gleamed under the cold light. Surveillance drones rested in open cases. Tactical suits hung neatly from hooks.

Every inch of the space was a concealed armory — a war room disguised beneath a chapel.

Haoran stood frozen for a moment, taking it in.

“So this is what he meant by ‘prepared.’ An entire underground arsenal under a church…”

He exhaled slowly. “Unbelievable.”

Gerya turned, his grin stretching ear to ear as he gestured grandly to the walls.

“Welcome to Confessional,” he said proudly. “HQ’s little secret. Everything you need to confess your sins… and commit new ones.”

Haoran shot him a dry look. “You’re insane.”

“Possibly,” Gerya said with a wink, plucking a pistol from the rack and checking its chamber. “But I’m alive. That counts for something.”

Haoran walked toward the wall, his eyes scanning the tools and tech. Every piece was clean, precise, perfectly maintained. Whoever set this up had anticipated every scenario — infiltration, assassination, sabotage.

“So HQ really did plan ahead,” he thought, his expression tightening. “But this kind of preparation… this isn’t standard. It’s personal.”

Behind him, Gerya leaned casually against the table, watching him. “You look impressed, kisa. Don’t be. You should be terrified. Every piece of gear in here has seen blood. Some of it might’ve even been yours, once.”

Haoran didn’t rise to the bait. He just picked up a black glove, examining its design — a thin layer of reinforced carbon mesh beneath the fabric. Efficient. Deadly.

“You enjoy showing off too much,” he said quietly.

Gerya’s eyes narrowed with a sly gleam. “And you enjoy pretending you’re not impressed.”

Haoran didn’t answer. He just stared at his reflection in the steel — expression steady, jaw set.

“He’s dangerous. But right now, he’s all I’ve got.”

“If we’re really walking into the Vorontsovs’ nest… I’ll need every ounce of control I have to keep this operation from going to hell.”

Behind him, Gerya chuckled softly, spinning a knife between his fingers.

“Now,” he said, stepping closer, voice low and teasing, “let’s play our part well, hmm? The lions are waiting.”

Snow fell in lazy spirals as the black BMW 7 Series glided up the long, winding drive toward the Vorontsov manor. The iron gates had swung open moments ago after a brief inspection — the guards armed, expressionless, their uniforms pressed to perfection beneath the cold Russian moonlight.

Inside the car, Haoran’s hands rested on the steering wheel, his knuckles tightening slightly as he drove through the floodlit path lined with marble statues and trimmed hedges that stretched for what seemed like a mile.

The manor loomed ahead, an architectural titan of pale stone and gilded glass. It wasn’t a house; it was an empire in physical form — an ancestral fortress that whispered of blood, money, and generations of power. The windows glowed with golden light, the sound of distant orchestral music floating faintly into the night air. Expensive laughter could be heard even from the courtyard.

Haoran’s jaw clenched.

“They’re really celebrating tonight… after everything that’s happened. After the blood, the deaths, the chaos… The Vorontsovs don’t grieve — they throw parties.”

He slowed the car as another guard stepped forward, tapping the window.

“Invitation card, please,” the guard said in a flat tone, his Russian accent heavy.

Haoran rolled the window down smoothly and handed over the embossed invitation card. The guard took it, scanning the golden seal under a small light before his eyes flicked to the back seat — where he sat.

Gerya.

The blonde man reclined lazily, one leg crossed over the other, his fur coat draped like a royal mantle across his shoulders. His hair was slicked back neatly, shining like pale gold under the lights. The diamond ring on his middle finger caught the glimmer of the headlights as he casually adjusted his glove.

The guard’s demeanor changed instantly — his back straightened, his tone shifting from cold efficiency to cautious respect.

“Thank you, sir. You may proceed.”

Haoran rolled the window back up without a word and eased the car forward.

The further they drove, the grander it became — black limousines, Rolls Royces, and sleek European sedans filled the courtyard. Footmen in crisp uniforms opened doors for women in flowing gowns and men in tailored suits. A crimson carpet led toward the manor’s grand staircase, illuminated by the soft golden light spilling from crystal chandeliers above the entrance.

Haoran exhaled sharply through his nose.

“How important is this party, really? It looks like something straight out of a spy movie… And here I am, dressed like a damn chauffeur.”

He glanced into the rearview mirror, his eyes catching Gerya’s reflection — relaxed, self-satisfied, every inch the aristocratic predator he was born to be.

“He looks like he owns the whole damn place.”

“I still can’t believe I’ve been reduced to your chauffeur,” Haoran muttered under his breath. “What an unfair world…”

Gerya chuckled — that same low, honeyed sound that could make charm sound like danger.

“I mean,” he said, spreading his arms in mock helplessness, “what can I say? I was the one invited. There are only two ways for someone to enter a party uninvited, kisa — either as a chauffeur, like you are now, or as a date.”

Haoran’s eyes snapped up in the mirror. Gerya caught his reflection, a teasing smirk curving his lips.

“If you didn’t like the former,” he added, voice smooth as silk, “perhaps we should’ve gone with the latter. That would’ve been quite a sight.”

Haoran’s expression twisted into something between disbelief and disgust. “You want my enemies to laugh themselves to death, is that it?”

Gerya grinned wider. “Oh, I’m sure they’d die for you either way.”

Haoran ignored him, focusing on parking the car near a line of others at the edge of the courtyard.

“I could always take down a guard and steal his uniform,” he muttered under his breath. “There are so many of them. I doubt anyone would notice if one went missing.”

Gerya tilted his head, amused. “You really love getting into trouble, don’t you? Tell me, are you the type who just needs to make things complicated, or are you itching for a fight?”

“Maybe both,” Haoran said flatly.

“Then do me a favor, dorogoy,” Gerya said, his tone suddenly softer, yet dripping with patronizing sweetness. “Save your energy for later.”

Haoran didn’t answer. His jaw tightened again, his eyes fixed on the illuminated marble steps ahead.

“He’s toying with me again. Everything with him is a performance — every smirk, every word calculated to get under my skin. He enjoys watching people squirm.”

“But I won’t give him that satisfaction.”

The car came to a stop. The faint music from the manor drifted through the air, violins intertwining with laughter and the clink of champagne glasses.

“Alright,” Haoran said curtly, killing the engine. “We’re here. What are you waiting for? Get out.”

Gerya didn’t move. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping low — smooth and coaxing, like a serpent whispering to its prey.

“Darling…” he said softly, “have you forgotten what your job is?”

Haoran’s head turned sharply. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Oh, fuck off,” he muttered, shoving open the driver’s door. He stepped out into the cold, the snow crunching beneath his polished shoes, then circled to the passenger side.

As he opened the door, Gerya emerged slowly — deliberately. He reached for Gerya’s arm to help with the coat, a flash of annoyance streaked under his practiced control. He is very lucky there are people here I would teach him a lesson for, Haoran thought.

The heavy oak doors opened with a deep, resonant thud that rolled through the marble hall like a heartbeat. A wave of music and warmth spilled out—violins, chatter, the faint clinking of crystal glasses. For a brief second, the scent of champagne, cologne, and candle wax hit Haoran’s nose all at once, dizzying and rich.

Inside, the Vorontsov Manor gleamed like something carved out of excess itself. The chandeliers were monstrous—tiered waterfalls of crystal suspended over heads that wore crowns of wealth and power. Velvet curtains framed every window; gold filigree coiled along the pillars. Everything was polished to the point of vanity—each surface screaming money, legacy, dominance.

Haoran followed a step behind Gerya, both of them guided by two attendants dressed in white gloves. His sharp eyes scanned every corner.

“So this is the Vorontsov Manor…” he thought, his brows furrowing slightly.

“It’s suffocatingly fancy. Every square inch of this place is dripping with old money and new blood. And yet… somehow, it feels rotten.”

They passed a group of guests—women in glittering gowns, men in tuxedos whispering through clouds of cigar smoke. The perfume in the air was thick enough to choke on.

“This place reeks of pheromones and self-importance,” Haoran thought, suppressing the urge to gag. “Ugh. Makes me want to puke.”

A low murmur of amusement reached him from behind.

He turned slightly, and there it was—that smirk.

Gerya.

He didn’t even have to look at Haoran directly to know what he was thinking. The corner of his lips tilted up, the picture of smug amusement. His every step was practiced and smooth, his presence commanding but never overbearing. Wherever he walked, the air seemed to shift; conversations lowered, eyes followed.

“Of course he’s in his element here,” Haoran thought bitterly. “These are his people—the serpents dressed in silk, the killers who laugh into champagne flutes.”

Trying to distract himself, Haoran muttered under his breath, “If I were some poor dude, this would’ve been heaven. I’d have gotten so many sugar daddies and mommies by now.”

The corner of Gerya’s mouth twitched, and he shot Haoran a quick glance over his shoulder—a silent, knowing smirk that said, I heard that.

Haoran looked away, annoyed.

“He’s insufferable. It’s like he has radar for my thoughts.”

Then—

“Welcome.”

A tall man in a black suit bowed slightly at Gerya, clearly recognizing him. Gerya responded with the kind of detached grace only someone born to power could muster—a faint nod, a polite but distant smile.

Haoran was about to follow when a firm hand suddenly gripped his arm.

“The chauffeur goes this way,” said a man in a crisp uniform, his tone flat but authoritative.

“W–wait, I—” Haoran started, but the man was already guiding him toward a side door.

He turned quickly, trying to catch Gerya’s eye, but the blonde was already halfway across the ballroom, glass of wine in hand, laughing at something an elderly senator said.

Gerya didn’t even glance back.

Haoran’s face hardened, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Gerya. Do something.”

No response. Gerya was charming a cluster of politicians and CEOs, all smiles and poise, his every gesture calculated. He looked like he’d been born for this—the perfect mask of civility hiding the man beneath.

“Shit,” Haoran thought. “He’s always like this. He’s supposed to be my partner, but he’s of no help when it actually matters. Whenever things get complicated, he just slips into his role and leaves me to deal with the mess.”

The staff corridor swallowed him, the lavish gold and red replaced by plain stone walls and muted lighting. The muffled sound of violins followed from behind the door, distant now—like music from another world.

Haoran exhaled sharply, shaking off the attendant’s grip.

“Guess I’ll play the role of obedient chauffeur for now,” he thought grimly. “But the moment I get the chance, I’ll find my own way in.”

Still, his thoughts lingered on Gerya—the way he’d moved among the elite like one of them, every smirk, every word perfectly placed.

“Who really are you, Gerya?”

“No ordinary operative could blend in like that. The way they look at him—it’s not fear, it’s respect.”

“He’s not just playing a role. He belongs here.”

Haoran clenched his fists behind his back, his expression unreadable.

“And that’s what makes him dangerous. More dangerous than anyone else in this building.”

From the other side of the ballroom, Gerya finally turned slightly—just enough for his eyes to catch Haoran’s before the crowd swallowed him again. The faintest smile ghosted across his lips. It wasn’t a smile of comfort. It was a message.

A silent, deliberate look that said:

“Relax, kisa. You’re exactly where I need you to be.”

And Haoran’s stomach twisted with unease.

“I don’t know if he’s my ally… or if I’m just another piece on his board.”

Chapter Text

The room reeked faintly of smoke, sweat, and cheap aftershave — the kind of air that clung to men who spent their lives standing beside expensive cars they could never afford to drive. The chauffeurs’ lounge was dimly lit, cramped, and noisy. Half a dozen drivers crowded around a table littered with half-empty coffee cups and folded newspapers, laughing over something crude and stupid.

Haoran sat at the edge of it all, his back straight, his posture too disciplined for someone pretending to be a servant. His cap was pulled low, his eyes quietly studying the room through the reflection of a glass cabinet opposite him. Every detail mattered — exits, routes, cameras, patrol frequency.

“The party’s at its peak,” he thought, his mind ticking with precision. “That means most of the security presence is focused upstairs or around the ballroom. If I’m going to search for intel, this is the perfect time to move.”

He leaned back, feigning disinterest, as laughter boomed across the room.

“But if I just get up and leave now… it’ll look suspicious. A chauffeur has no reason to wander the manor. They’d expect me to stay here, drink bad coffee, and talk about car engines.”

He ran a hand over his jaw, deep in thought.

“Or I could just leave it to Gerya…”

He almost laughed at the idea.

“Yeah right. He’d either make a joke of it or use it to get me killed just to ‘teach me something.’”

His jaw tightened. He needed to move. He glanced around once more — all eyes were on the poker game happening at the corner. That was his moment.

Haoran rose quietly, adjusting his cap. With his back straight and steps measured, he slipped out of the room like a shadow sliding through a crack in the wall.

Once the door shut behind him, he exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders.

“Phew…” he muttered, his voice low.

But then—

“Going somewhere?”

The voice was sharp and close.

Haoran froze, every muscle tightening. His heartbeat jumped.

He turned slowly to find one of the attendants staring at him — a tall man in a crisp uniform, holding a clipboard. His expression was polite but his eyes were probing.

Haoran blinked, then forced a sheepish smile. He instantly dropped his shoulders and softened his voice, exaggerating his accent.

“Me… need go bathroom now.”

The attendant frowned slightly. “Bathroom?”

“Yes, bathroom,” Haoran nodded quickly, scratching the back of his head, forcing a clumsy grin. “I want… pee pee.”

The man gave him a long, assessing look. Haoran could almost feel the seconds stretching. Then, finally, the attendant sighed.

“Alright, follow me.”

Haoran’s lips twitched — part relief, part frustration.

“This idiot’s going to walk me straight in the wrong direction…”

They moved down a long, silent corridor. The party’s music was distant now, a faint heartbeat behind thick walls. The polished floors reflected their footsteps. Haoran’s eyes darted subtly from side to side, memorizing the path.

“I’ve messed up,” he thought. “The main hall’s on the opposite side. But… interesting. No security cameras. Not a single one.”

That realization made something sharp flicker behind his calm exterior. He smiled faintly — coldly.

When they finally stopped, the attendant gestured at a door. “Here. Bathroom.”

Haoran gave a polite nod. “Thanks.” Then, under his breath, he murmured quietly,

“我覺得你今天做得夠多了。” (You’ve done enough for today.)

The man blinked. “What?”

Haoran’s fist moved before the word finished leaving his mouth. A clean, controlled strike — his knuckles driving deep into the man’s abdomen. The attendant gasped, eyes rolling back, his clipboard clattering to the floor as he collapsed soundlessly.

Haoran exhaled, his expression unreadable. “Sorry about that. You just happened to be in the wrong hallway.”

He caught the man before he hit the floor completely, dragging his limp body into the bathroom stall. His movements were precise, efficient — no wasted effort. He checked the man’s pulse. Still alive. Good.

Then he stripped the man’s uniform, buttoning it up over his own clothes. The fit was a little tight, but serviceable. He glanced in the mirror — adjusted his collar, smoothed his bowtie, and practiced the attendant’s posture: slightly bowed shoulders, eyes lowered, silent servitude.

“That should do it.”

He looked down once more at the unconscious man, breathing shallowly against the tiled floor.

“You’ll be fine. I just hope your boss doesn’t come looking for you too soon.”

Straightening, Haoran cracked his neck, his expression hardening again. He moved back into the corridor, his steps soundless.

“Now to find that main hall again…”

__

The kitchen was a chaos of clattering pans, shouted orders, and heat so thick it clung to the skin. It smelled of butter, oil, and nerves — the air vibrating with the kind of pressure that only existed behind the scenes of wealth and power.

“BRING OUT THE WHISKY! WHO’S IN CHARGE OF THE CANAPÉ?!” the head chef’s voice thundered like cannon fire. His face was red, his apron smeared with sauces, and his eyes darted everywhere like a hawk scanning for prey.

“GET A MOVE ON, YOU SLOWPOKES! WHAT ARE YOU JUST STANDING AROUND FOR?! ENOUGH SLACKING AND TAKE THESE OUT!!”

Before Haoran could even blink, a silver tray of champagne glasses was shoved into his hands.

“Go! Go!” the chef barked, already turning to berate someone else.

Haoran blinked, slightly off balance from the sudden weight. The glasses trembled, catching the light like a thousand miniature suns.

“Maybe it’s because they’re all so busy. Not a single person’s looking twice at me,” he thought, slipping into the flow of movement. “This is the perfect chance to blend in… and to infiltrate the main hall.”

He adjusted his grip on the tray, his steps precise and fluid — like a soldier moving through a battlefield disguised as a waiter. Steam rose around him as doors swung open, revealing a corridor of gold and chandeliers — a sharp contrast to the sweaty chaos he’d just escaped.

The sound of music and chatter grew louder. Haoran squared his shoulders, inhaled once, and stepped into the ballroom.

It was a different world.

The chandeliers dripped crystal light, illuminating a sea of velvet gowns, tuxedos, and glittering jewels. Laughter rippled like perfume, the clinking of glasses punctuating every sentence. Men with tailored suits and dangerous smiles spoke in low voices, women leaned close with lips stained in red wine.

Haoran moved quietly between them, the perfect servant. His expression was calm, his eyes half-lowered — but every detail was being recorded through the lens hidden in his eye.

“Too much noise… too much chatter. I won’t get any real intel just by listening,” he thought, scanning across faces.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he froze.

“Oh shit… the attendant from earlier.”

Haoran lifted the tray swiftly, holding it just high enough to shield his face as he passed. His jaw was tight, his heart steady but fast.

“Keep walking. Don’t look back… keep walking…”

When he finally slipped past unnoticed, he exhaled quietly through his nose.

“Phew… that was close.”

He moved deeper into the hall, weaving through clusters of diplomats and oligarchs.

“The president of Russia… Andrei Olegovich Belov is here,” he noted as his lens highlighted the man’s face. “From the president himself to government officials, mafia members, and business magnates… this isn’t a party. It’s a council of power.”

He shifted the tray to one hand, balancing it effortlessly, scanning as he went.

“How ironic,” he thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. “They’re dressed in silk and smiles, but underneath… they’re wolves gnawing at the same carcass.”

Then, a familiar presence approached from behind — smooth, confident, a kind of arrogance that carried its own gravity.

Haoran didn’t need to turn.

“Isn’t it ironic,” came Gerya’s voice, low and composed, “there are so many people here… and yet no one seems to be real.”

Haoran stiffened slightly, his fingers tightening around the tray.

Gerya plucked one of the champagne flutes off it, his movements deliberate and theatrical. The golden liquid caught the light as he raised it lazily to his lips.

“You see the man behind Belov?” Gerya murmured, his eyes flicking casually toward a tall man standing near the president. “That’s Viktor Vorontsov — the second son. He’s good friends with the president; I heard they went golfing last Sunday.”

Haoran followed his gaze. Viktor Vorontsov stood poised, radiating cold authority. His tailored suit seemed to sculpt itself to his body. There was an ease in his stance that came only from being untouchable.

“He’s also the most powerful figure in the State Duma,” Gerya continued. “Every public project has to pass through his hands before it reaches the president. Without his signature, even the president’s pen runs dry.”

Haoran’s brow furrowed slightly.

“So he’s the real power behind the curtain…”

Gerya took another sip of champagne, the corners of his lips curling faintly.

“You see the man who just arrived — the one with the eyepatch and the walking stick?”

Haoran’s gaze shifted.

Aleksandr Vorontsov. The patriarch. His presence silenced even the loudest conversations in the room. His face was sharp, his expression weary but dangerous — like an old wolf who’d lived through every winter and buried every rival.

“That’s the big shot of Rosneft,” Gerya said smoothly. “The reason the Vorontsovs became so powerful is because of him. After the Soviet Union collapsed, he seized control of Russia’s energy veins. Oil, gas, and power — he owned the arteries that kept this country alive. The government breathes because he lets it.”

Gerya’s tone was casual, but his words dripped with venomous admiration.

“It’s oligarchs like him who hold the real power,” he murmured. “Presidents change. Empires fall. But men like Aleksandr stay.”

Haoran’s lips pressed into a thin line. His mind catalogued everything. Every name. Every connection.

“The Vorontsovs aren’t just a family. They’re a dynasty built on blood and oil.”

Then Gerya’s eyes gleamed suddenly. “Ah. There he is…”

Haoran followed his gaze to the grand staircase.

Descending from above, slow and deliberate, was a young man with fine brunette hair, the kind of beauty that was almost cruel. His tailored suit was deep gray, the fabric catching light in ripples. His eyes — cold blue — surveyed the room as though it already belonged to him.

“That,” Gerya whispered, his voice curling like smoke, “is Nikolai Aleksandrovich Vorontsov. The first son. He’s poised to inherit the entire empire when the old man dies. And when that happens, he’ll become the wealthiest energy magnate in Russia — perhaps even the world.”

He took another sip, then smirked.

“Как говорил мой отец, ‘В мире акул выживает тот, кто улыбается, пока ест.’”

(“As my father used to say, ‘In a world of sharks, the one who smiles while eating survives.’”)

Gerya turned his gaze to Haoran — eyes bright, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Tell me, Kisa… do you think you can smile while swimming among sharks?”

Chapter Text

Haoran didn’t answer immediately. His face was still, unreadable, but his thoughts were sharp as glass.

“I must say,” Gerya continued, swirling his wine as though it were part of some private ritual, “Nikolai is already receiving far more attention than his father in the energy industry. The vultures are circling, and yet, they’re calling it admiration.” His lips curved into a grin as he observed the young heir from across the room, greeting foreign dignitaries with polished grace. “Some predict that the family business will do even better under his management.”

Haoran followed his line of sight. Nikolai Vorontsov stood at the foot of the grand staircase, his fine brunette hair catching the light like brushed copper. Every movement of his was deliberate—too smooth, too practiced. There was a glimmer of confidence that bordered on vanity, the sort born from being told one’s entire life that the world belonged to them.

“So then what about Bes Vorontsov?” Haoran asked finally, his voice quiet but edged with disdain. “He’s also a son of Aleksandr, right? I mean…” he let out a small scoff, “a thug like him doesn’t even fit in such a regal family like this.”

Gerya chuckled—a low, dangerous sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He leaned closer, lips brushing the rim of his glass, smirk twisting like a cat toying with a bird.

“You’d be surprised, sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief. “He’s actually a civil servant.”

Haoran froze for a moment, staring at him in disbelief. “A what?”

Gerya’s grin widened as if savoring the absurdity of it. “Civil servant,” he repeated with relish, as though the words themselves were some kind of inside joke only he understood.

Haoran blinked, speechless for a heartbeat. Then, his voice dropped, laced with incredulous anger. “You want to tell me that a man who kidnapped an innocent foreigner—me, and fired away with a damn bazooka in the middle of a city—is a civil servant? What a joke.”

Gerya snorted softly, amused by Haoran’s seriousness, by his refusal to play along with the absurd theatre of politics and power. He took a sip of his wine, eyes scanning the glittering crowd like a wolf among sheep.

“Surprise, surprise,” he said, voice purring with mockery. “He’s very knowledgeable in the arms industry and, as much as it pains me to say this, quite competent. When it comes to Russia’s underworld—where the arms trade flourishes—practically everyone knows him.”

Gerya’s smirk deepened as he tilted his glass slightly, watching the crimson reflection of the wine catch Haoran’s tense expression. “They call him the Bely Zmey.”

Haoran frowned. “The White Serpent…” he muttered under his breath, the words tasting like venom.

Gerya’s tone softened into something almost poetic. “Да, Белый Змей. ‘The serpent that smiles before it strikes.’” He smiled faintly, his Russian accent deepening. “Тише едешь — дальше будешь.”

Haoran glanced at him sharply. “What does that mean?”

“Go quietly, and you’ll go far,’” Gerya translated, raising his glass to his lips again. “A fitting motto for a man who slithered his way into both the Kremlin’s trust and the criminal underworld.”

“The underground,” Gerya began again slowly, almost fondly, “was ruled by the mafia. It’s no secret anymore—everyone in this country knows it. What they don’t know,” his eyes flickered toward a group of smiling diplomats across the hall, “is how deep that control runs.”

He paused, taking another lazy sip of his wine, as if discussing the weather.

“The mafia used to keep their power through the usual methods—bribery, extortion, smuggling, trafficking, all those little dirty things.” He chuckled softly. “But the old ways grew… unprofitable. So, from the early 1990s, they shifted their gaze toward something more refined.”

Haoran’s brow furrowed slightly, his analytical mind already anticipating where this was going.

“The arms industry,” Gerya continued, eyes gleaming. “A playground of blood and steel—much more lucrative, much more respectable. After all, it’s easier to justify bullets than drugs, isn’t it?” He tilted his head, watching Haoran with mild amusement. “And so they made their move. They invested. They partnered. They became legitimate.”

Haoran’s eyes flickered toward the distant crowd of dignitaries—the laughter, the toasts, the proud faces of men who pretended to build nations while feeding on them from the inside.

So that’s how it happened… he thought grimly. The mafia didn’t vanish. They evolved. They traded the streets for boardrooms, the guns for contracts.

“Now,” Gerya said, gesturing lightly with his glass, “the arms and energy industries have become the twin pillars of Russia’s plutocracy. The veins and arteries of this country’s heart.” His lips curled again into a sly grin. “And it would be naïve to think the government is clueless about it all. No, darling, they know exactly what’s happening.”

He turned slightly, his reflection fractured in the champagne flute. “They’re either turning a blind eye… or even better—willingly participating.”

Haoran’s jaw tightened, though his expression didn’t betray it. His mind, however, was racing. Of course. That explains everything. The corruption isn’t a shadow—it’s the foundation itself.

“As long as the mafia continues to fill their coffers,” Gerya went on, voice dripping with cynicism, “the government will call them brothers rather than enemies.” He leaned closer, whispering like a serpent. “The Vorontsov family is proof of that.”

Haoran’s eyes snapped to him, quiet but sharp.

“Ah, yes,” Gerya said with relish, seeing his interest. “The Vorontsov name isn’t just in the system—it is the system. They’re the perfect example of how power mutates. During the chaos after the Soviet collapse, when this country was rotting from the inside, the mafia slipped through the cracks. They expanded their influence, rebranded themselves as businessmen, politicians, patriots.”

His tone darkened, his eyes gleaming with something close to admiration—or maybe warning. “And the Vorontsovs rode that wave beautifully. It might sound like an outlandish theory, but once you see it for what it is… the picture becomes quite clear. The Vorontsovs and the mafia? They share the same roots. One family, two faces. Public and underground. Regal and rotten.”

Haoran’s chest tightened. So that’s it. That’s why this family’s reach feels endless. They were born from crime, fed by chaos, and now—now they run the empire that once tried to crush them.

Gerya’s smirk widened slightly, sensing Haoran’s silent fury. He enjoyed this game—the manipulation, the slow peeling of truth until it cut like glass.

“It also explains,” Gerya continued softly, “why Bes Vorontsov is considered the core of the Kremlin.”

Haoran turned his head slightly, expression still composed but his pulse rising.

“He’s a member of the great Vorontsov family,” Gerya said, his tone now almost reverent, “and yet still tied to the underworld. He’s the bridge, you see? The one that lets the two divided powers—government and mafia—communicate. Without him, the entire system would fracture. With him, they coexist… like a beast with two hearts.”

Haoran said nothing, his mind spiraling inward, reconstructing the implications. A man with one hand in the Kremlin and the other in the underworld… that’s not influence. That’s control.

His gaze hardened. “Then…” he thought, his brows furrowing as his mind raced, “could he have also been the one who led the development of Tamara? Was that why Agent Morgan targeted him? And consequently… got killed?”

If Bes was the lead in “Tamara”… then Logan didn’t die by chance.

His chest tightened with a quiet fury, but his face stayed still, unreadable. He died because he got too close.

Gerya watched him out of the corner of his eye, sipping his wine lazily. He didn’t have to say a word to know exactly what was going through Haoran’s mind. That was his gift—his manipulation was so seamless it barely needed effort.

After a moment, he smiled faintly and said in a low, mocking tone, “Careful, kisa… you’re starting to look like you actually care.”

Haoran exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his voice calm. “I care about the mission.”

Gerya chuckled softly, eyes glinting. “Of course you do.”

The crystal clink of the champagne glass seemed to echo like a signal.

“Oops, my glass is empty,” Gerya murmured lazily, setting it back on Haoran’s tray. His tone was casual, but his gaze lingered—sharp and calculating beneath that easy smirk, as if he were already several steps ahead in a game Haoran hadn’t yet realized he was playing.

Haoran’s lips tightened. He didn’t bother responding. The champagne in the tray trembled slightly as he turned, his mind already somewhere else.

I’ve wasted too much time here, he thought, slipping away from the small crowd gathered around the buffet tables. If I keep standing around, I’ll lose my chance to find anything useful. I need to move. Blend in, disappear, find something—anything—that can lead me closer to what the Vorontsovs are hiding.

He adjusted his posture, lowering his head just slightly to maintain the air of a humble attendant as he moved through the glittering hall. The chatter and laughter around him blurred into a soft hum. Each step was deliberate, each glance measured.

Behind him, Gerya’s voice, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous, floated over the noise.

“Wait, Haoran…”

Haoran stopped. Slowly, he turned, his eyes narrowing just slightly in suspicion.

“I saw Bes Vorontsov going upstairs,” Gerya said, swirling the last drop of golden liquid in his glass before setting it aside. His voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for Haoran’s ears. “And guess who decided to follow him? The Minister of Defense… and the Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

Haoran’s eyes widened just slightly, a flicker of realization flashing through them.

Those two?

“A secret meeting between those three people at this point in time?” he thought, his pulse quickening as he instinctively scanned the grand staircase that spiraled upward into shadow. That can’t be a coincidence. Bes, the Defense Minister, and the Foreign Affairs Minister—all in the same place, away from the eyes of the President? That means something huge is happening.

Gerya smirked, clearly enjoying the way Haoran’s expression shifted from calm focus to controlled intensity. He leaned closer, his words like a whisper from the devil himself. “Whatever it is they’re talking about, sweetheart, I can guarantee it’s not the weather.”

Haoran didn’t take the bait. He straightened, setting the tray down on a passing waiter’s cart, his mind already in motion.

If those three are meeting privately, it can only mean one thing—they’re discussing “Tamara.” The pieces fit too perfectly.

He exhaled through his nose, forcing his racing thoughts to steady.

“Babes,” Gerya said suddenly, drawing out the word with mock affection, “I’ll be your guide here.” He tapped his ear lightly, flashing Haoran a teasing grin. “So, turn on your communication device, hmm? I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Haoran gave him a sideways look—half exasperated, half wary. The corner of his mouth twitched in irritation.

“Do you ever shut up?” he muttered under his breath.

Gerya chuckled softly, like a cat toying with its prey. “Not when I’m having fun.”

Haoran’s thoughts darkened. He says that now, but what’s his angle?

The clamor of the kitchen was deafening. Pans clanged, knives hit cutting boards in rhythmic precision, and the head chef’s voice boomed above the noise like a cannon.

“BRING OUT THE WHISKEY! WHO’S IN CHARGE OF THE APPETIZERS?! YOU THERE—STOP STIRRING AND START PLATING!”

Haoran slipped in through the swinging doors, keeping his head down and his eyes sharp. He could feel the heat of the stoves, smell the mix of roasted meats, sauces, and perfume that drifted in from the ballroom. But his focus wasn’t on the chaos around him—it was on the building itself.

If I just march up the stairs, I’ll draw attention. There’ll be guards everywhere up there. No, I need another route—something less direct, less obvious.

He moved with a tray in hand, blending seamlessly with the kitchen staff. His eyes flicked to the corners of the room, searching for what he knew must be there. According to the blueprints, there should be a door in the ingredient storage room… one that leads out back. The dumpster’s usually hidden behind the west wall. If I can get outside, I might find a way up to the third floor from there.

He slipped through the narrow door of the storage room, the smell of raw vegetables and old spice filling his nose. He grabbed a bin and heaped in some vegetable scraps, raw trimmings, and discarded packaging to make it look authentic, then stacked it neatly on the trolley.

“Alright,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the trolley out of the storage room, “the backyard would be the perfect place to move unseen. And there it is—the back door.”

He pushed toward it, only for a shadow to move into view. A guard, standing alert beside the exit, his rifle slung lazily across his chest but his eyes sharp as a hawk’s.

Haoran’s steps faltered for a fraction of a second, but he recovered quickly, putting on a clueless expression and scratching the back of his head.

“Where are you going?” the guard demanded in thick, accented English.

Haoran forced a nervous grin. “Ah, if I no throw away trash now, head chef maybe get very, very angry,” he said in his best broken English, even hunching slightly to complete the illusion.

The guard frowned, skeptical.

Then, as if on cue, the chef’s voice roared from the kitchen.

“QUIT STALLING!! HURRY THE HELL UP OR I’LL HAVE YOUR HEAD!!”

The guard blinked, startled, and nodded. “...You can go ahead.”

Haoran bowed quickly, suppressing the smirk threatening to crawl onto his face. “Ah, thank you, thank you!” he said, and pushed the trolley out the door.

Cool air hit him like a wave. He exhaled, the tension rolling off his shoulders. The muffled sound of the party music and the chatter of guests faded behind him, replaced by the quiet hum of the night.

He pushed the trolley a few feet away from the door before stopping. His eyes darted across the yard, scanning the shadows and the layout of the building. The grand manor loomed above him—dark and majestic, its stone façade glowing faintly under the moonlight.

Alright then, he thought, crouching slightly.

If the two Ministers and Bes are having a secret meeting, it wouldn’t be anywhere near the first floor—not with all the noise and people. They’d want privacy, isolation... somewhere secure.

His gaze stopped at one corner of the manor. A single light glowed faintly on the third floor, warm and golden against the sea of darkness.

There. That room—it’s the only one still lit. No movement, no sound. Definitely suspicious.

Haoran’s eyes narrowed. If they’re really meeting there, I have to find a way in. But first...

He shifted his gaze toward the guard pacing the compound—a tall man, built like a tank, muttering into his radio as he circled the yard.

Haoran crouched behind a hedge, watching him move. Timing was everything. The guard turned the corner, momentarily out of view of the door.

Now.

He moved swiftly—silent as a shadow. The wheels of the trolley rolled over the gravel with a faint crunch. When the guard turned back, Haoran was right in front of him, his expression blank.

“What are you—?”

Before the guard could finish, Haoran rammed the bin straight into his chest, the metal edge slamming into his ribs with a muffled thud. The man gasped, stumbling back, and Haoran spun, using his leg to sweep him off balance. The guard fell into the bushes with a dull rustle, his head striking the soil.

“Sorry about that,” Haoran muttered under his breath, dragging the unconscious man deeper into the shadows. He quickly unbuckled the guard’s holster, pulling the pistol free and tucking it into the back of his waistband.

He paused, listening. No alarms. No footsteps. No one had seen.

Good. Clean work. Just the way I like it.

Straightening his cuffs, Haoran looked up at the towering stone wall. The faint flicker of the third-floor light taunted him from above.

He smirked, rolling his sleeves up and flexing his hands.

“Alright,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, “time for a little spider-man climbing.”

Chapter Text

Haoran slipped one hand into his pocket and pulled out the Micro-suction Gecko Gauntlets—matte-black leather, sleek, almost elegant, lined with hexagonal micro-pad panels across the palms and fingertips. They looked simple from afar, but up close, they were unmistakably dangerous—military-grade mimicry of the gecko’s adhesive mechanism, capable of holding two hundred kilos on a clean surface.

He exhaled slowly and stared up at the towering face of the Vorontsov manor.

Cold stone. No footholds. No mercy.

“Alright… let’s do this,” he muttered, slipping the gauntlets on and flexing his fingers. The pads clicked faintly, like insect wings snapping into place.

He pressed one palm onto the wall.

A soft grip.

Second palm—another grip.

Boot against the stone—he tightened his core.

And began to climb.

His movements were steady, calculated. Left hand. Right hand. Press. Pull. Step. His muscles moved with clean precision—he was a man trained for exactness, for efficiency, for survival.

But still, his mind didn’t stop.

Please let this stupid gadget work. I swear HQ gets stingier and stingier every month…

Halfway up, he made the mistake of glancing down. The drop stretched into a long, shadowed pit. His stomach tightened.

“Okay… nope. Look up, look up, LOOK UP,” he hissed under his breath and forced his eyes upward again.

Rain droplets—fine mist from the roof—began sliding along the stone and down onto his gloves.

He froze.

Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare weaken now—

A faint shhhhhlip vibrated under his left palm.

“Shit.” His jaw tightened. “It’s getting weak…”

Water ruined the micro-adhesion. He knew this. He KNEW this. But he’d hoped—maybe tonight the universe would be kind.

The left gauntlet gave another warning slip.

Almost there. Just a little more. Come on, come on—

Then—

The entire left hand slicked off the wall.

Everything dropped—his weight, his stomach, the tray of panic in his chest.

He reacted instantly—fingers clawing air—but there was only one option: jump.

He tightened his core, kicked off the wall, and lunged for the balcony above him.

His fingers slammed against the cold balustrade—

Slipped—

Caught again—

And he pulled with everything he had, hoisting his body upward with a grunt that burned his ribs.

He rolled onto the balustrade, chest heaving for air.

He didn’t move for a moment—just breathing, stabilizing, letting the adrenaline settle.

Finally, he lifted his head and peered through the glass of the balcony doors.

Lights on.

Room empty.

Silent.

“…Did I come to the wrong room?” Haoran thought, narrowing his eyes. The tension in his shoulders tightened. This didn’t feel right. This felt… too empty.

He sat fully on the balustrade, preparing to slip inside—

“Hey sweetheart, where are you?”

Gerya’s smooth voice whispered through the communication device directly into his ear.

Haoran jolted, almost losing his balance.

“Oh—right. The device,” he muttered, pressing a hand over the earpiece.

“Somewhere,” he answered flatly. “I think I got the wrong hunch about—”

“Alright, if you’re done complaining,” Gerya interrupted, voice dripping with smugness, “open your ears and listen.”

“What are you even talk—”

But then—

A completely different voice drifted through the room. Not from Gerya. Not through the device.

It came from inside the manor, faint but unmistakable—seeping through the vents or thin walls.

“How is Abyss-99 coming along?”

Haoran froze. His eyes widened instantly.

Another voice responded, tone annoyed and professional.

“We’re waiting for a message from Mirnov. They’re looking for a specialist who can fix the problem with Abyss-99.”

Haoran’s pulse spiked.

Mirnov? Here? At this level of conversation?

“They seem to be extremely busy with that,” a deeper voice added. “They didn’t attend tonight’s party. But they said they’d contact us soon. So let’s wait.”

A third voice joined, irritated.

“And what did China say about the defect? They insisted they didn’t expect it at all. The problem never showed up during their tests.”

Haoran felt ice crawl down his spine.

His mind rushed, analyzing, connecting, pulling threads together.

"Mirnov… a Slavic mafia group. Closely tied to the Vorontsovs. If they’re being mentioned in a secret meeting here—behind closed doors, away from the party—that means the Vorontsov family is directly coordinating with them."

His pupils narrowed.

China is involved in developing this weapon? That means the Abyss-99 project—whatever it is—has international hands in it.

And then—

His breath caught.

Could Abyss-99 be… Tamara?

“And what are the americans doing?”

The harsh question cracked through the static of the bug like a whip. Haoran froze, breath suspended. He didn’t dare shift his weight on the balustrade.

“Nothing yet. They're clearly onto us now that we've killed their little rat. But what difference does that make? They can't even come retrieve the rat's body.”

Another voice chimed in—deeper, more amused. Like he was discussing weather, not murder.

Haoran’s pulse thudded once against his throat.

Logan…? Are they actually talking about Logan?

The conversation threaded itself in his mind like a web tightening around his ribs.

Mirnov.

Abyss-99.

Russian-Chinese collaboration.

American surveillance dead in the water.

And a murdered spy nobody can reclaim.

It was a perfect configuration of geopolitical nightmare. The kind of arrangement that never existed on paper and always ended in body bags.

It fits… it all fits too well. But I can’t rely on insinuations. I need evidence. Real evidence. Something that would hold up even in the hands of the people who’ll want me dead for finding it.

A soft crackle came through his earpiece.

“Bes just left out—seems he’s going to take a call…” Gerya’s voice curled into Haoran’s ear like smoke.

Haoran blinked.

Gerya…

No. Something isn’t adding up. How the hell does he know exactly what's happening upstairs when I can barely hear the footsteps from here?

“You…” Haoran whispered under his breath. “How… how do you know what’s going on right now anyway?”

Gerya sounded annoyingly casual.

“A woman named Sofiya said she'd give me a tour of the house earlier. I had no reason to decline. While following her around, I slipped a bug into the keyhole of their room.”

Haoran’s expression hardened.

Sofiya… Aleksandr Vorontsov’s daughter. Not exactly the type to casually entertain random guests. Yet she brought him inside? Into private corridors? Into the inner restricted parts of the manor?

The thought pulsed with an uncomfortable weight.

Forget Sofiya. Forget Abyss-99 for a second. What matters now is Gerya. Who the hell is he? How did he get invited here? Why is he being allowed into rooms even Vorontsov acquaintances don’t access?

Out loud he said, “I find it very hard to believe you, you know that? You are very suspicious. Like you know things I don’t. Gerya… who exactly are you?”

Gerya chuckled softly—too softly.

The kind of laugh that hides knives.

“I’m just me, Haoran. I just have my ways of getting information.”

The reply was deliberately empty. A non-answer wrapped as an answer. Manipulators loved that.

Haoran’s jaw tightened.

“If I ever find out you’re lying, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Gerya chuckled again. Not offended. Not scared. Almost pleased.

“Focus, baby.”

He said it like a command disguised in affection.

Haoran swallowed irritation.

“Where are you, anyway?”

“Basement. Where all the CCTV footage is.”

Haoran’s brow lowered.

“…And why are you even there?”

“To keep an eye on things, of course. Including one of the attendants who almost slipped while going up to the third floor. Poor guy.”

Haoran’s eyes flicked to his right—and there it was.

A small, sleek gadget disguised as a cat figurine perched on a shelf. A miniature camera. Watching him.

He snapped his middle finger at it.

Gerya burst into laughter, a snorting, gleeful mess of amusement.

“I don’t understand why you’d go all the way up there… you’re wasting your time, baby,” Gerya purred.

Haoran muttered, “Shut the fuck up.”

Gerya laughed harder.

Haoran refocused. “The call—is it from Mirnov?”

“I dunno… I suppose checking won’t hurt, right”

Haoran exhaled once, slow and controlled.

Gerya’s voice shifted, slipping back into strategist mode.

“While wandering earlier, I saw a landline at the end of the second-floor hallway.”

“There’s another one in Vorontsov’s office,” Haoran said.

“Different circuits. If the call comes directly into his office, only that phone can answer it.”

Haoran narrowed his eyes.

“But you’ve prepped a way to listen in, right?”

“Yeah—but only if you can reach the other phone… in ten seconds.”

Haoran’s muscles coiled.

“Alright.”

He balanced on the balustrade, inhaled sharply, then jumped.

The wind tore at his shirt as he dropped—then he caught the second balcony below with a practiced, silent grip.

Behind his ear, Gerya hummed, “Niiice ass…”

“Shut the fuck up,” Haoran hissed, pulling himself up.

Gerya’s chuckle crackled through the line, smug and pleased with himself.

Haoran activated his laser watch. A perfect clean circle melted through the balcony door glass. He removed the cut-out portion using a suction pad, slid inside quietly, and straightened.

The room was dim. Silent. No attendants. No guards. Not even stray footsteps.

Good. One less problem.

But his instincts prickled sharply between his shoulder blades.

Quiet. Too quiet. Either they’re confident nobody would DARE intrude… or they’ve already started cleaning up after something.

He scanned the walls, corners, ceiling angles—automatic, disciplined.

No alarms triggered. No motion sensors. They rely on human patrols, not gadgets. Arrogance… or calculation?

He pressed two fingers to his earpiece.

“No one’s around,” he murmured in thought.

Either I’m lucky—or this mansion is playing dead.

Chapter Text

Haoran’s pulse hammered in his chest as he held the telephone receiver to his ear, forcing his breathing into silence. Every sound from the other line felt amplified—each breath, each shift of weight, each pause heavy with hidden intent.

“Три… Два… Один… Сейчас.”

Gerya’s voice slid through the earpiece with a velvety command, confident and smug, as if he were orchestrating the entire operation from the shadows.

Haoran tightened his jaw, steadying his stance. This has to be perfect. If I even breathe too loud, they’ll know someone is listening. Focus, Haoran. Focus.

And then—voices.

Cold. Bureaucratic. Dangerous.

“Perfect timing. We were just talking about it too.”

Haoran recognized the voice—one of the ministers. The other followed:

“We just came to an agreement about it as well. China said they’d send a technician.”

A small jolt shot through Haoran’s spine.

So the earlier speculation WASN’T speculation.

His pulse sharpened.

“That’s great news. When will they send them?”

“They said the technician would depart tomorrow. They will likely arrive in Moscow in two days.”

“Be careful not to let a rat tag along like last time.”

He inhaled quietly—slow, deep, controlled—though his chest felt uncomfortably tight.

“They’re going to come disguised as a Japanese tourist, so it should be harder for the Americans to spot them.”

“Let’s keep a close eye. And don’t forget to report back to me regularly.”

A click.

Silence.

Haoran pulled in a breath, the air sharp in his lungs.

So that’s it… The Americans are already suspicious. China is sending someone. Mirnov is tied into this mess. Everything is converging… and every damn thread points toward the existence of a covert weapons project. This is no longer a theory… This is a full-scale international operation. If I can get even ONE physical document, anything… I’ll have proof.

He was just starting to ease his hand away from the phone when—

—a sudden, ear-splitting shriek ripped through his earpiece.

“UGH—!!”

Haoran’s body jolted, instinct snapping before reason. The sound tore into his skull like a drill.

White static exploded in his vision for a moment, drowning out the world.

The telephone slipped from his fingers, falling with a muted clatter to the polished floor.

His knees hit the ground as the corridor warped in front of him—walls bending, ceiling tilting, his balance evaporating like smoke.

“Wh—what… the… fuck—” Haoran hissed between clenched teeth.

His hand slapped the floor to steady himself, but even the cold marble seemed to sway.

Still dizzy, Haoran ripped the communication device from his ear and hurled it onto the floor. It bounced once, skidding across the polished wood. A wave of nausea swelled up his throat, forcing him to grip the wall for balance.

It was working perfectly minutes ago… so why the hell did it suddenly—

His thoughts froze.

BANG.

A door slammed open.

Haoran’s dizziness snapped out of his system instantly, replaced by a sharp, cold alertness. His eyes narrowed, instincts kicking in like a blade pulled from a sheath.

“Are you done checking?”

The voice. Deep. Calm. Familiar.

Haoran’s blood ran cold for half a second.

That voice… Bes Vorontsov.

Haoran pressed himself silently behind the newly opened door, slipping into the thin space between wood and wall. He held his breath.

Two guards marched in behind Bes.

“We are still checking, sir. It seems there is an intruder.”

“It’s dangerous to leave you here. I’ll escort you downstairs, sir.”

Good, Haoran thought, eyes flicking through the gap. More than half of them are leaving with him. That means… two, maybe three left behind. Still trained. Still armed. I can’t waste bullets. I can’t waste movements.

Their footsteps approached.

But I have to do something.

One of the guards stepped too close.

Haoran’s muscles coiled.

Thud—WHAM!

His foot slammed into the guard’s abdomen with surgical precision. The man’s breath burst out, his body folding before he collapsed like a puppet with its strings severed.

Another guard turned the corner.

“Huh? Hey—you okay?”

He knelt beside the unconscious man, shaking him.

Haoran stood behind him, silent.

He heard the click of a safety being disengaged behind the guard’s head.

The guard stiffened but never got the chance to turn.

POW!!

He dropped instantly.

“THERE IS AN INTRUDER!!”

Footsteps thundered. Shouts echoed.

“Ugh… there’s no end to them,” Haoran hissed under his breath, sprinting down the hallway.

If I stay here, I’ll be boxed in. If I run, they’ll flood the hallways. But I don’t have a damn choice.

He darted into the nearest room and slammed the door. He lifted a shattered table, a broken chair, a metal stand—anything with weight—and jammed them against the door. The banging started immediately.

“OPEN THE DOOR!!”

Haoran pressed his back against the barricaded door, chest heaving. Sweat slid down his neck.

This won’t hold them long. Thirty seconds, maximum.

His eyes swept the room—empty, bright, only a towering built-in glass wine cabinet between shelves.

Wait… I’ve been here before. This is the third-floor room I saw earlier. That means—there are guards outside the balcony too.

He looked up.

Should I make a hole in the—

BANG!

A bullet pierced the door, passing inches from his cheek.

He froze. Then slowly took a step back.

His mind raced.

Shit. Am I really left with one option—

Behind him, a soft mechanical ssshhhh cut through the tension.

A smell hit him next.

Warm. Sharp. A thick, spicy musk that punched straight through the adrenaline clouding his senses.

Haoran’s heart slammed against his ribs.

…that scent.

Before he could turn, something—someone—grabbed him.

Strong arms wrapped around his waist and yanked him backward into a dark space.

The wine cabinet door clicked shut.

“Mmmf—!”

A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, stifling the sound.

Haoran whipped his head up—

Gerya.

Pressed behind him.

Caged in the narrow dark space with him.

Close enough to feel every breath.

Haoran’s heart pounded wildly—not from fear. From how dangerously calm Gerya looked, shadows cutting across his face through the thin slats of the cabinet.

The guards stormed into the room.

“Stop right there!”

“Huh? Where did he go?”

“He couldn’t have vanished—check the balcony!”

Their voices faded as they rushed out again.

Only then did Gerya lean closer, lips almost brushing Haoran’s ear.

His whisper slid down Haoran’s spine like silk dipped in poison.

“Miss me, sweetheart?”

His breath was warm. Too warm. Like he was enjoying every tremor running through Haoran’s body.

Haoran’s jaw clenched.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t even push Gerya away—his hand was still covering Haoran’s mouth.

But he couldn’t deny the truth:

Gerya had saved him.

Again.

And that made him even more dangerous.

Because Gerya didn’t save people.

He collected them.

Haoran’s thoughts hardened like steel.

Just what are you planning, Gerya? You move through this mansion like you own it… you appear exactly when I’m cornered… and you always seem to know more than you should.

Gerya felt the tension in Haoran’s shoulders and chuckled softly against his ear.

“So tense,” he murmured. “Relax. If I wanted you caught, sweetheart… you’d already be on the floor with a bullet between your pretty eyes.”

Haoran glared at him through the dim light.

Gerya smirked.

A predator who enjoyed cornering his prey.

Haoran followed Gerya into the hidden passage, his footsteps careful, measured, almost silent against the cold stone beneath them. The darkness wrapped around the narrow corridor like a damp shroud. Thin, pale beams of light cut in through hairline cracks in the walls.

Every few seconds Gerya glanced back, unbothered, as if guiding Haoran through a familiar neighborhood rather than a secret escape tunnel inside a mafia-run manor.

Haoran’s eyes narrowed.

How the fuck does this guy even know there was a passageway here…?

This place belongs to the Vorontsovs. The blueprints I memorized didn’t have this. So how—

Gerya didn’t even look back when he murmured,

“Stop thinking so loudly, sweetheart. You’ll make the tunnel echo.”

Haoran stiffened.

But said nothing.

They reached the end of the passage—a ladder stretching upward into darkness. Gerya climbed without hesitation, pushing up the wooden hatch with the tips of his fingers.

He froze.

There was the faint shuffle of a boot on the floor above.

Haoran’s instincts snapped awake.

There’s someone up there.

Gerya’s eyes lowered, meeting Haoran’s through the dimness. The silent question hung between them.

Do we kill him now?

Haoran barely shook his head.

Not yet.

Gerya nodded once, slow, amused.

Haoran felt the burn of irritation under his skin—how easily Gerya understood him… how much he hated that Gerya understood him.

They waited.

Seconds slid by.

Haoran raised one hand—thumb up.

Now.

Gerya shoved the hatch open with brutal force.

The guard stumbled backward with a startled, “What the—?!”

Haoran fired instantly—two clean shots aimed center-mass.

The guard yelped, firing wildly in panic.

One bullet tore through the air—

ZING—

So close it grazed past Gerya’s ear, slicing a strand of his white-blond hair.

Haoran’s breath caught.

Gerya’s eyes widened for a heartbeat—

Then his lips curled into something feral.

A slow, vicious smirk.

He climbed out of the hatch with predatory grace.

“Stay—stay back—don’t come near me—!” the guard stuttered, scrambling backward, boots squeaking against the polished floor.

Gerya advanced anyway.

Haoran watched, horror prickling under his skin.

“Gerya—don’t—”

Too late.

Gerya grabbed the man by the face—one hand covering his mouth, the other digging fingers into the eye sockets.

The guard’s scream tore through the room, raw and bone-deep.

“AAAAAAHHH—!!”

Haoran flinched.

Gerya grinned wider.

Bones cracked.

Wet, sickening pops echoed like breaking fruit.

Blood sprayed.

Then with a cold, effortless kick, Gerya sent the man crashing through the window. Glass shattered outward, raining across the lawn below as the man’s body fell limp.

Haoran covered his mouth.

“Jesus Christ…”

Gerya brushed his bloodied fingers against Haoran's shirt, sighing almost bored. Then he turned on his heel and began walking away.

“Where are you going?” Haoran hissed, still shaken.

“Uhh… escaping?” Gerya answered with a shrug, stepping out into the hallway as if he hadn’t just gouged a man’s eyes out with his bare hands.

Haoran couldn’t believe this.

Couldn’t believe HIM.

But he still followed.

He had to.

Yet the moment they stepped into the hall—

The heavy stomp of boots echoed from both ends.

Guards.

A lot of them.

“Change of plans,” Gerya muttered, grabbing Haoran’s wrist and yanking him back into the room. He kicked the broken window wider, glass crunching under their shoes.

“Alright, sweetheart—brace yourself.”

“THERE THEY ARE!!”

Voices shouted behind them.

Haoran snapped, “What do you mea—”

He didn’t finish.

Gerya grabbed him by the collar—fist hooking under Haoran’s shirt.

“JUMP.”

Haoran’s eyes widened.

“Wait—GERYA—!”

But Gerya didn’t wait.

He pulled Haoran with him, and they leapt out the shattered window—

into the black, freezing night.

Chapter Text

They didn’t land so much as crash.

Or rather—Haoran crashed.

Gerya twisted mid-air like a damn acrobat and landed neatly on the hood of the moving car, but Haoran slammed down hard against the metal roof with a painful THUD that rattled all his bones.

“Ugh—!!” Haoran hissed sharply, the shock shooting through his wrist as it bent awkwardly beneath him. His vision blurred for a second before the rush of cold night air snapped him back to reality. Damn it… I must’ve twisted it. Great. Just what I need right now.

Gerya didn’t waste a single second. He lifted his elbow and smashed it through the driver-side window with a clean, practiced motion. Glass sprayed everywhere. Before the startled driver could even scream, Gerya had reached inside, grabbed the man by his collar, and yanked him clean out of the moving car. The man tumbled onto the asphalt with a horrible scraping sound.

The woman in the front passenger seat—mid-40s, neatly dressed, probably someone important—let out a blood-curdling scream.

“He—he just—HE JUST THREW THE MAN OUT!!” she wailed, trembling violently.

Meanwhile Gerya slid into the driver’s seat as smoothly as if he had been intending to steal this car since morning. Without looking back, he slammed his foot onto the accelerator, and the vehicle lurched forward.

Haoran finally managed to push his sore body off the roof and leap down, sprinting after the accelerating car.

This absolute asshole—did he forget he has a partner? Does he think this is a solo mission?! Haoran thought furiously, his legs burning as he reached the back passenger door, yanked it open, and slid inside.

He shut the door behind him and leaned back, panting hard.

“Don’t move,” he said coldly, snapping his gun up and aiming it at the woman’s head.

“G-gaaah—!!” The woman whimpered, pressing herself against the seat, shaking uncontrollably.

Haoran ignored her trembling. He was listening—calculating.

The gunfire from behind had ceased.

No more shots… tch. That means this woman is important. Very important. They can’t risk killing her. Which makes her the perfect shield. He pressed the muzzle closer to the terrified hostage, keeping his expression unreadable.

Suddenly—

BANG BANG BANG!!

Gunshots slammed into the rear of the car.

“Oh shit—!” Haoran ducked instinctively, the bullets shattering the back window. He glanced up just in time to see one of the Vorontsov sons—Nikolai Vorontsov—standing on the steps, firing relentlessly at them.

Nikolai… Of course it’s him. Irrational bastard. Does he not care about the hostage at all?!

Haoran shifted his gaze to the front—

The estate gates were still tightly closed.

“Shit—they’re close—! They’ll trap us!” he thought, his heartbeat tightening.

And then, to Haoran’s horror—

Gerya didn’t slow down.

He speeded up.

The woman shrieked, “WHOA—HEY!!! DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH?!”

“Aaahhh—WE’RE GOING TO CRASH—!!” she cried, clutching the dashboard, her voice cracking with panic.

“UAAAHHH!!!”

At the last possible second, the gates began to slide open—

Just enough.

Gerya grinned.

The car shot through the opening.

They burst out onto the road beyond, the cold air whipping violently into the shattered windows.

Haoran exhaled shakily and leaned back.

Thank god… We’re out. If that gate hadn’t opened—… tsk. Close call.

Behind him, the woman was sobbing uncontrollably, gasping for breath.

“Waaah—nnghhh—p-please—let me go—” she whimpered, trembling so hard her teeth chattered.

Haoran’s eye twitched at the noise. His headache pulsed.

Goddamn—she’s so noisy. Maybe I should just knock her ou—

POW.

A single shot rang out.

Haoran jerked his head up.

Gerya held the gun lazily, smoke curling from the barrel.

The woman slumped forward, blood blooming over her blouse like a dark flower.

“Так шумно,” Gerya muttered casually, lowering his gun. (So noisy.)

Haoran snapped, “WHAT THE FUCK, GERYA!!”

Gerya rolled his eyes dramatically, stretching out his words like he was bored.

“Чтооооо?” (whaaaat)

He shrugged, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily twirling the gun.

“She was too loud. I hate too much noise.”

No remorse. No hesitation. No shame.

Just pure, effortless cruelty wrapped in a bored expression.

Haoran glared at him, jaw clenched.

This bastard… manipulative, reckless, unpredictable. If I take my eyes off him for even one second, he’ll cause ten more problems. Why the hell am I stuck with him…?

The car sped deeper into the night, tension thick as smoke.

And they still had no idea how much worse things were about to get.

1:56 a.m. — hostel (somewhere in moscow) 

The hostel was quiet at this hour — the kind of silence that felt unnatural, heavy, as though the entire building was holding its breath. The fluorescent hallway lights buzzed faintly, but inside the bathroom, everything was muted, dim, and wrapped in warm steam.

Behind the frosted glass, the silhouette of a man stood tall.

Gerya.

Under the hot stream of water, he looked more like a creature sculpted from shadow and muscle than a student sharing a cheap hostel shower room.

The droplets rolled over him slowly, tracing the lines carved into his back — lines that were almost too perfect for a human body. And right down the center of his spine, the tattoo stood out in stark, bold ink:

“Сила в тишине.”

Strength in Silence.

The phrase followed the curve of his spine like a commandment carved into bone, giving him an air of old-world brutality — something inherited, not chosen. Something that ran deeper than the skin.

Water glided over the broad landscape of his shoulders, flowing along the sharp definition of his lats and trailing down to the small dip of his lower back. Every movement of his muscles made the tattoo shift slightly, as if the words themselves breathed with him.

Gerya tilted his head back, letting the water fall directly onto his face. Strands of wet hair clung to his cheekbones, then slid down the curve of his jaw.

He looked peaceful.

But Gerya’s peace was dangerous — because it meant he was thinking.

Plotting.

Amused.

His lips curled into a slow, private smirk, the kind someone only wore when a scheme was unfolding exactly the way they wanted.

He dragged a hand through his hair, slicking it back and exposing his full face — sharp jawline, predator-like eyes, the subtle slant of a man who always saw more than he pretended to.

As he lowered his arm, the tattoos on his chest caught the light.

The massive eagle stretched across his pecs — wings spread wide, so life-like it seemed ready to tear itself free from his skin. Its feathers followed the slope of his chest, dark ink highlighting every rise and fall of muscle.

In one claw, the eagle held a sword — straight, cold, and merciless.

In the other, a serpent — twisting, coiled, fanged.

And resting between its wings, at the center of his sternum, was the Russian V — “B.”

A symbol not chosen by ordinary men. A symbol that whispered of lineage, violence, legacy… power.

Water trickled down his torso, catching on the ridges of his abs before dripping lower, where the ink of the phoenix tail curled over his lower abdomen — dark feathers blooming just above the towel line, hinting at fire, rebirth, destruction.

Gerya glanced down at it and huffed out a breathless laugh… a sound too sharp to be joy.

More like mockery.

The steam thickened around him as he leaned an elbow against the shower wall, head tilted slightly as if listening to something only he could hear. The smirk on his lips deepened.

“So predictable…” he murmured to himself in Russian, the words swallowed by the hiss of the water. “Everyone is so… beautifully predictable.”

The room was dim except for the single desk lamp glowing a pale yellow. Haoran sat on the edge of the bed, jaw tight, breath shallow, his freshly bandaged wrist plunged into a large metal bowl full of ice and liqueur. The cold bit straight through the bruised flesh, sharp enough to make his vision blur for a second.

He hissed between his teeth.

“Whew… I needed this,” he muttered under his breath.

The pain throbbed up his arm, pulsing along his veins like fire trying to pretend it was ice.

Fucking hell… it hurts.

It’s all that asshole’s fault. Every last bit of it.

The ice shifted with a crackle as Haoran rolled his sleeve higher, submerging his wrist deeper. He clenched his jaw so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek.

His thoughts simmered, sharp and analytical even through the ache.

He’s in the shower like he owns the place.

Did I give him permission? No.

And we only got in because the owner wasn’t around.

This is temporary. Very temporary.

He glanced toward the bathroom door, irritation burning in his chest.

We can’t stay here long. We used his card — they’ll track it.

The police are already patrolling the blocks outside. Sirens every five minutes.

We wait for the patrols to rotate, then move. No mistakes.

Then—

Clack.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Haoran looked up.

And froze for half a second.

Gerya stepped out fully dressed, not even a hint of steam clinging to him anymore. A black turtleneck hugged his frame, outlining the shape of his torso, and dark pants made him look more like someone leaving a gala than someone who had just washed off blood and gunpowder.

Not even a damp collar.

Not even water on his neck.

As if the shower had never touched him.

Haoran’s eyes narrowed instinctively.

What, is he shy all of a sudden?

We’re both guys.

He could’ve wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out like a normal person.

He’s the type who would stroll naked through a battlefield if it amused him.

So seeing him completely covered up, neat, composed, elegant—

Suspicious.

Very suspicious.

He stared at Gerya long and hard, eyes sharp, dissecting every inch.

Gerya didn’t appreciate it.

“Damn,” he muttered, grabbing a bottle of whisky from the counter. “Stop staring at me like that. It’s creepy, you know…”

Haoran didn’t blink.

Didn’t drop his gaze.

Not even when Gerya poured himself a glass with smooth, careless confidence.

Silence stretched thin between them.

Until Haoran spoke:

“Tell me who you really are.”

His voice was low. Controlled.

The kind of calm that meant danger.

He leaned forward slightly, arm still submerged in the ice bowl, eyes fixed on Gerya with a piercing intensity that cut through the dim air.

“No matter how I look at it,” Haoran continued, “there is no way you’re just an ordinary agent like me.”

A pause.

Then he laid the facts out — cold, precise, undeniable.

“You had an official invitation to the Vorontsov manor,” he began. “You mingled with them like you’d grown up in their dining room. And don’t tell me it was acting — I watched you. You weren’t pretending.”

His tone sharpened.

“And that secret passageway? I doubt half the Vorontsov family even knows that exists. Yet you walked straight into it like you built it with your own two hands.”

Gerya’s lips twitched.

Not a smile.

Not a frown.

Something in between — a flicker of amusement he didn’t bother hiding.

Haoran wasn’t finished.

“And let’s talk about this—” he pointed at him with his free hand, “—this habit of yours. Appearing out of nowhere. Disappearing without a word. As partners, we’re supposed to update each other.”

He leaned back slightly, scoffing.

“But except for the handful of times you popped out like some… seductive demon, I had no fucking clue where you were or what you were planning.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous softness.

“I think you’re hiding something.”

A tense heartbeat passed.

Haoran’s expression changed — the faintest curve of a chuckle slipping from him, humorless and sharp. Then his face hardened instantly, eyes narrowing into deadly focus.

“And if I find out you really are hiding something,” he said quietly, coldly, “or lying to me this whole time…”

He lifted his gaze, meeting Gerya’s eyes head-on.

“…just make sure you hide your ass well.”

A thin, lethal smile touched his lips.

“Because I will kill you.”

The room fell into a heavy silence.

The ice cracked.

The whisky bottle clicked against the table as Gerya set it down.

Finally, Gerya exhaled — slow, long, almost theatrical.

“I guess your superiors didn’t tell you,” he said, voice frustratingly calm.

Haoran raised a brow.

“Hmm? I hardly know anything at all.”

He shrugged.

“So enlighten me, with every tiny detail you’ve got.”

Gerya sat across from him, crossing one leg over the other with casual elegance that shouldn’t have fit the tension in the room.

He tilted his head.

“Is this some kind of interrogation?”

Haoran tapped the table with his fingers, steady, rhythmic, intimidating.

“Consider it one, sweetheart.”

He leaned in.

“I mean, we don’t know anything about each other since we became partners. Especially you. Every single thing you’ve done since day one has been questionable.”

He tapped again — slow, controlled.

“So yes,” Haoran finished, voice low and sure, “consider this an interrogation.”

Gerya tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curving upward in an almost bored smirk.

“I clearly look Russian…” he said, casual yet pointed.

Haoran exhaled through his nose, eyes tracing the sharp lines of Gerya’s face.

He hated admitting it.

“I mean… you’ve got that Slavic look,” he muttered.

Gerya pressed his lips together like he was resisting laughter.

“Mm. And?” he asked, swirling the whisky in his glass.

He leaned back in the chair, completely relaxed—too relaxed for someone being interrogated.

“I speak the language like I’m a native,” he continued, lifting a brow. “I can pilot a helicopter without breaking a sweat.”

A pause.

“And I can fire a gun in the middle of a city and walk away without the police daring to cuff me.”

He shrugged lightly, elegant and mocking all at once.

“Just who could I be?”

Haoran’s eye twitched—not with fear, but pure frustration.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

He’s trying to pull me off balance. Make me chase answers instead of cornering him.

Haoran’s voice dropped, quieter, colder.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Yes, that is exactly why I’m cautious of you.”

Gerya blinked, slow and lazy, but there was a sharpness lurking behind those pale eyes.

Haoran leaned forward.

“Why would a guy who grew up with privilege,” he said carefully, “who grew up with a damn silver spoon shoved so far down his throat it might as well be engraved with his family name—why would someone like that go out of his way to help a Chinese agency?”

His gaze sliced into Gerya.

No blinking.

No wavering.

“You’re clearly Russian,” he continued. “You have power—more power than any normal operative should. I watched you overturn public authority like it was nothing.”

He remembered it vividly.

Guards stepping aside.

Officials looking away.

Police hesitating before reacting.

All because of him.

“You don’t take orders from a superior,” Haoran said. “Not really. You pretend to. But I’ve never once seen you obey anyone. Not even once.”

Gerya stayed silent, watching him with that unnerving stillness he had.

Haoran’s voice turned harder.

“I really don’t know why you’re working with me on this mission.”

His fingers tightened on the edge of the bowl. The ice cracked softly.

“Like I just don’t get it, Gerya.”

He stared at him—eyes dark, sharp, intense.

“Is ‘Gerya’ even your real name?”

Gerya smiled. But it wasn’t friendly.

It was dangerous.

Haoran felt it like a drop in air pressure.

His heartbeat thudded once, heavy.

“What is your actual motive?” Haoran asked, low and fierce. “Why me? Why this mission? Why now?”

His thoughts hissed beneath the surface:

This man doesn't act like an agent.

He acts like a king who decided to play spy for entertainment.

Like someone who could end governments with a phone call but prefers close-range chaos.

Haoran leaned even closer, eyes locking onto Gerya’s like he was trying to peel him open and read whatever secrets were coiled beneath the skin.

“Tell me,” he said, “before I find out myself.”

Chapter Text

The air thickened.

Gerya sat still, his eyes unreadable—a calm mask covering something ancient, dangerous, and cold.

Then, softly—

He laughed.

Not loud.

Not mocking.

Just a quiet, unsettling chuckle that slid across Haoran’s nerves like silk and knives.

Gerya leaned back, one arm draped casually over the chair, his posture loose—yet his eyes glinted like sharpened ice.

“So,” he said lightly, “I’m a businessman. Before I happened to get my citizenship as Russian.”

A businessman.

Haoran’s jaw tightened.

That’s the most useless, suspiciously vague answer I’ve ever heard.

‘Businessman’ my ass.

“You are willing to sell your country like that?” Haoran asked, voice low, unimpressed.

Gerya scoffed.

“Da fuq—” he flicked his wrist dismissively, “—do you think they’d care about me? Please. And besides…” his lips curved in a lazy, venomous smile, “it makes a lot of money.”

Haoran stared at him, expression blank.

So he’s admitting corruption. Connections. Treason.

Either he’s reckless… or he knows no one can touch him.

“Do you even know the motive of this mission?” Haoran asked.

Gerya raised a brow, as if insulted by the question.

Then he reclined deeper into the couch, fingers tapping rhythmically on the whisky glass.

“Of course I know.”

His voice dropped, dangerously smooth.

“We need to find out if the weapon that has China and the U.S. shaking in fear…”

His eyes locked onto Haoran’s.

“…has actually been developed.”

Haoran felt his pulse spike.

The way he said it—steady, clear, confident—made it sound like he wasn’t just informed.

He was involved.

“If it has,” Gerya continued casually, “we destroy it.”

A heartbeat of silence.

Then he added, with a smirk that made Haoran’s stomach clench—

“But if it failed… we take the blueprints. Isn’t that right?”

Haoran froze.

He knows.

Every damn detail.

Which means he’s not just some wildcard agent thrown into my mission… he’s someone with his own agenda.

“So he does know…” Haoran thought grimly.

“Then he must also be aware of the global fallout if we succeed. And the chaos if we fail.

So why the hell is he so calm?”

Haoran swallowed the irritation building in his chest.

“What would you gain from all this?” he asked.

Gerya didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took a slow sip of whisky.

Deliberate. Controlled.

Stalling—not because he was hiding, but because he enjoyed controlling the pace of the conversation.

Finally, he set the glass down with a soft tap.

“Whether the weapon has been developed or not…” he said, voice dropping with a velvety smoothness, “doesn’t matter to me.”

Haoran narrowed his eyes.

Doesn’t matter? The entire world is on edge because of this weapon.

“What matters,” Gerya continued, leaning forward slightly, “is that the blueprints for ‘Tamara’ exist somewhere in this country.”

Haoran stiffened.

“If your goal,” Gerya said, pointing lazily at him, “is to find the weapon…”

He tapped his own chest.

“Mine is different.”

Haoran’s brows furrowed.

Differ—

“I’m more interested in the blueprints,” Gerya finished with a smirk.

Silence.

Heavy.

Thick.

Pressing.

Haoran’s throat worked, eyes narrowing like blades.

“What?” he asked, voice dangerously calm.

Gerya’s grin widened—slowly, like a predator revealing fangs.

“You heard me, sweetheart.”

Haoran’s heart thudded once, then twice, harder.

He’s not here to help China.

He’s not here to stop Russia.

He’s not here to protect the world.

His goal was something far more dangerous.

And far more personal.

Haoran’s thoughts sharpened to a knife’s edge:

This bastard… he wants Tamara.

Not the weapon.

The plans.

The power.

Gerya leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest as if this entire conversation bored him. His voice dropped into that smooth, velvety tone he used whenever he wanted to disarm someone.

“think about it. the true fear of tamara comes from its existence itself rather than its actual destructive power,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving up. “so whoever possesses it will also be equally feared.”

Haoran’s jaw tightened.

He’s not even hiding it anymore… he’s openly admitting how dangerous his intentions are.

Gerya tapped a finger against the table, slow, rhythmic, casual—yet every tap felt calculated, like he was tapping directly against Haoran’s nerves.

“once i get my hands on the blueprints, i’m going to make my own tamara,” he continued, shrugging as if he were discussing something as trivial as building a toy. “it doesn’t matter if i fail. it’ll still pave the way for me to create the greatest weapon in history… so i’ll use the blueprints to produce new weapons that i can sell to special clients.”

That smirk deepened, slicing across his face like a knife.

“special clients…” Haoran repeated, voice firm, expression unreadable.

Inside, however, his thoughts churned violently.

Special clients? So he already has a buyer. That means he planned this even before partnering with me… This bastard has a network. A dangerous one. And he’s absolutely confident about it.

“Oh, right…” Gerya’s eyes lit up, as if remembering something amusing. He raised a brow. “if a ‘tamara 2.0’ is created, those who already know of its potential will be the clients.”

He paused deliberately, letting the weight of his words settle like dust after an explosion.

Haoran felt the pieces click in his mind—one after another.

I finally see the entire layout of this mission… now i understand this punk’s strange actions and how he knows so much. But why do I still feel suspicious of him? Why does it feel like he’s still hiding something deeper? Something worse?

When he lifted his eyes, Haoran was staring at Gerya with a cold, piercing seriousness—analyzing him like a threat rather than a partner.

Gerya noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

His smirk widened into something playful, teasing, but behind it flickered a glint of self-satisfaction.

“at this point, i think you really like staring at my face…” he drawled. “am i that beautiful?”

Haoran felt a vein throb in his temple.

This bastard… he’s toying with me even now.

But Gerya only leaned forward slightly, chin resting on the back of his hand, his voice dropping into something low and dangerously soft.

His eyes gleamed—sharp, mocking, knowing.

“you’re staring like a man trying to solve a puzzle,” he purred. “but don’t hurt your brain, haoran. even if you keep looking at me like that… you still won’t understand everything.”

Haoran stiffened slightly.

…He’s right. He’s hiding something bigger than what he’s admitting. Something that makes even these motives feel like a distraction. And that’s what makes him terrifying.

Gerya tilted his head, studying Haoran with an expression that bordered on affectionate—though Haoran knew better than to believe such illusions.

“still… i don’t really mind,” Gerya murmured. “being stared at by a serious guy like you… it’s kind of flattering.”

Haoran exhaled sharply.

It wasn’t quite a sigh, but it wasn’t calm either.

He’s a fucking snake… but I can’t afford to look away.

Haoran stared at him for several long seconds—expression firm, sharp, and unreadable—before he reached into his pocket and tossed a small recording device onto the table. It skidded to a stop right in front of Gerya.

“I happen to have recorded the conversation between Bes and someone from Mirnov,” Haoran said. His tone was low, level, and all business—every word clipped with precision. “I’m sure you heard it as well. But the Vorontsovs seem to be leading the development of some kind of weapon. From what they called it, it’s likely an ICBM. But we’ll need to do more digging.”

Gerya picked up the device with lazy fingers, spinning it once between his knuckles. He didn’t interrupt—his eyes were too focused, too attentive for someone pretending to be relaxed.

Haoran continued, “I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be ‘tamara.’ But the thought did come to mind, considering russia’s minister of foreign affairs and minister of defense, as well as China, are all involved.”

His expression tightened slightly, the weight of responsibility falling heavy across his shoulders.

This isn’t just a weapon. It’s an international trigger. If mishandled, it could fracture the entire global balance.

“I’m going to program Bes’s voice from that recording into a voice changer,” Haoran said. “I’ll use it to lure out Mirnov. If I can meet with him, I’ll be able to find out who the technician coming from China is… as well as their destination.”

He finished, voice steady, but inside his mind, thoughts churned.

This is the safest plan. Calculated. Controlled. It minimizes exposure. And yet… with Gerya involved, nothing ever stays predictable.

For a moment, silence held between them—thick and electric.

Then Gerya chuckled.

A soft, too-amused sound, slipping through the quiet like a blade across silk.

“wow… you sound like me,” he said, eyes glinting with playful wickedness.

Haoran’s jaw tightened instantly.

“I’m nothing like you,” he said coldly. “so don’t compare us. we are two different beings, gerya.”

“Oh?” Gerya leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles, the smirk never leaving his lips. “is that so? because for a second… it really felt like i was listening to myself.”

Haoran’s brows drew together.

He’s provoking me again. Always testing. Always pushing. What is his endgame?

Gerya let out a soft chuckle—a sound with no warmth, but plenty of meaning.

“members of the mafia have tattoos on their bodies,” he said suddenly, the shift in topic so sharp it felt deliberate. “do you know what they signify?”

Haoran frowned. “why is that important right now?”

Gerya’s smile widened—slow, calculated, serpent-like.

“it’s very important, actually.”

He lifted his arm, tapping the faint ink peeking from beneath his sleeve—barely visible, yet undeniably present.

“these markings aren’t decorations. they’re histories… allegiances… entire lives carved into skin,” he murmured. “they show who you belong to. what you’ve survived. what you can never walk away from.”

His eyes flicked up, locking onto Haoran’s with a piercing intensity that felt impossible to shake.

“and if you were to attack someone from Mirnov,” Gerya continued, voice dropping to something dangerously soft, “then that would be the equivalent of you making everyone with the same tattoo as them your enemy.”

Haoran froze.

The implications hit him at once.

Gerya leaned back, gaze half-lidded, every breath he took dripping calm control.

“would you be okay with that?” he asked, almost gently—yet the question itself sliced like a knife. “declaring war on every man who bears that mark? every soldier, every assassin, every loyalist tied to the Mirnov lineage for generations?”

Haoran’s fingers curled slowly against his thigh.

Haoran lifted his gaze, tone steady but edged with ice.

“What exactly are you implying, Gerya?”

Gerya smiled—soft, dangerous, knowing.

“nothing,” he lied smoothly. “i’m simply asking if you’re ready to make enemies you can’t see… can’t predict… and can’t run from.”

Haoran’s heartbeat thudded once—sharp, heavy, like a warning echoing inside his chest.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t lift his head. Didn’t give Gerya the satisfaction of a reaction.

Instead, he stared down into the bowl of ice, the cold water swirling around his bruised wrist as he absently rotated it. Frost clung to his skin. The sting grounded him. Anchored him.

“I don’t care…” Haoran said quietly.

The words seemed small, almost casual—but the weight behind them was iron. His shoulders tensed, the muscles at his jaw tightening as he stirred the ice again, melting it faster with the heat of his frustration.

Across the table, Gerya tilted his head.

A slow grin edged its way onto his lips—sharp, amused, taunting.

“I wonder where you get your confidence from, Haoran,” he drawled, voice sliding like smoke. “people don’t usually say ‘I don’t care’ when they’re talking about making an entire mafia dynasty their enemy. unless…”

He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing in predatory curiosity.

“you’re hiding a card.”

Haoran inhaled once, steady and controlled, keeping his gaze on the frosted water as if the answer lay inside it.

“Nowhere…” he murmured.

A beat.

“i just…”

Gerya’s brows lifted a fraction.

“you just…?”

He leaned even closer now—the way someone does when they’re about to steal a secret right from someone’s throat. His presence pressed into the room like a tightening grip.

Haoran finally lifted his head.

Their eyes met.

And for the first time in this entire conversation—Haoran wasn’t analyzing him, wasn’t evaluating or dissecting his motives.

He was simply looking at him.

“I just happen to have a monster as my ally,” Haoran said.

Silence cracked through the room.

Gerya’s eyes widened—just a fraction—shock flickering through them like a candle flame snuffed too fast. It was barely noticeable, almost nonexistent, but Haoran caught it. He always caught everything.

Monster… ally…? He didn’t mean that lightly. So he sees me as both? Dangerous enough to depend on… and too dangerous to trust.

Gerya’s thoughts tightened, a coil of satisfaction mixed with something sharper—pride? amusement? annoyance? It was impossible even for him to name it.

Then, slowly, almost sensually, a smirk unfurled across his lips.

“Oh… I see,” he murmured, voice curling with wicked warmth. “so that’s how you see me.”

Haoran didn’t respond. His expression stayed flat, serious, unblinking.

He can think whatever he wants. As long as he stays useful… and predictable enough not to stab me in the back. But that will never happen with someone like him. Monsters can’t be predicted—they can only be aimed.

Gerya leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily like a cat who had just been fed a long-awaited treat.

“calling me a monster so casually,” he said, tapping lightly on the table with one finger, rhythmic and deliberate. “you really are something else, Haoran.”

His smirk deepened.

“And here I thought you were just a serious little agent trying to keep up.”

Haoran raised a brow.

“I’m not trying to keep up,” he replied quietly. “i’m trying to stay ahead.”

Gerya laughed—low, rich, amused—but behind the laughter, his eyes sharpened.

This partner of mine… he’s not as tame as he looks. And that makes him dangerous. Dangerous men are interesting. And useful.

The laughter faded, but the smirk stayed.

“Oh, Haoran,” he said softly, voice dripping with that too-familiar mixture of mockery and admiration. “you really do say the most fascinating things.”

Haoran dipped his hand deeper into the ice, hiding the slight tremble that came not from fear—but from the intensity of the moment.

I’ll use him until the job’s done. After that… if he becomes a threat, I’ll neutralize him. Monster or not.

Gerya watched him closely, reading the unspoken words in his silence.

He liked what he saw.

He liked it too much.

Gerya stood up, stretching lazily as though everything they’d talked about—monsters, blueprints, world-shaking weapons—was nothing but late-night small talk.

“Alright then. Let’s make the call later,” he said smoothly. “But I’m famished. I’ll go look for some food.”

He grabbed his card and slipped out the door without waiting for Haoran’s response—classic Gerya. Moving on his own terms. Making his own timing. Leaving Haoran with a silence heavy enough to feel like smoke.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Haoran let out a sharp sigh, shoulders dropping for the first time in hours.

Finally… some breathing space.

“I should shower…” he thought, rolling his sore wrist and wincing. “Maybe the heat will loosen it up. And clear my head.”

A few minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom wearing only a white singlet clinging to his chest and soft cotton boxers. His long hair—normally tied into neat cornrows—was now undone, washed out, wrapped loosely in a towel at the back of his head. His shoulders glistened faintly from leftover steam.

He inhaled deeply.

And then—

“Aa—choo!”

He froze.

“…I shouldn’t have bathed with cold water,” he thought irritably, rubbing his nose.

He took two steps toward the table—

And stopped.

His blood ran cold.

Right there—on the wooden table, next to the whisky bottle—was a massive roach.

Not regular house size.

This motherfucker was the size of a keychain.

Haoran’s heart dropped.

His knees weakened.

His soul left his body.

“Oh hell no…” he whispered, voice cracking.

He scanned quickly—newspaper on the floor.

He stalked forward slowly, trembling like he’d walked into a haunted house.

“Alright… easy and slow…” he muttered, lifting the newspaper like a damn shield. “You ugly little bastard… stay still…”

As if hearing him—

As if it had a damn personality—

The roach turned its head.

And lifted its wings.

Haoran’s eyes widened in pure horror.

No. No. No—don’t you dare—

The roach LAUNCHED into the air.

Straight toward him.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH—

IT FLIESSSSSSSS—IT FLIESSSSSSS—!!!”

Haoran shrieked like he’d been stabbed, the towel from his hair flying off dramatically. He bolted toward the door on instinct—straight into—

Gerya.

Who had just opened the door holding two plastic bags full of food.

Before Gerya could even say a word, Haoran didn’t just grab him—

He scaled him.

He climbed that man like he was a damn oak tree.

In two seconds flat, Haoran was wrapped around him—arms around his head, legs locked around his waist, whole body trembling uncontrollably.

Gerya froze mid-step.

“…Haoran??” he mumbled, bags dangling stupidly from his hands.

“嗯……那裡……那裡有……一隻蟑螂……房間裡有隻蟑螂。” Haoran whimpered in rapid Chinese, voice shaking so badly it barely sounded human. (Hmm... there... there's... a cockroach... there's a cockroach in the room.)

Gerya blinked.

“Huh?”

He didn’t understand a single word.

He just felt Haoran shaking like a leaf on him.

Haoran buried his face into Gerya’s shoulder and whispered harshly, “Cockroach… there…”

As if the roach heard its name, it crawled boldly across the wall.

Gerya spotted it.

And then—

He broke.

He burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh—oh my God—”

He doubled over slightly, still holding Haoran up.

“The GREAT Haoran—feared agent—deadly sniper—terrifying interrogator— is afraid… of THIS tiny roach?! HAHAHAHAHAHA—”

“Shut up… and kill that demon…” Haoran hissed through his teeth, voice trembling.

Gerya wiped a tear from laughing too hard.

“Alright, alright… but you have to get down first.”

Haoran clung even tighter—legs squeezing around Gerya’s waist like a vice.

“NO.”

“Haoran…” Gerya said, trying to peel him off gently.

“NO!”

“Get down.”

“I SAID NO!!”

He clung so hard Gerya actually had to adjust his grip to keep him from choking him with his own arm.

This man… this serious, stoic, straight-backed agent… terrified of something that fits in a sock?

Gerya couldn’t breathe from how funny it was.

But beneath the laughter, something else flickered in his mind:

So the fearless Haoran… does have fears. Cute.

Gerya tightened his arms around Haoran’s waist, steadying him.

“Alright then, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement dripping off every word. “If you won’t get down…”

He shifted his weight slightly—

muscles flexing beneath Haoran’s legs—

“…then I guess I’ll just have to kill it while you’re glued to me.”

Haoran froze.

“Don’t you dare shake me—if I fall—if it touches me—I swear to god—”

Gerya laughed again.

“This is going to be fun.”

Chapter Text

Gerya didn’t put Haoran down, not immediately anyway.

He held him the way one would carry a startled cat—firmly, lazily, as if Haoran weighed absolutely nothing to him. Haoran’s hand was still hooked around the back of Gerya’s shoulder, his face half-buried in the curve of Gerya’s neck, refusing to look at the floor where the roach had been.

Gerya straightened to his full towering height and strode across the room with theatrical determination. His boots thudded like he was marching off to war.

Then he spotted the roach.

“Alright,” he announced in the most dramatic, overacted tone imaginable, “i have killed it, my little prince in distress…”

He slammed his foot down with enough force to shake a faint vibration through the floorboards. Haoran felt it through Gerya’s arms and finally lifted his head from Gerya’s shoulder, blinking hard.

“…oh,” Haoran muttered, eyes flickering to the squished smear on the floor, “thanks. i guess.”

He began shifting in Gerya’s arms, trying to descend. His legs kicked a little, awkward but determined. But before he could slip free, Gerya’s arms locked around him—tightening, pulling him even closer.

Haoran’s brows twitched downward.

“what now…” he said, voice flat with a growing edge of annoyance.

Gerya tilted his head, giving Haoran that smug, infuriating smirk that always meant trouble.

“You know,” he said, “i saved you from that bug… now, a little way to appreciate me seems fair, don’t you think?”

“I just said thank you. now let go.”

Haoran shoved at Gerya’s chest, but it was like pushing against a wall carved out of steel.

“it’s not enough,” Gerya purred. “i carried you all this while. give me a kiss.”

Haoran froze.

“…a what??”

“A kiss, sweetheart.” Gerya tapped his cheek with one finger. “right here. or on the mouth. i’m not picky.”

Something in Haoran snapped—not anger, not embarrassment, but a sudden, sharp urge to shut Gerya up.

His thoughts swirled:

He’s doing it again. Pushing. Testing. Playing with me like i’m some toy… fine. If he wants to be shocked, i’ll give him something to choke on.

Haoran grabbed Gerya’s cheeks with both hands, yanked his face forward—

And pressed his lips firmly, stiffly, directly onto Gerya’s mouth.

“Mmm—muAAAHH—”

The sound was awkward. Mechanical. Absolutely not romantic.

Gerya’s eyes went wide, pupils dilating in honest, unfiltered surprise.

He hadn’t expected Haoran to actually do it. Definitely not like that.

Haoran pushed off him immediately after, finally slipping out of Gerya’s hold and landing neatly on his feet. His face was flushed, but he kept his expression perfectly serious—like he had simply signed a document or returned change.

“happy now?” he said, picking up his meal and sitting down, already digging into the food like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Gerya remained standing exactly where Haoran had been moments before.

One hand slowly rose to his lips.

He touched them.

Then he smirked—slow, parted-lips, wickedly amused.

“well,” he said with a soft snort, “i wasn’t expecting that kiss… you kiss so stiff.”

Haoran’s jaw tightened.

He refused to look up.

But inside, his thoughts churned in tight, controlled circles:

He’s going to tease me about this for days. disgusting. annoying. manipulative idiot…

Why did i even do that…

…why did he look so surprised?

Gerya leaned over him, still grinning like a predator that had just discovered a new kind of prey.

“Oh, Haoran,” he murmured, “you really are full of surprises.”

Haoran shoved a spoonful of food into his mouth as aggressively as possible.

“shut up,” he muttered.

Gerya’s smirk widened.

The warehouse loomed like a rusted giant—silent, cold, and waiting.

Rows of cars were parked in crooked lines, their windows black, their engines ticking faint traces of leftover heat. The only movement in the night came from Haoran’s sharp eyes cutting through the darkness and Gerya’s lazy swagger behind him.

Haoran scanned the perimeter, every sense tuned razor-tight.

Gerya, on the other hand, popped his gum loudly, the sound echoing in the stillness as he casually lifted a small silver bottle of whisky to his lips.

Their contrast was almost comedic—if the situation weren't already deadly.

There’s one person waiting out here, Haoran noted, muscles coiling, the rest of them must’ve already gone inside… they don’t look like they’re trying to attack. suspicious… too suspicious.

He didn’t hesitate.

The moment his instincts tightened, he opened fire at the parked car where the lone man hid.

Bullets shattered the windshield in a bright spray of glass.

“What the—?!” the man choked out, ducking—

—but when he looked up, Gerya was already crouched on top of the car roof, silhouette outlined by the moonlight, blowing the biggest, slowest bubblegum bubble possible.

It popped sharply.

Gerya’s eyes narrowed with an amused glint as he slid down and ripped the car door open. Before the man could scream, Gerya dragged him out with one brutal yank.

Haoran immediately forced his face away.

No. Not again. I’m not watching him rip another man’s jaw off… I’ve seen enough of that. One more time and I’ll be sick.

There was a thud, a crack, a short scream—and then silence.

Gerya dusted his hands off like he had merely fixed a crooked painting, then turned to Haoran with a pleased smile.

He grabbed Haoran’s shirt and wiped the blood off his own hands using it.

Haoran recoiled instantly.

“What the fuck—” he snapped, fury sparking across his usually controlled expression.

“whaaat!! my hends vas so dirty, da…” Gerya whined in a mocking tone, already stepping past him. “come on, we must go see who came to represent Mirnov.”

He smirked, pleased with himself.

Haoran gritted his teeth but followed. He didn’t have the patience to deal with him—but he needed him.

The warehouse door creaked like an old beast waking.

Inside, dim lights flickered and shadows stretched long across the floor.

At the far end, sitting comfortably like he owned the entire criminal underworld, was a massive man surrounded by guards—arms crossed, bearing thick and arrogant.

Vadim.

The big shot of the Mirnov.

Haoran’s eyes narrowed.

So it’s him… the one pulling strings from the dark. He doesn’t look surprised to see us. Why is he calm? He should have expected Bes… not us.

“You are late,” Vadim said, smirking with the casual confidence of a king on his throne.

Haoran’s jaw tightened.

He’s too relaxed… Do these two already know each other?

He flicked a glance at Gerya.

Gerya popped another bubble—loud, disruptive, intentionally disrespectful.

“So,”

continued, leaning back with a deep breath, “there was a big commotion at the Vorontsovs last night? when I heard YOU started it, I was rather doubtful.”

Gerya shrugged like he couldn’t care less.

Haoran caught the exchange.

Why does he talk like they’re familiar…? damn it—Gerya and his hidden connections.

“Why are you doing this?” Vadim asked, irritation creeping into his tone.

Gerya tilted his head innocently.

“because… it’s fun. duhhhh.”

Vadim clicked his tongue. “How reckless of you.”

“wouldn’t most people say i’m daring?” Gerya countered with a lazy smile.

“Tsk tsk…” Vadim sighed.

The atmosphere thickened.

Haoran decided he’d had enough.

“alright. enough with the chit chat.” His voice cut through the room like a blade. “where is Tamara?”

The guards shifted, hands inching to their guns.

Vadim's smirk returned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh right,” Haoran said, eyes narrowing even further, “or should I say… Abyss-99?”

The reaction was instant.

Vadim’s eyes blew wide open.

Gerya glanced at Haoran with an impressed little side-smile.

Got your ass. Haoran thought coolly, allowing himself a small flicker of inner satisfaction.

“I have a few questions about that weapon,” Haoran continued, stepping closer.

Vadim’s expression twisted.

“I was wondering,” Vadim said slowly, “why a rat stepped into its own trap. was that your objective? I don’t know whether to call you brave or stupid. Surely, you don’t think I’ll readily give you answers, do you?”

Haoran rolled his shoulders once.

Then cracked his knuckles.

The sound echoed through the warehouse like a promise.

His eyes were cold steel.

“then you leave me no choice, if simply talking won't work, let's get a little more physical, shall we?” Haoran said.

And the real tension began to rise—

The warehouse was pandemonium—a violent, choking mess of smoke, bullets, and raw panic.

Gunshots ricocheted off steel pillars, sparks snapping through the fogged air like fireflies gone rabid. Haoran moved through the chaos with the sharp, cold precision of a hunting blade—silent, controlled, ruthless.

“shit…” he muttered under his breath as more guards poured out from behind crates.

He ducked, rolled, and fired three clean shots.

Two men dropped. The third staggered.

Haoran reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the smooth metal of what he needed—

psshk—BOOM

The tear gas exploded into a thick, suffocating white haze.

Instantly the warehouse dissolved into a ghostly fog. Guards coughed, barked orders, clutched their eyes.

Haoran slipped on his eye-detection glasses—dark, sleek, multi-lens scanners—and the world changed.

Silhouettes glowed like heat signatures.

One to the left—

Three to the right—

Another crawling behind a car—

Focus. Shoot. Move. Don’t stop.

He fired with precision, each shot deadly and emotionless.

Then he looked toward Boris' seat—

Empty.

“shit.” His heart lurched once. “where did he go—?”

A shadow lunged at him from the side.

Haoran jerked back. The knife sliced through his arm in a searing line of pain.

“fuck—my arm…” he hissed, gritting his teeth.

Hot blood dripped fast, but he ignored it.

I can’t kill him… if this is Vadim, if he dies, we came here for nothing. I need him alive. Just incapacitate. Nothing more.

He focused again—eyes narrowing through the haze—

Behind him, Gerya stood with his hands in his pockets, surrounded by a literal carpet of unconscious (or dead) bodies.

The smoke framed him like he was the devil’s favorite boy—smirking, sharp-eyed, amused.

Vadim lunged again.

Haoran lifted his gun—

Aim for the leg.

BANG

“AARGHH!!” Vadim collapsed, clutching his thigh.

Gerya walked over, stepping on a body without even looking down.

“That was very risky…” he hummed, looking at Haoran’s bleeding arm. “if the knife had entered your tummy you would not have had sex for a whole month.”

Even injured, Haoran shot him a look of pure deadpan murder.

“thanks for the concern…” he muttered tightly.

Gerya laughed under his breath—low and wicked—then stepped close, taking Haoran’s wrist and beginning to undo the buttons of his blood-soaked sleeve.

“At this speed, we’d be stuck here all night,” Gerya drawled.

Haoran’s eyebrow twitched.

Wow. This help would’ve been GREATLY needed some minutes ago when I got stabbed.

But he forced a polite smile.

“How nice of you.”

“My pleasure, sweetheart,” Gerya purred.

Haoran immediately yanked his hand back, wrapped the ruined shirt around his wounded arm, and marched toward Vadim—who was attempting to crawl away.

Haoran grabbed him by the collar and threw him into the chair.

The metal rattled violently as he cuffed Vadim’s hands behind his back.

“UGHH!!” Vadim grimaced.

Haoran straightened… then began examining the room again.

Something rusty caught his eye.

A pack of old nails.

His lips curled.

Perfect.

He grabbed them, then seized Vadim’s hair, yanking his head back.

Vadim coughed, sputtered.

“You think this will make me talk?” Vadim croaked.

“let’s see,” Haoran said flatly.

He shoved the handful of nails into Vadim’s mouth and taped it shut in one swift, merciless motion.

Gerya folded his arms, leaning against a table, eyes glittering with pure enjoyment.

He wasn’t going to interrupt—no, he liked watching this side of Haoran.

Haoran paced slowly around Vadim, boots echoing in the otherwise-silent warehouse.

“alright,” he began calmly, “shall we start?”

He leaned close, voice low and cold.

“china is sending a technician to russia to repair Abyss-99. correct? I heard they arrive tomorrow. so—where can we find them?”

Vadim tried to snarl something behind the tape.

Haoran delivered a sharp punch to his jaw.

Vadim choked on the nails, coughing violently.

“You ready to talk now?” Haoran murmured, tilting his face up by the chin.

Vadim shook his head hard.

“Oh…? you’re sure?” Haoran said softly.

He punched him again—then again—three brutal, clean strikes.

The tape peeled at the edges from the impact.

Haoran ripped it off.

Vadim spat the nails out, gasping, panting.

Haoran crouched to eye level, gaze razor-sharp.

“let me ask again,” he said quietly. “who is the technician coming to work on Abyss-99?”

Vadim glared—then spat in Haoran’s face.

Silence.

Haoran froze.

Gerya’s smile widened.

This is harder than I expected… Haoran thought, wiping the spit off slowly, expression darkening into something quietly lethal.

And the interrogation had only just begun.

Haoran walked slowly—too slowly—toward the knife Vadim had dropped, each step crisp, deliberate, echoing in the blood-stained warehouse like a countdown to something far worse than death.

He crouched, picked up the knife, wiped the blade clean on the hem of his already ruined shirt, and turned toward Gerya.

“why don’t you step outside for a moment…” Haoran said without looking at him.

Gerya laughed under his breath, leaning his shoulder against a pillar.

“please, just pretend I wasn’t here,” he murmured, eyes bright, predatory, hungry for the show.

Haoran exhaled through his nose.

I was trying to be considerate. but of course… that only gets him more excited.

“alright then,” Haoran said—voice smooth, almost pleasant.

He moved behind Vadim, who was tied to the chair, trembling, blood streaked down his temple. The man shook his head frantically, breathing hard through his nose.

Haoran rested the blade gently against Vadim’s cheek.

“So…” he began conversationally, “they say Native American warriors used to hunt down as many enemies as they could to prove their bravery.”

The knife slid down Vadim’s cheek—slow, feather-light, intimate.

Vadim flinched, whimpering.

“Their methods,” Haoran continued, “were infamous. brutally unforgettable. They forced their victims to suffer excruciating pain until their final breath.”

Gerya’s smile widened.

His eyes gleamed like a child being shown a new toy.

Haoran tilted Vadim’s head upward, studying him with unnerving calmness.

“Compared to what they did,” he whispered, “beheading someone is humane. it only takes a moment, after all.”

Vadim’s lips trembled; his breath came in short, uneven gasps.

Haoran grinned—a slow, spreading, uncharacteristically vicious smile that even startled Gerya for half a second.

“And yet…” he continued, tapping the knife against Vadim’s chin, “those warriors… they would skin people’s heads while they were still alive.”

Vadim let out a muffled cry—raw, primal fear.

“Most victims died from shock before it was even halfway done,” Haoran added lightly. “I heard the pain is incomparable. worse than breaking bones. worse than being stabbed. worse than being shot.”

He leaned in until their noses almost touched.

Vadim tried desperately to look away—Haoran grabbed his jaw, forcing him forward.

“You’re trembling already?” he murmured.

Gerya’s pupils dilated.

He was drinking in every second—this wasn’t the usual Haoran, the stern, disciplined soldier. This version was something darker, colder, dangerous in a way Gerya recognized.

So he’s not as clean as he pretends… Gerya thought, pulse quickening.

Good. show me more.

Vadim screamed suddenly—

“AAAHHH!!”

Haoran didn’t even flinch.

He simply straightened the blade, placing it against Vadim’s hairline.

Then, very softly—like a teacher coaxing a child—he asked:

“shall we begin again?”

He crouched beside Vadim, smile gone now—replaced by a chilling seriousness that cut deeper than the knife ever could.

He twirled the knife between his fingers, the way a pianist plays with keys.

“So…” he whispered in Vadim’s ear, voice low enough to make the man shake.

“who… is the technician?”

Vadim cried, biting down on his lip.

Haoran lightly pressed the blade against the soft skin of Vadim’s scalp.

“don’t worry,” Haoran murmured, tone deceptively gentle, “I won’t remove the whole scalp.”

He smiled.

“just enough of it to help you remember how to speak.”

Behind him, Gerya exhaled a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-aroused thrill.

And here I thought I was the crazy one, Gerya thought.

Haoran didn’t break eye contact with Vadim.

“now,” he said softly, “let’s try this again… while you still have your hair.”

Chapter Text

The warehouse door groaned as Haoran shoved it open, cold air slicing in like a blade. Snow spiraled inside, melting on his coat before he stepped out. His knuckles were still aching from how long he’d been using them.

He wiped his hands down the front of his coat—slow, methodical, like he was brushing off something invisible. Gerya followed behind him, humming to himself as if they hadn’t just broken a grown man’s spirit inside.

“Poor guy,” Haoran muttered, breath fogging in the freezing air. “He’s gonna have nightmares for weeks.”

Gerya stretched lazily, rolling his neck until it cracked. “Yeah… but honestly, he should be grateful you didn’t go all the way. Were you really planning on skinning him alive?” he asked with a grin way too casual for the situation.

Haoran didn’t answer. His expression was flat, irritated, and slightly exhausted—the kind of look that meant he had considered it, and Gerya damn well knew.

But Gerya, being Gerya, kept going.

“You know,” he said, stepping closer, amusement glittering in his eyes, “you were pretty sexy back there. Something about you snapping like that? Hah… dangerous.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “It kinda—”

He suddenly grabbed Haoran’s wrist and dragged his hand toward his crotch, smirking like a fox that found the henhouse unlocked.

“—did things to me.”

Haoran didn’t even blink.

He simply grabbed and twisted.

Fast.

Hard.

Gerya instantly folded forward with a choked, “Ow— ow— OW— okay—!”

Haoran’s jaw tightened, voice low and icy.

“Don’t mess with me. Ever.”

“Ow—okay, okay, jeez—!” Gerya wheezed, grimacing. “You almost cost me a testicle today—”

But then he had the audacity to start laughing.

“Honestly? I kinda liked it.”

Haoran looked at him like he was a disease.

He yanked his hand back sharply, wiped it—twice—on Gerya’s immaculate coat with the most offended expression known to mankind, then muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “I need disinfectant.”

Gerya just smirked, straightening up, eyes sharp and glinting with mischief.

“You keep touching me like that,” he said softly, “and you’ll give me the wrong idea, Haoran.”

Haoran didn’t even turn his head.

“Don’t flatter yourself you disgusting pervert.”

According to the information I squeezed out of Vadim…

Haoran’s mind replayed the interrogation like a series of cold, sharp photographs.

“Wang Fang,” the Chinese technician… getting on the Dmitri Furmanov passenger ship… disguised as a Vietnamese tourist.

A cover that thin usually meant desperation—or brilliance.

With Wang Fang, it could be both.

Not even Vadim knew if, when, or how Vorontsov’s people would make contact before Moscow.

Too many blanks. Too many variables. Too many points where a single wrong shadow could swallow the entire trail.

Haoran opened the passenger door and slid in, his movements crisp and economical. Snow melted instantly on the car’s heated interior, dripping off his coat in tiny rivulets.

Behind him, Gerya lingered for a moment—watching him, studying him. Something in Gerya’s stare always felt like a knife tracing the edges of a map only he could read.

Haoran didn’t turn. He refused to acknowledge it.

There are so many uncertainties, he thought, fingers drumming once against his knee. But it doesn’t matter. As long as we follow Wang Fang… we reach Abyss-99.

Even thinking the name made his pulse tighten. 

The driver’s door opened.

Gerya slid in behind the wheel with a lazy grace that contrasted Haoran’s rigid stillness. He brushed snow off his jacket, humming under his breath, then glanced at Haoran with that sharp, lopsided smile that meant he already knew more than he was saying.

“So,” Gerya murmured, tapping the steering wheel. “Our little tourist. The man with too many secrets and not enough sense.”

He leaned back casually, eyes narrowing just enough to give away his interest. “Tell me again how you got Vadim to talk. He looked like someone had wrung out his soul.” A soft chuckle. “You’re getting efficient.”

Haoran didn’t respond.

It wasn’t modesty. It was necessity.

Gerya filled silence the way other men filled addictions—habitually, recklessly, with a hint of cruelty. He watched Haoran a moment longer before smirking, as if satisfied with whatever conclusion he’d drawn from Haoran’s unreadable expression.

“You know what I like about this plan?” Gerya asked lightly, starting the engine. “It’s messy. Dangerous. Full of holes. And you—” he nodded toward Haoran “—you’ve already mapped out every possibility in that pretty little mind of yours, haven’t you?”

Haoran’s jaw tightened.

He talks too much, Haoran thought. He always talks too much. But he isn’t wrong.

Every angle, every potential double-cross, every window of opportunity—they were already laid out in Haoran’s head like a field of pressure points.

“Focus,” he said quietly.

“Oh, I’m focused.” Gerya’s grin turned wolfish. “Just not always on what you expect.”

Haoran ignored him.

He stared out the window as the car pulled out into the snow-laden road. Cold streetlights washed over the glass, turning the world into a series of pale, fleeting frames.

Their mission depended on tracing a man who didn’t want to be found.

A man clever enough to survive Vorontsov.

A man important enough to lead them to the deepest, darkest secret of the Russian bio-arms network.

Wang Fang was their thread.

Haoran’s fingers curled slowly into a fist on his lap.

Whatever waits there… we end it.

Beside him, Gerya shot a sideways glance—curious, sly, and disturbingly entertained by Haoran’s silence.

“You know,” he said softly, “watching you think is one of my favorite things. You get that look—like you’re holding the world together through sheer discipline.” His smile deepened. “Makes me want to see what happens if someone… pulls at the edges.”

Haoran didn’t look at him.

But his voice was steady and lethal.

“Try it,” he said. “And see what happens.”

Gerya laughed, delighted.

The car rolled deeper into the snow-veiled night.

Their hunt for Wang Fang—and the truth—had begun.

The Dmitri Furmanov passenger ship rocked gently against the dock as Haoran and Gerya made their way down the polished corridor. The hall lights were soft, gold-tinted—warm enough to feel safe, but dim enough to hide things. Perfect for lies.

They’d gotten through the gate with a combination of forged documents and the ease with which Gerya could weaponize his own smile. The guard barely questioned anything after Gerya draped an arm around Haoran and said, in a tone dripping with indulgence:

“My fiancé gets seasick easily. Please let us board early.”

Haoran had nearly elbowed him in the ribs on the spot.

But it worked.

Now, as soon as their cabin door shut behind them, Haoran didn’t even bother pretending to settle in. He tossed his luggage to the floor with a dull thud—coat dropping right after—then walked straight to the bed on the left.

No hesitation.

No wasted motion.

Just a long exhale as if the mere act of standing had become too heavy.

He collapsed onto the mattress with a deep groan, burying half his face into the pillow.

“Huh,” Gerya said, carefully placing his luggage into the closet like a civilized human. “Is it past your bedtime?”

“Mhmm…” Haoran didn’t lift his head. A muffled, exhausted hum was all he managed. Then, quieter:

“I just… haven’t slept well the past few days.”

His voice was frayed.

Thinner than usual.

Nothing dramatic—just honest fatigue, the kind a person only let slip when they were too tired to guard themselves.

He toed off his shoes lazily, one after the other, then shifted onto his side. Within seconds, his breathing leveled out—slow, steady.

As he turned, the hem of his shirt lifted, revealing a glimpse of his lower back.

And the gleam of metal.

Gerya froze.

Dermal piercings…?

A slow smirk crawled along his mouth.

“Well, well…” he murmured under his breath.

Of course Haoran would have something like that—hidden, unexpected, sharply beautiful in a way he probably never intended anyone to see. Something rebellious quietly embedded into an otherwise disciplined body.

He really is full of surprises, Gerya thought.

He stepped closer without meaning to.

Or perhaps meaning to too much.

Haoran slept deeply—no tension in his shoulders, no awareness. Vulnerable in a way he would hate to know he’d shown. His black hair fell messily across the pillow, damp from melted snow. Soft shadows curled under his eyes, evidence of nights spent awake with information, maps, threats.

He looks younger like this, Gerya realized.

And more dangerous.

Because a man who never allowed himself rest… became unpredictable once he finally succumbed to it.

Gerya’s eyes dropped again to the metal glinting at Haoran’s back, the delicate line of his spine, the faint marks of old injuries.

He has piercings too, he thought, pulse flickering with the thrill of discovering something private, something he wasn’t meant to see yet.

A wicked grin lifted one corner of his mouth.

He licked his lower lip unconsciously, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Dangerous little thing. He would look so good getting fucked from the back” he whispered, half to himself.

For a moment, he simply stood there—leaning over him, watching the rise and fall of Haoran’s back. Admiring. Studying. Calculating.

Then, very slowly, almost absentmindedly…

He extended a hand.

His fingers hovered just above the exposed skin—close enough to feel the heat radiating from Haoran’s body, close enough to sense every subtle breath.

He didn’t touch yet.

Not quite.

Gerya savored the hesitation the way other men savored fine wine.

Haoran looked peaceful like this.

But Gerya knew better.

Haoran was a blade—smooth when still, lethal when stirred.

“How long do you plan to sleep, hm?” Gerya murmured with a soft, devious chuckle. “We’ve only just boarded… and you’re already tempting me.”

He finally let his fingertip brush lightly—just lightly—over the edge of the dermal piercing.

Haoran didn’t wake.

But he did shift, muscles tightening subtly under the touch.

Gerya’s smile widened in delight.

“So sensitive even when unconscious…”

__ 

Haoran stirred from the depths of his slumber, his mind foggy and disoriented, pulled unwillingly toward consciousness by a rhythmic symphony of sounds that didn't belong in the quiet confines of a ship cabin at this ungodly hour.

Moans—soft at first, then building into throaty gasps—intermingled with the unmistakable slap of skin against skin, punctuated by the creak of wooden bedframes protesting under strain.

He blinked once, twice, his eyelids heavy as lead, convincing himself it was just a remnant of some absurd dream.

Must be the waves rocking the ship, or maybe that spicy dinner from the galley playing tricks on my senses, he thought, ever the rationalist, trying to anchor himself in logic amid the chaos.

But as his eyes adjusted to the dim glow filtering through the porthole—moonlight casting silvery shadows across the cramped room—the illusion shattered.

It was real. Undeniably, inescapably real.

Right there, on the bunk across from his, Gerya was entangled with someone, their bodies moving in a frenzy that made Haoran's stomach twist.

The woman—a ship attendant, judging by the rumpled uniform discarded haphazardly on the floor—was straddling him, her back arched, head thrown back in ecstasy as she bounced with abandon.

"Mhmm... yes!!... yes!!... oh, so big,"

she cried out, her voice echoing off the walls like a siren call, unfiltered and unashamed.

Haoran's jaw clenched, a surge of irritation flooding his veins.

Of all the inconsiderate, reckless idiots, he seethed internally, his serious nature kicking in like a well-oiled machine.

He wasn't one for dramatics or outbursts; no, Haoran prided himself on composure, on maintaining order in a world that often seemed determined to descend into madness.

Sharing a cabin with Gerya had been a necessary evil—part of this voyage's arrangements—but this? This crossed every line of decency.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, willing himself back to sleep.

Ignore it. Just ignore them. Focus on something else. Anything else.

His mind raced for a distraction, landing on the simplest, most innocuous thing he could conjure: a childhood rhyme.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are... Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky...

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

The woman's moans escalated, piercing through his mental barrier like shards of glass.

"...NGHHH... YES... UAAHH!"

she wailed, louder now, her voice cracking with raw intensity as the bed creaked in furious rhythm.

The slapping sounds grew more insistent, wet and primal, filling the air with an obscene cadence that made Haoran's cheeks burn despite himself.

This is ridiculous. Utterly unacceptable, he thought, his pulse quickening not from arousal but from sheer frustration.

He wasn't prudish—far from it—but there was a time and place for everything, and this shared space, this floating prison of a cabin, was neither.

The air grew thick with the scent of sweat and something more intimate, clinging to the humid sea breeze that seeped through the cracks.

Haoran could hear every hitch in her breath, every subtle shift of weight on the mattress, and it grated on his nerves like sandpaper.

How does he even manage this? Charm his way into everything, consequences be damned. That's Gerya for you—always one step ahead, turning chaos into his playground.

Enough was enough.

Haoran jolted upright, his movements precise and deliberate, like a soldier snapping to attention.

He grabbed the pillow from behind his head—soft, feather-stuffed, utterly inadequate as a weapon but all he had—and hurled it across the room with unerring aim.

It sailed through the air, thumping harmlessly against the floor.

She didn't even pause, lost in her haze, but Gerya—oh, that cunning bastard—glanced over mid-thrust, his dark eyes locking onto Haoran's with a smirk that dripped with smug satisfaction.

It wasn't just amusement; it was calculated, a predator's grin that said,

I knew you'd watch. I wanted you to.

Gerya had always been like that: manipulative, weaving webs of influence with a charm that masked his sharper edges.

He thrived on discomfort, on pushing boundaries just to see how far he could go before someone pushed back.

And now, here he was, performing like it was all part of some grand scheme, his eyes gleaming with that knowing glint as if Haoran were just another pawn in his game.

Haoran crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to back down or avert his gaze.

He sat there on his bed, his expression a mask of stern disapproval that hid the whirlwind of thoughts beneath.

How ridiculously big... The fact that she's taking it so well is downright alarming. If it were me, I'd have joined my ancestors by now—split in half, no doubt.

It wasn't jealousy; Haoran didn't swing that way, and even if he did, Gerya's games were too treacherous for his taste.

No, it was clinical observation mixed with a dash of horrified fascination, the kind that comes from seeing something so raw and unchecked.

Gerya grabbed the woman's waist then, his fingers digging in possessively, thrusting upward with renewed vigor.

"Haaahh... ooh... nghh,"

she gasped, her bounces growing erratic, her body glistening with sweat under the faint light.

The room seemed to pulse with their rhythm, the shadows dancing wildly on the walls as if mocking Haoran's attempt at detachment.

"I'm close... nghh,"

she whimpered, her voice breaking as she chased her peak.

Gerya let out a low groan, his jaw tightening in that telltale way—muscles flexing, veins standing out along his neck.

Haoran noted it all, his analytical mind cataloging the details despite himself.

Huh, is this what he looks like when he's about to...? Focused, almost feral. Like he's holding back a storm. And yet, so controlled—every move deliberate, every glance a hook.

And then, with a swift motion, Gerya pulled out, releasing in a shuddering arc that painted the scene in stark finality.

Haoran's eyes widened involuntarily as he caught sight of the girth—impossibly thick, veined and glistening, more weapon than anatomy.

What the fuck is that? That's not natural; that's a goddamn battering ram. No wonder she's screaming like she's auditioning for some illicit vid.

He shifted uncomfortably, adjusting himself subtly as a reflexive response kicked in, his body betraying a flicker of something he refused to name.

Fear? Awe? Disgust? All of it, tangled in a knot that made his serious facade crack just a fraction.

Gerya, ever the opportunist, caught the shift in Haoran's posture and let his smirk widen into a full, predatory grin.

When Gerya finally returned to the room after his shower, he paused at the doorway, towel around his neck, hair damp, steam still clinging to him.

And there—right beside the window—was Haoran.

Arms wrapped tightly around himself.

Shoulders shaking.

Teeth chattering.

Cold air swirling violently around him.

The window was wide open, letting the brutal night sea breeze rush in like a freezing gale.

For a moment, Gerya just stared.

Then his lips curled into a slow, amused smirk.

“What are you doing?” he drawled.

“Trying to freeze yourself to death for fun?”

Haoran slammed the window shut so hard the frame rattled.

He didn’t even look at Gerya.

Didn’t say a word.

Just grit his teeth.

What do you THINK I’m doing?

Whose fault is it that I had to escape the bed because someone couldn’t keep it in his pants for one night?

Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.

Gerya leaned against the wall, arms folded, tilting his head in a mock-innocent way.

“I didn’t expect you to sit there and watch the whole thing,” he said casually, like they were discussing weather.

“I assumed you’d at least give me a little privacy, you know…”

Haoran slowly turned his head, expression dead, voice flat as a desert.

“Why should I?” he said.

“I mean… I basically got to watch premium-quality porn for free, right here in this cabin. It’s been a while since I watched anything that… hardcore.”

Sarcasm dripped from every syllable.

Gerya blinked.

Then grinned.

“Premium-quality, huh?” he repeated, chest shaking with a small laugh.

“High definition? Good lighting? Nice framing?”

He clicked his tongue proudly.

“So you do know how to say nice things to me.”

Haoran nearly exploded.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIS BRAIN TO CONSIDER THAT A COMPLIMENT?

Is this man mentally allergic to shame?

Just how deep does his insanity run?

Forget it. Forget it. Now is not the time to get dragged into his delusions.

He took a deep breath.

Regretted it immediately because cold air stabbed his lungs.

Coughed.

Wrapped his arms tighter around himself.

Gerya, of course, noticed—and smirked wider.

“Aww, you’re trembling,” he said in a mockingly soft tone.

“You poor thing. Are you that cold? Or did watching me put on a show leave you shaking?”

Haoran froze.

Slowly… very slowly… he turned his head with a stare sharp enough to slice bone.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said.

“I’m trembling because someone forced me to open a window to breathe, unless I wanted to suffocate in the smell of your perfume, sweat, and—”

He stopped himself from finishing that sentence.

Immediately regretted starting it.

Gerya raised an eyebrow, smile turning wicked.

“Oh? You were paying attention to my smell?” he said smoothly.

“How flattering. Next time I’ll make sure you get a closer whiff.”

Haoran shut his eyes letting out a sigh.

Gerya spoke again.

“Next time,” he said casually, “I’ll warn you beforehand. So you can cover your eyes.”

Haoran snapped.

“You think I want to see anything?!”

Gerya smiled innocently.

“You looked like you were studying for an exam.”

Haoran glared.

This man is going to send me to an early grave.

Chapter Text

“Wang Fang is currently in the second-class cabin disguised as a Vietnamese man. If he figures out we’re tailing him, Vorontsov might completely call off plans to come in contact with him…”

Haoran’s thoughts spun like cogs under strain.

“We need to be extra careful. And yet this guy…”

A shift in the mattress signaled Gerya had sat down. Haoran didn’t look back immediately; he didn’t want the man to read his expression.

“Gerya,” Haoran finally said, voice flat. “What happened to Vadim? You said you were going to handle it. So—what’s up.”

Gerya stretched his arms behind him casually, as if the matter were a dull anecdote rather than a potential threat to their entire mission. His damp hair from the shower clung to his forehead, giving him a strangely younger, almost disarming look—Haoran didn’t trust it for a second.

“Yes, I did,” Gerya replied, tone light. Too light.

The silence that followed was heavy enough to press on Haoran’s nerves.

“You didn’t kill him, right?” Haoran asked. He hated how the question left his mouth—like he expected incompetence. Or worse, brutality. But with Gerya, both were possible in ways that somehow still produced results.

Gerya shrugged, lips curling into a foxlike grin.

“I did consider it, though. But—” He held up a finger. “Then I figured he could still be useful later, so I just locked him up instead.”

Haoran turned fully this time. “What if he escapes?”

Gerya’s grin widened into something wicked.

“Aha, so you were expecting me to kill him, huh? How cruel.”

“That's not what I mean.” Haoran’s voice sharpened, irritation slipping through the cracks. “If he talks, our entire plan collapses. Everything we’ve built falls apart in minutes.”

Gerya watched him closely—too closely. His eyes were bright, almost entertained.

“Don’t worry. Nothing of that sort will happen,” he said, puffing his chest with smug confidence. “I made sure of it.”

Haoran narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure I can trust you?”

“Of course, my sweet,” Gerya purred—mocking yet oddly sincere. “He will never be able to leave until I give the order.”

Haoran’s jaw tightened. He wanted to snap back that the pet names were unnecessary, that this wasn’t a game, that their lives—and the fate of their intel—weren’t toys for Gerya’s theatrical moods. But he swallowed the impulse. Pointless. Unproductive.

Instead, he breathed in quietly, turning again toward the sea.

“As skeptical as I am… I oddly believe him.”

He hated that. Hated how Gerya’s confidence infected the air like smoke.

“Now my focus has to be entirely on Wang Fang.”

The waves outside crashed against the hull, the sound deep and distant—like a reminder that they were trapped together on a floating metal box until this mission was over.

Gerya lounged back onto his palms, eyes gleaming with a predator’s satisfied calm.

Haoran didn’t see the grin spreading across his face—but he felt it.

Haoran checked the time on his wristwatch—01:47 a.m. His chest tightened. He flinched before he even fully understood why. Exhaustion? Anxiety? Guilt? Maybe all three. The digital numbers glowed pale blue against his skin, a reminder of the call he should have made hours ago.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, grabbed his laptop, and connected it to the ship’s unstable Wi-Fi. Every small delay tapped on his nerves. He sat back on the bed—straight-backed, disciplined even in the way he occupied space—as he initiated the encrypted international call.

The moment the familiar ringtone buzzed through the speakers, something in him softened.

The call picked up.

“媽媽好。”

(Hi mom.)

His voice changed—gentler, quieter, threaded with warmth he never used around anyone else on this ship.

“是的是的……我在吃飯……抱歉我沒能早點打電話。”

(Yes, yes… I’m eating well… sorry I couldn’t call earlier.)

He chuckled lightly, and even that was different—unburdened, almost boyish. Gerya, lounging nearby, lifted an eyebrow. He didn’t understand the language, but tone alone told him enough.

“Hmm… 建軍他們怎麼樣了？”

(Mm… how are Jianjun and the others?)

Haoran’s posture relaxed another degree, shoulders dropping. His eyes softened at something his mother must have said on the other end.

Meanwhile, Gerya watched him intensely from across the room. He didn’t blink much when observing people—part of what made others uncomfortable around him. Now, his blue eyes fixed on Haoran like a scientist examining an unexpected specimen.

Sounds like Mandarin, he thought. Who’s he talking to… his wife? Lover? Some secret contact?

He smirked to himself, leaning forward, trying to decipher more.

Then he caught certain tones, familiar sentence structures—enough to translate.

And then he realized.

Haoran was speaking to his mother.

The discovery made something spark in him. Not humor—no, something sharper. Curiosity. Interest. Maybe even a sense of superiority.

He sounds so different, Gerya thought, lips curling. So gentle… so soft. A completely different man.

“媽，對不起，我現在不確定還能不能回家了…”

(Mom… I’m sorry. I’m not sure if I can come home yet…)

The tone of regret—real regret—hit deeper than he expected. Haoran rarely let emotions slip. But with his mother, he didn’t guard himself. Didn’t hide.

Gerya’s smirk deepened.

This was valuable.

“是啊，我也愛你，媽媽。也替我問候建軍，再見，保重…”

(Yes, I love you too, mom. Tell Jianjun I said hi. Bye… take care.)

Haoran ended the call. His expression shifted instantly—walls rebuilding, posture straightening, gentleness evaporating like steam. When he turned, he was once again the Haoran that belonged on dangerous missions: tense, focused, unreadable.

Gerya couldn’t resist.

“Wow,” he said with a mocking little whistle. “I’ve always heard of mama boys, but I didn’t know I had one right here.”

Haoran shot him a flat, unimpressed look.

“What makes you think that?”

“Well,” Gerya drawled, stretching his arms lazily over his head, “you call her and tell her everything.”

“That’s called respect, Gerya. Respect for the elderly. Something you lack.” Haoran’s voice was steel.

Gerya clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch.”

Haoran ignored the theatrics, speaking calmly but with weight.

“It’s not like that. My mom worries a lot. She only has me and Jianjun. If my mother were to find out where I am right now and what I plan to do… she’d collapse on the spot.”

He paused, swallowing.

“She doesn’t want to lose another child. That’s why I tell her everything. So she won’t worry too much.”

His eyes drifted downward.

“She thinks I’m just on a business trip. My family—especially my dad’s side—is full of soldiers. Army. My mom was a naval nurse. After my dad died, it was left with me, my big sister, and her. Not too long after that, my big sister also died. And that’s—”

He stopped.

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

Gerya’s eyes flickered—interest sharpening like a blade.

“Why did you stop?” Gerya asked, leaning forward as if scenting a secret.

Haoran’s expression sealed shut instantly.

“Because I just realized it’s none of your business. We’re here for work, not to tell you my family problems.”

Gerya’s smile grew.

“But we have a lot of time.”

Haoran didn’t respond to the bait. His voice remained composed, clipped.

“Well, if you want to keep yourself entertained, I borrowed these from the downtown library.”

He handed over a book.

Gerya didn’t touch it.

“Not interested,” he said, standing with an easy, predatory grace. “I’ll just find someone to entertain me.”

He winked.

Then he left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Haoran stared at the empty space where he’d stood, exhaling through his nose.

“Of course. That’s what someone like him would do.”

He closed his laptop, setting it aside.

“Focus, Haoran. The mission. Wang Fang. Keep your head clear.”

But as he lay back against the bed, he couldn’t ignore the lingering thought:

Why did Gerya look so interested when he talked about his family?

Silence drifted through their cabin—thick, cold, and unusually peaceful. For once, Gerya wasn’t causing trouble, and Haoran wasn’t lecturing him. Only the low hum of the ship’s engines and the occasional creak of metal filled the space. Snow-light from the frosted window spilled across the floor in a soft, bluish strip.

A distant speaker crackled.

“Attention passengers,” the harbour master’s voice echoed through the intercom in Russian.

“We are now approaching Rybinsk. Inspections will begin shortly. Please return to your cabins and prepare your documents.”

Haoran barely reacted. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, head slightly tilted forward, fingers moving with precise rhythm. He was braiding his curly hair into neat cornrows—the motion methodical, exact, almost military.

Gerya sat on the opposite bed, facing him directly. Their legs stretched forward, just close enough that their ankles brushed every now and then. Haoran noticed every accidental touch. His expression didn’t change, but his shoulders tightened each time.

He ignored it.

Concentrate.

Focus.

Get your hair done before the inspection.

No distractions.

But the silence didn’t last long.

“I never knew you were this skilled in braiding,” Gerya remarked, voice low and amused. His eyes were glued to Haoran’s fingers—watching the disciplined, nimble movements like they were some secret performance meant only for him.

Haoran grunted, finishing the next row with a firm tug.

“I had to learn,” he said. “Who would do my hair before I going on missions? I can’t just tie this bushy thing around and look like a disaster.”

He spoke calmly, but internally:

“Missions, disguises, tight schedules… no salon. No help. Just learn it or suffer. Simple.”

“Then cut it,” Gerya suggested casually, leaning back on his palms as if it was the most obvious solution in the world.

Haoran’s reaction was immediate.

“Hell no,” he snapped, glaring sharply. “I love my curly afro.”

He said it with pride—calm pride, but firm. Unmovable. Like someone who’d been told too many times to change himself and refused every time.

Gerya smirked, eyes narrowing with interest.

“Of course you do,” he drawled. “It suits you. Wild. Unpredictable.”

His gaze lowered slowly, deliberately.

“Just like you.”

Haoran ignored the comment, though the tips of his ears warmed slightly. He reached for the last section of hair, pulling it tight between his fingers.

“AND move your legs back,” Haoran muttered, narrowing his eyes without looking up. “The fuck.”

Gerya didn’t move an inch.

“Not my fault my legs are long,” he replied smoothly, stretching them even farther until his knee pressed lightly against Haoran’s shin.

Haoran paused mid-braid.

“He’s doing that on purpose. Obviously. He has no sense of boundaries. This is ridiculous.”

He tugged the braid tighter than necessary out of pure irritation.

Gerya watched him with a lazy grin, tipping his head slightly as if studying a stubborn animal.

“You know…” Gerya said, his voice dipping lower, “you look very serious when you braid. Like you’re planning an assassination.”

“That’s because I am serious.” Haoran tied off the final strand with brisk efficiency. “Everything needs precision.”

“Mm.” Gerya leaned forward a little. “Even your hair?”

“Especially my hair.”

Their legs bumped again—firmly this time. Haoran pulled back, but the beds were narrow, and the cabin even narrower.

“Why is this room so damn small…? And why is he always in my space…”

Gerya’s smirk widened, reading him perfectly.

“Relax, little braid master,” he teased. “If I wanted to touch you, I’d make it much more obvious.”

Haoran froze for half a second.

Then he resumed packing his braiding tools with military precision.

“…Just wait for the inspection,” he muttered under his breath. “Maybe they’ll take you away.”

“Mm. But then who would watch you braid your hair so beautifully?”

Haoran’s eye twitched.

The knock came sharply—two short taps, one long.

Instantly Haoran straightened.

Gerya looked up with a bored expression, as if he were expecting this.

The cabin door slid open.

“Excuse me,” the first officer said in a clipped tone.

“IMMIGRATION SCREENING. PLEASE GIVE ME YOUR PASSPORTS AND DEPARTURE CARDS.”

Haoran and Gerya handed theirs over.

Haoran kept his face blank, neutral. Inside, his pulse thudded behind his ribs.

“Kim Bora has been reported missing, but I made an entirely new passport. The biometrics aren’t traceable. The visa stamps are perfect. There shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary…”

He watched the inspectors’ eyes scan the documents.

“I just hope they don’t notice the weapon. Damn it—why is this ship so cold…? My jacket is too bulky… it’s obvious something’s underneath.”

“Alright, thank you, sirs,” one inspector finally said, closing their passports.

Relief washed through Haoran’s chest.

He forced a calm exhale, just slightly.

“Alright, let’s go to the next room.”

They turned—

“Wait,” the second inspector said.

Haoran’s spine stiffened instantly.

The officer stepped closer, gaze sharp.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “please stand against the wall.”

Haoran shot Gerya a look, one that meant: Stay quiet. Don’t make this worse.

Gerya only smirked like this was entertainment.

They both moved back to the cabin wall.

The older inspector patted Gerya down quickly—barely five seconds.

Then he turned to Haoran.

His hands slid down Haoran’s legs with deliberate slowness.

Too slow.

Too intentional.

Too familiar.

Haoran’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Why is he searching me so thoroughly? He barely touched Gerya. What the hell…”

The inspector’s hands slid upward—

—and grabbed Haoran’s ass.

Full palm.

A squeeze—slow, lingering.

Haoran froze.

“…oh no.

Oh hell no.”

The officer’s hand dragged up Haoran’s waist, then slid across his chest—

—then groped his breast.

He squeezed.

Hard.

Something snapped.

Haoran’s hand shot out, gripping the inspector by the throat and slamming him back against the cabin door with a force that rattled the frame.

“GET—” Haoran growled, jaw clenched so fiercely the veins in his neck jumped.

“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME, YOU FUCKING PERV.”

The entire cabin burned with that venom—sharp, cold, lethal.

The inspector’s eyes bulged in terror.

He stumbled away so fast he nearly tripped over the doorway, scrambling down the corridor as though chased by a demon.

Silence fell.

Haoran’s chest rose and fell, slow and controlled—he was forcing himself to calm down.

“Perverts everywhere. Honestly… why do these kinds of people follow me? Why me?”

He ran a hand through his newly braided hair in frustration.

Behind him, Gerya was lounging on his bed, legs crossed, arms behind his head—like he’d just watched the most interesting soap opera.

“Don’t even start,” Haoran warned without looking.

Gerya raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Hey, hey. I’m just saying… seems like he liked you.” He grinned. “He looked like he could really work those hips.”

Haoran glared.

Gerya continued talking like he was discussing the weather.

“You should’ve played along and fucked him. I bet you’re feeling pretty—” he dragged out the word, voice dropping, “—frustrated anyway.”

Haoran sat heavily on his bed, pressing a hand over his face.

“Funny,” he muttered, “coming from a pretty face like you.”

The room went silent for a heartbeat.

Then—

“Awn… am I your type?” Gerya purred, leaning forward with that infuriating smirk.

Haoran turned slowly, staring at him with pure horror.

“Don’t say such scary things.”

Gerya laughed—low, pleased, knowing exactly how to get under Haoran’s skin.

The room had fallen into a heavy, almost oppressive silence—

the kind that settles after chaos, thick enough to feel on the skin.

Haoran sat at the edge of his bed with a book open on his lap, rigid posture, back straight, eyes narrowed on the page as if the words could anchor him. He wasn’t truly reading; his mind kept flickering back to the earlier noise, to the shadows of bodies in motion, to the careless intimacy that Gerya seemed to summon wherever he went. Haoran’s fingers tightened around the book’s edges, knuckles paling.

Across from him, Gerya lounged half-lying on his own bed, scrolling casually through his phone with a lazy sort of elegance. Every small movement he made was annoyingly fluid, annoyingly confident—like he existed on his own wavelength, one that refused to match the seriousness Haoran lived by.

Then Gerya’s phone vibrated sharply.

He frowned—barely, just a crease between his brows—but Haoran caught it.

Before Haoran could even turn a page, Gerya rose from the bed with a fluid, practiced motion. No explanation. No glance. No words.

Just stood.

And walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Haoran’s eyes twitched.

“That son of a bitch always leaves the room whenever he gets a call.”

The thought cracked through his mind like a whip, irritation simmering beneath it.

“If it’s not about the mission, it’s his private life. Fine. I don’t care. Truly, I don’t.”

A lie he immediately recognized as one.

“But does he have to be this secretive? Who the hell is he hiding from? Or hiding for?”

Silence stretched again—this time sharper, emptier.

Haoran closed the book but kept it in his hands, pretending he wasn’t bothered.

But his heart had already sped up.

Finally, unable to restrain his curiosity—or was it suspicion?—he stood.

Quietly.

Stealthily.

He moved to the door and eased it open a crack, peeping through the narrow sliver.

Gerya wasn’t far. Standing in the dimly lit hallway, back slightly turned, posture relaxed but guarded. There was something different in the way he held himself—his shoulders lowered just a little more, his voice too soft for Haoran to catch, his expression gentler than the mask Haoran was used to seeing.

“He’s… different.”

That realization unsettled Haoran far more than it should have.

He strained his ears.

Nothing.

Not a word reached him.

“Damn it, I can’t hear anything.”

Frustration curled tight in his chest.

He pressed a little further against the doorframe, eyes narrowing.

“Why are you acting like this, Gerya? Who makes you soften like that? Who can pull a version of you I’ve never seen?”

Just then—

Gerya’s head tilted.

His eyes slid sideways.

Their gazes collided.

Shock flickered across both their faces—but only for a heartbeat.

Because then… Gerya smirked.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Dimples carving into his cheeks like a signature weapon.

The kind of smirk that read, Caught you. And I don’t mind at all.

Haoran’s breath jolted.

He immediately withdrew, almost stumbling as he shut the door harder than he intended. He rushed back to his bed and sat, grabbing his book again as if he could erase the last ten seconds by force.

His pulse hammered beneath his skin.

He tried to look calm.

He tried to breathe evenly.

He tried to pretend.

But every part of him felt exposed, discovered.

Moments later, footsteps approached.

The door swung open.

And Gerya walked in humming—actually humming—as though nothing in the world could bother him.

His voice was low, smooth, addictive in a way that completely betrayed how effortlessly talented he was.

“Mind-mind games until you lose control…”

His tone curled into the air like smoke, warm and intimate.

Haoran stiffened instantly.

Gerya smirked—not even pretending otherwise—as he returned to his bed. He dropped down onto it like a king claiming a throne, leaned back on his palms first, then smoothly crossed one leg over the other.

He folded his arms.

Tilted his head.

And stared at Haoran.

Not blinking.

Not breaking the gaze.

Just watching.

Studying.

Enjoying.

Haoran kept his eyes on the book, forcing them down, forcing focus.

“Ignore him. Just ignore him. He’s doing this on purpose.”

He risked one glance.

Gerya’s smirk deepened, becoming something almost predatory.

Haoran’s stomach dropped.

“Why… why isn’t he asking me anything?”

That silence was worse than any accusation.

Worse than any confrontation.

Because it meant Gerya already knew.

“Why does it feel like… like we’re playing a game?”

Haoran swallowed hard.

“A game I never agreed to.”

He looked again—too quickly.

Gerya hadn’t moved.

Only his eyes changed—dark with amusement, sharp with intelligence, glittering with the pleasure of cornering someone without lifting a finger.

Haoran’s thoughts tightened into a single, painful truth:

“He’s going easy on me…

like a cat playing with a mouse.”

Chapter Text

A full day had passed since they had boarded the ship. During this time, the target, Wang Fang, had hardly ever come out of his luxurious cabin, presenting a serious surveillance challenge.

“But with one problem solved, there always comes another, doesn’t it?” Haoran thought with a weary, internal groan, squeezing his eyes shut. His current dilemma lay barely five feet in front of him, loud, messy, and entirely unacceptable.

He adjusted his posture on the edge of his cot, meticulously keeping his gaze fixed on the sterile  wall beside him. His mind, however, was replaying the technical success of the previous night. “Gerya, the cunning animal. When Wang briefly left to use the public restroom, Gerya snuck into his cabin like a ghost and set up the hidden camera. Flawless execution. A dangerous, despicable man, but undeniably effective.”

The image of Wang Fang’s digital feed was instantly eclipsed by the clamor in the real world. Gerya had cornered—or rather, deliberately displayed—another woman. This time, she was bent over the cabin's small fold-out table, her uniform hitched up around her waist.

“Two attendants in one day. First, the first-class concierge, now a second-class runner,” Haoran cataloged with profound, intellectual disdain. “What next? The engineer? The cook? Such a display of base, indiscriminate indulgence. A man-whore using his animal magnetism to gain access and control. It’s disgusting and tactically brilliant.”

A sharp, breathless cry sliced through the air. “Aahh! Oh God... nghh... harder!” The sound of skin slapping skin accelerated, echoing off the cramped metallic surfaces.

Haoran’s professional alarm bells began to ring. “That woman. I recognize her. She’s the ship attendant I ran into just a few times while covertly watching the access corridor to Wang Fang’s suite. This isn't random. Gerya is compromising our operational assets for a five-minute power trip.”

The woman, lost in the throes of the moment, thrashed slightly. Her elbow knocked against an open bottle of alcohol on the table, sending the amber fluid splashing across the floor and, worse, across the polished leather of Haoran’s carefully maintained mission boots.

“Ugh! Hey!” Haoran muttered, the sharp, sour sting of the alcohol against his ankle finally breaking his silence. It was a minuscule, petty invasion of his carefully guarded personal space, and it felt like a final insult.

“Nghhh... haah,” the attendant moaned, oblivious, responding to Gerya, not to Haoran’s complaint.

“She is so loud. She sounds like she is shooting for a low-budget pornography reel. The sheer lack of professionalism in this man is a threat to the entire objective,” Haoran's thoughts raced, focusing on the procedural failure rather than the intimate act.

Against his better judgment, driven by the sting of the alcohol and the need to visually re-establish control, Haoran opened his eyes. He made the fatal mistake of letting his gaze drift past the immediate damage to his boots and up toward Gerya.

Gerya met his stare instantly. His eyes, predatory and cold, held a flash of amusement. He didn't break the rhythm. Instead, he flashed a slow, wicked smirk, then deliberately licked his lips, leaning forward to whisper something to the woman before thrusting harder, faster, using the act itself as a direct, non-verbal assault on Haoran’s composure.

The next action was calculated and brutal. Gerya seized the woman by the hips and pulled her roughly upwards, half-lifting her off the table. The sudden, violent strain ripped the thin, white fabric of her uniform shirt, tearing buttons loose. Her chest was suddenly exposed—large, pale, and shocking in the low light, her nipples visible and taut in the open air.

“FUCK!” Haoran’s discipline finally imploded. The calculated, public display was too much—a direct violation of every boundary he possessed. His intellect screamed at the tactical failure, but his body was betraying him, responding to the raw, animalistic exhibition. He felt a sudden, humiliating heat, a physical hardening that shocked him to his core.

He couldn't stand there, rigid and exposed to Gerya's mocking gaze, not while his own body rebelled. With a violent jolt, Haoran sprang off the cot, stumbling backward. He didn't offer a word or a glance—only a desperate, graceless lunge toward the only lockable sanctuary.

Haoran slammed the door of the bathroom shut with unnecessary force. The heavy thud was swallowed instantly by the relentless, muffled sounds of Gerya's conquest continuing on the other side. He leaned against the cold surface, his lungs burning, trying to draw air that didn't feel thick with shame and raw, residual lust.

He fumbled desperately for the shower control, twisting the knob until a sudden, cold jet of water sprayed out, instantly filling the tiny enclosure with steam and noise—a wall of white sound intended to drown out the moans outside and the traitorous pounding in his own ears.

Haoran stood there for a moment, letting the icy spray shock his skin, his gaze fixed downward. Through the fabric of his soaked trousers, the erection was still a rigid, undeniable protrusion. The sight was a profound violation of his professional self, a visceral, physical betrayal of the discipline he prided himself on.

“I must be out of my mind,” the thought screamed through the water noise, sharp and condemning. “This is emotional and physiological sabotage. I reacted to Gerya’s provocation not with strategy, but with base, animal impulse. This is weakness.”

His hands, usually steady and precise, trembled as he unzipped his pants. The hardened length sprang free, already throbbing and pulsing with a life entirely separate from Haoran’s intellect. The sheer speed of his body’s reaction was terrifying.

He gripped himself tightly. The pressure was immediate and overwhelming. He began to stroke, the movement frantic, fueled by the blinding flash of the attendant’s exposed, perfect breast burned onto his retina.

“Nghh…” The sound was ripped from his throat, a low, guttural confession of his loss of control. He closed his eyes, plunging deeper into the forced, frantic fantasy. He was no longer thinking of Gerya or the mission; he was focused solely on the need to erase the physical tension, to purify himself of the sudden, invading corruption.

The cold water continued to beat down, mingling with the sweat and the escalating pace of his hand. His chest heaved.

“Nghh, I’m close…”

The sensation peaked—a blinding, white-hot physical release. He stroked until he finally climaxed, the viscous fluid splattering against the tiled wall of the shower. The rest dripped onto the floor, instantly mixed and washed away by the continuous flow of water.

He stood under the shower, panting, legs trembling, the sudden, sharp depletion leaving him momentarily hollowed out.

“I must be out of my mind,” he muttered, the phrase now ringing with self-loathing. He had succumbed to the very vulgarity he despised, reacting exactly as Gerya must have anticipated he would. He had failed his own standards of control.

His immediate, pragmatic response kicked back in. He took off his sodden attire, tossing it into a corner to be dealt with later. Methodically, robotically, he reached for the shower wand and began to meticulously spray and wash the wall, erasing every trace of the shameful act, sanitizing the crime scene.

Steam curled out of the bathroom as Haoran slid the door open, towel hanging low on his hips, still warm from the shower. Droplets traced down the hard lines of his abdomen, disappearing into the edge of the towel. 

He stepped out—

—and immediately froze.

Gerya was standing there.

Still.

Silent.

As if he had been waiting.

Haoran’s heart lurched once—sharp, unwanted.

But he refused to show it.

“What the hell is he doing here…?

Did he hear me?

Whatever.

WHAT DO I CARE?

Jerking off is perfectly civil compared to the things he’s done.”

He shifted his posture, ready to walk past, pretending nothing was wrong.

But Gerya lifted an arm smoothly—blocking the narrow space between them.

Haoran instinctively stepped back half a foot, startled by how close their bodies suddenly were.

A small, amused quirk tugged at Gerya’s mouth.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft, as if he knew exactly how much it unnerved Haoran.

Haoran clicked his tongue quietly.

“No. I’m the one who should…” he muttered, looking away, jaw tight. “…for always being on the receiving end.”

He brushed past him—shoulder grazing Gerya’s chest—skin meeting fabric for a second too long.

Gerya didn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

He only watched, eyes glinting with an interest Haoran did not want to understand.

Haoran knelt by his bag, pulling out fresh clothes. He could feel it—Gerya’s stare drilling into his back, heavy and focused.

He tried to ignore it.

Tried to pretend it didn’t burn across his skin like a brand.

He pulled on a singlet, and—

“...The fuck are you staring at?” Haoran snapped, tugging the fabric down.

Gerya’s smirk deepened—slow, sinful, knowing.

“I didn’t expect you to have your nipple pierced,” he said lightly, eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. “It suits you… beautifully, actually.”

Haoran paused, surprised by the oddly sincere tone beneath the teasing.

“…Thanks, I guess,” he muttered, pulling his pants up with more force than necessary.

But Gerya wasn’t done.

He tilted his head, voice dipping lower.

“Why don’t you try men, Haoran? You have the body for it. Or is it that you can’t stand hearing grown men moan in your ear? You’d be surprised how many—”

Haoran cut him off, face twisting.

“I prefer women,” he said sharply. “Alpha, beta, omega—whatever. Doesn’t matter. I prefer women.”

“Oh,” Gerya breathed.

Not disappointed.

Just… intrigued.

Almost like this new piece of information was a puzzle he fully intended to play with later.

Haoran felt a chill run down his spine.

“Why does he look like he’s filing that away in his head…?

This bastard always has a plan.”

Gerya chuckled softly, stepping closer—not enough to touch, but enough for Haoran to feel the shift in air.

“Enough with that disturbing shit,” Haoran snapped. “It’s not even funny.”

He turned away, refusing to look at Gerya, even as he could feel the man’s eyes roaming, studying, tracing him like a blueprint.

Finally Haoran sat on his bed, opening his laptop, pretending to focus on the mission feed.

Behind him, footsteps shifted.

“I’m going out,” Gerya murmured.

Haoran didn’t look up.

“Where?” he asked under his breath, more out of irritation than concern.

But Gerya only smirked, hand on the door.

“Don’t worry about it, my sweet.”

The door clicked shut.

Haoran let out a slow, trapped sigh and rubbed his eyes with both hands.

“I wonder where he’s going.

And why he never tells me a damn thing.

He’s hiding something…”

He forced his attention back to the laptop.

Back to the mission.

Back to anything that wasn’t the ghost of Gerya’s stare still clinging to his skin.

__

The cabin door clicked open, and Haoran didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Only one person walked with that lazy confidence—

that swagger that somehow felt both arrogant and effortless.

Gerya strolled in humming softly under his breath, voice smooth, tone surprisingly light.

“I’m a Brooklyn baby…”

He held two bottles of Russian wine in one hand, glass cups dangling from his fingers.

Haoran felt a flicker of irritation. He was mid-report, carefully reviewing Wang Fang’s movements through the hidden camera feed, and now—

The laptop snapped shut.

Haoran jerked slightly.

“What the—”

“Oh my gosh,” Gerya sighed dramatically, placing the wine on the tiny table. “You’re going to die from overworking. Relax before your brain falls out of your skull.”

Haoran opened his mouth to argue, but the stool in front of the table tapped twice—Gerya’s signal.

“Come on,” he said, winking. “Drink with me.”

Haoran groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Fine,” he muttered, getting up. “Only because you won’t shut up otherwise.”

He sat.

Which was exactly what Gerya wanted.

Gerya uncorked the wine with a flourish, poured, then dipped his cigar into the alcohol, stirring it slowly like some decadent ritual.

“It tastes much better smoked like this,” he murmured, placing the cigar between his lips.

He lit it, inhaled deeply—

the ember glowing red—

then exhaled through his nose, twin streams of smoke curling upward like twin serpents.

He handed the cigar over.

Haoran took it, lifted it to his lips, inhaled—

“Mmh. Not bad,” he admitted, surprised.

When he lowered the cigar, he found Gerya’s eyes already on him.

Studying.

Assessing.

Like Haoran himself was the cigar—something to drag between his fingers and taste.

“What.” Haoran said flatly, sipping his drink.

Gerya’s lips curled.

“I wondered if you swung that way.”

Haoran blinked. “Uhh. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You didn’t look all that aroused with a naked woman right in front of you,” Gerya said casually, swirling his drink. “So I assumed maybe…”

He shrugged.

“You were into men.”

Haoran let out a tiny laugh through his nose.

Not amused.

Just disbelief.

“You are mistaken,” he said coolly. “I love women. A lot. If some disaster hit Earth and all women disappeared, I would rather live the rest of my life celibate than even attempt to put my dick in a guy’s ass.”

Gerya smirked wider, leaning his cheek against his palm as he stared openly at Haoran.

“The problem,” he said slowly, “is that you make people hard.”

Haoran choked on his wine. “HUH? What the hell is that supposed to mean!?”

“Never mind,” Gerya dismissed, though his eyes were still glinting. “So. What women are you into?”

Haoran raised a brow. “Why? Planning to hook me up?”

Gerya lifted his glass in an elegant, mocking gesture.

“Let’s just say… it helps to know. Wouldn’t want any accidents in the future. For example—”

He smiled lazily.

“Say I seduced the kind of woman you’re into. That would get… messy.”

“Messy?” Haoran snorted, shaking his head. “You? Please. You’re the kind of guy who’d screw someone’s girlfriend just to see if he could. Probably out of boredom.”

Gerya gave a little theatrical bow from his seat.

“Guilty.”

“Then stop pretending you care about my type.”

“Oh, but I do,” Gerya said softly. Too softly. “Tell me.”

Haoran hesitated.

Not because he was shy—

but because why was Gerya pushing so hard?

Why did he want this information?

Alcohol thrummed through Haoran’s veins—warm, slow, loosening muscles but not judgment.

He exhaled through his nose.

“Fine,” he said. “Since you’re so damn curious.”

He leaned back, cigar between his fingers, and spoke plainly.

“I like alpha women. Strong, decisive. Not fragile little dolls. Someone who can handle herself.”

His voice dropped into instinctive seriousness—so sincere it startled even himself.

“Nice boobs. Big ass. Stretch marks. They’re beautiful. Real. I’m not dating someone who looks twelve next to me.”

Gerya’s attention sharpened—like a predator catching the scent of something new.

“And height?” he asked.

“178 to 180,” Haoran said. “I’m 179. Don’t want a big height difference.”

“Specific,” Gerya murmured.

Haoran ignored him.

“Skin tone doesn’t matter, but… brown or dark-skinned women hit different. They’re warm. Powerful. Like goddesses. Real beauty. Not plastic.”

He paused.

“You know Anok Yai?”

“The model? Yeah.” Gerya took a sip.

Haoran nodded. “Exactly. Someone like her. That answers your question?”

Gerya leaned back, eyebrows raised.

“Not what I expected.”

“Oh?” Haoran said, lifting a brow.

“I thought you Chinese guys liked pale, slim women.”

Haoran steupsed—loudly—exhaling smoke in pure annoyance.

“You are aware I’m Blasian, right?”

His tone was dry, edged.

“I don’t exactly fit your little stereotype.”

Gerya blinked once, then smirked.

“Oh right. So what mix?”

“Nigerian and Chinese,” Haoran replied smoothly.

Gerya’s face shifted—just for a heartbeat.

Surprise.

Curiosity.

Then something deeper, darker, unreadable.

“Ah,” he murmured.

“No wonder.”

“No wonder what?” Haoran asked coldly.

Gerya only smiled—slow, cunning, infuriatingly knowing.

“No wonder you look like that.”

Haoran glared.

“Stop talking like you’re analyzing a piece of art.”

“But you are,” Gerya said softly, raising his glass.

“A very… interesting piece.”

Haoran looked away immediately.

But when he glanced back—

Gerya was already watching him.

As if Haoran had just confirmed something important.

Something dangerous.