Chapter Text
Normally, Jin wouldn’t have taken an assignment like this. Now that those fractured flashbulb memories – of a kinder past, of a time when he might’ve been better – haunt his dreams, he gravitates more towards protection-based missions.
Not kidnappings.
Kidnappings are brutal, messy. Even if the target needs to survive, there are always countless bodyguards and determined soldiers who stand in the way. Successful missions often end with an even higher body count than straightforward assassinations.
001 wouldn’t have cared. An assignment is an assignment.
He almost would’ve preferred an assassination to an abduction. Fewer variables, fewer complications – just a well-aimed bullet or a decisive slash across the throat. No bloody paradox, where he must guarantee the life of the target while taking down everyone else in his path.
“Did you see how much they’re gonna pay? Just for grabbing some girl?”
“Seriously, those guys up top are practically throwing away money. Must be nice to be rich, huh?”
Jin eyes the other mercenaries hired for this mission. They’re supposed to be temporary comrades, but he’s yet to find one worthy of respect. The men laugh too loudly and talk too crudely and carry their weapons with too little discipline.
If anything, they’re more likely to compromise the mission or accidentally kill the target.
Already, several fights have broken out over fragile egos and past vendettas. Jin keeps his distance – for their safety more than his.
He would much rather work with the skilled mercenaries from his village, but this assignment takes place far beyond their familiar territory. Instead, he’s paired with strangers in a strange place.
Jin still can’t explain what drew him to this mission, but he suspects the location might be partially responsible. For some mysterious reason, Korea doesn’t feel as foreign as he expected. The towering skyscrapers and civilian-crowded streets contrast sharply against the dusty roads of the mercenary village or the dense jungles of Grian.
Yet, ever since he arrived in Korea, his subconscious continues to whisper the same phrase: this is right, this is right. Even the language, caught in snippets from unaware passersby as he conducts his usual reconnaissance, feels familiar.
Jin shoves the thoughts away with a firm head shake. He can’t be distracted by murky memories. He needs to focus on the mission.
Their handler strolls into the makeshift briefing room. Jin stiffens reflexively. The other mercenaries stop their joking.
“Details for the mission,” he barks, throwing a stack of papers on a table. “Last chance to back out. Failure will not be tolerated.”
A beat of silence passes. No one moves.
Then, a bulky man with a jagged scar across his cheek saunters to the table and grabs one of the stapled packets. “Bunch of fucking cowards. I’ll kill any failures myself,” he says with a scoff.
Martin.
Jin didn’t know the man’s name until he overheard it whispered by others, but the scar is familiar. After all, it had been a parting gift from 001’s blade during one of his first assignments while at the Camp.
He keeps to the edge of the room, just in case Martin’s memory is better than his knife skills.
With grumbles and shuffled steps, the other mercenaries grab their own copies. A muffled argument breaks out when two men fight over the last briefing packet.
Jin watches, unimpressed and empty-handed. There will be plenty of time to review the details later. Instead, he focuses on the handler’s words.
“The primary target is the SW Corporation.”
Someone whistles, a shrill sound that drops.
Jin doesn’t know much about the SW Corporation, though the name sounds familiar. Judging from the excited murmurs and glinting eyes, it must be a formidable target.
“Our client wants to disrupt negotiations in their latest arms deal. The ideal target would have been the chairman’s oldest granddaughter because of her increased influence in matters abroad. However, our client is reluctant to draw attention from her fiancé, who’s a prominent figure in the Korean military.” The handler flips through his own briefing packet. “Major Hamchan Kang.”
Jin listens along with a blank expression.
The oldest granddaughter. A military man.
The names mean nothing to him – strangers he’ll never meet. He’s more interested in the actual target rather than their client’s paranoid excuses.
“Instead, the client wishes for us to abduct the youngest granddaughter. She is less involved in the company’s dealings, but there are rumors that she may be favored by the chairman.”
Pages flip in tandem. Jin cranes his neck for a peek, but the men around him are too tall to see around.
“Yeona Sin. Eighteen years old. A student. She recently returned to Korea after two years in the United States. Now that she’s back in her home country, SW has gradually begun to loosen their strict security protocols.”
“This country doesn’t allow guns, right?” another mercenary asks. “So we’re just dealing with a couple of unarmed bodyguards?”
The handler hums, neither confirming nor denying. Instead, he says, “The security teams at the SW Corporation specialize in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Then this’ll be easy!”
“I bet they aren’t any different from a bunch of mall cops.”
“Ha! What can fists do against a gun?”
Jin’s new comrades laugh. Jin doesn’t share their overconfident optimism. He seems to be the only one who catches the underlying warning in their handler’s words.
A specialty in hand-to-hand combat doesn’t signal weakness; it signals a preference for adaptability. A dependency on weapons is an easy way to get killed.
That was one of his first lessons at the Camp.
“Despite the relaxed protocols, the target is always surrounded by her security team,” the handler continues. “According to our inside source, approximately three to six bodyguards are present whenever she is in public.”
Three to six bodyguards? Jin stifles a sigh. Then that means there’ll be three to six additional casualties, if they decide to resist. The chance of this being a bloodless mission dwindles with each new update.
“However, your greatest concern will be Yeona Sin’s personal bodyguard and aide-in-training.” Their handler glances up from the briefing packet. “Seokju Ko has been professionally trained since a young age and remains by her side at all times.”
Jin tilts his head, his interest piquing for the first time. Surrounded by combat since childhood?
Will he be like the Numbers?
Memories of 002’s cold stare or 004’s glinting knife flash through his mind like a thunderclap. Jin’s lips press into a tighter frown. He’ll need to be cautious.
More pages flip. More chuckles echo through the room.
“Seriously? He’s just a kid.”
“He’d probably piss his pants if he ever saw a real mercenary.”
“Shiiiit, you actually scared me for a second. I thought this might be hard.”
The handler listens to their snarky remarks with a bored expression. Once the commentary dies down, he resumes speaking.
“According to our intel, he prevented an earlier kidnapping attempt in America. He is considered to be a prodigy by others at the SW Corporation,” the handler says, maintaining the same unbothered tone. “We recommend neutralizing him as soon as possible.”
Seokju Ko. Jin files the name away. If this bodyguard is as protective of the target as the briefing suggests, then they’ll undoubtedly cross paths.
Don’t underestimate a younger opponent.
Another lesson from the Camp – a rule he personally enforced.
The briefing shifts to potential locations where the target and her bodyguards are expected to be in the coming days. Most are public places, such as a prestigious high school and expensive restaurants.
More risk for civilian casualties. Not ideal.
In particular, the thought of striking the school leaves a sour taste along Jin’s tongue. He doesn’t know why it matters; everyone who walks those glistening halls is a stranger to him.
While the other mercenaries debate the best moment of attack, Martin’s voice the loudest, Jin picks up a discarded briefing packet. He flips through until he reaches the first photo.
Jin pauses. His fingers dig into the paper.
Typically, they deal with sanitized photos of their targets: professional headshots or clippings from news articles. Distanced, clinical, impersonal.
Instead, this looks to be a candid shot, likely taken by their inside source. A young woman laughs at some silent joke, her fingers partially concealing her wide grin.
Jin’s gut twists. Now he knows why the names – both the target and her family’s company – felt so familiar. A few teeth might’ve been missing at the time, but he’s seen that smile before.
Isn’t my daughter adorable? This was from a few years ago. She’d be about your age now. Maybe you’d be friends.
Jin lost track of how many times that man pulled the photo from his wallet. A simple creased photo, yet it always brought a smile to his face, despite the ever-present dangers they faced.
Jin never really understood. Photographs signal distance, separation. How could proof of someone’s absence be something to celebrate?
So… she’s that man’s daughter. He really cared about her.
A different flavor lingers in his mouth, overly sweet like the chocolate the man often carried. Not many clients were as kind as him.
Jin tries to push the distraction away.
That assignment ended long ago. This is a new assignment. They aren’t related.
Nevertheless, he still feels obligated to the man’s compassion. He needs to follow through with the mission, but he can do his best to keep her from any unnecessary harm.
Unnecessary harm…
Jin turns the page to another candid shot. Yeona Sin stands with her back to the camera, her dark hair tumbling past her shoulders. By her side, a young man twists to scowl in the direction of the camera. He doesn’t lock eyes directly with the lens – must not know who’s stealing a picture – but he certainly senses something.
That must be the bodyguard.
Jin flips back to the first photo. Now that he’s looking closer, he catches the edge of the bodyguard’s school jacket in the corner. Yeona Sin’s face is angled towards someone just barely out of frame.
He’s the one she’s laughing with. They must be close.
How far does the bodyguard’s loyalty go? If Jin has to kill him to get to the target, would she suffer?
Maybe you’d be friends. Inguk Sin’s words haunt him, more relentless than any ghost.
Jin tosses the briefing packet aside. This isn’t the time to be dwelling on a father’s wistful remarks.
The mission always comes first. He’ll do what he must to complete it.
“—and when her childhood best friend showed up?” Yeona’s cheeks puff up in indignation. “He almost ruined everything!”
Seokju nods along with a polite smile. The rest of his attention remains fixed on their surroundings: the neon store signs, the overwhelmingly colorful mall decorations and gaudy mascots, and the loud chatter of passing strangers. A few people spare them strange looks, bemused frowns flitting to the hulking bodyguards trailing behind, but no one strikes Seokju as suspicious.
He almost misses the darkened, quiet movie theater. Sure, the cheesy drama that Yeona dragged him to nearly drove him to bored tears, but at least he wasn’t constantly assaulted by jarring displays and screaming children.
Yeona keeps chattering about the cliché love triangle. Her eyes shine while she gestures with exaggerated sweeps of the arm.
Seokju’s smile grows more genuine. It’s been a while since he’s seen Yeona this animated. Ever since their return to Korea, she’s been anxious and withdrawn from the inescapable pressures of family and business obligations.
He’d sit through marathons of ridiculous movies to keep her happy.
“What did you think?” she pauses mid-rant to stare expectantly at him.
Seokju startles, tearing his focus away from a cluster of suited men by a nearby mall kiosk.
“Huh?”
“Did you like the movie?”
“Uh, well…” Seokju shrugs. “The fight scenes were interesting.”
Yeona rolls her eyes with a fond scoff. “Typical boy response. Did you even pay attention to the love story at all?”
Truthfully, no.
Those melodramatic scenes – tearful eyes and desperate touches and dramatic swells of piano music – were when he’d stealthily check his phone.
Still, he won’t be able to escape Yeona’s interrogation without offering a satisfactory answer.
“I found it unrealistic.” He shakes his head with a wry frown. “Love at first sight doesn’t actually happen in real life. Falling in love after a dangerous fight doesn’t make sense either.”
Yeona hums, unconvinced. She swipes through her phone before holding it up to his face. “Yeah? Then how come there are a bunch of studies about the connection between adrenaline and attraction?”
“That’s infatuation,” Seokju counters flatly, nudging the bright screen out of his immediate line of vision. “A combination of hormones and bad judgement.”
He tries to keep the irritation from his voice. Not from Yeona’s questions – rather, they’re approaching the narrow hallway that leads to the mall’s below ground parking structure.
No windows. Shadowy corners. Limited security cameras.
It’s enough to put him on edge, a reflex from years of training. He would’ve preferred waiting for someone to pull their car to a secured exit, but Yeona insisted on acting “normal.”
Bags rustle, followed by the click of a phone camera. He pivots sharply, just in time to catch a teenage girl with her phone aimed at him. She shrinks back into her circle of friends, the group giggling as they dart away.
Seokju sighs and rubs the back of his neck. False alarm. The other members of Team 3 try not to smirk.
Yeona lips quirk in a teasing grin. “You get involved in fights all the time. That must get your adrenaline flowing.” She waggles her brows suggestively. “So has there ever been a time when—”
“No.” Seokju cuts her off before she can finish the question.
It’s more than an attempt to salvage his dignity. He honestly means it.
Fights only occur during training practice – routine sparring matches with bodyguards he’s known for years – or during intense, unpredictable emergencies. In those latter situations, he’s far too focused on protecting Yeona to be fantasizing about anything else.
Besides, the henchmen and hired grunts he’s faced in the past are definitely not his type; they’re usually old and gristly, like castoff pieces of low quality meat.
Not—not that he’s looking, of course. It’s just…
Well, he rarely ever faces someone his own age.
Even outside of adrenaline-pumping fights, though, Seokju’s yet to find someone who’s caught his eye. The revolving door of rich heirs or heiress they meet during business trips only add to his boredom.
Love at first sight? He pauses, reconsiders. Rather, at first fight?
Yeah, complete bullshit.
But he sure as hell won’t be saying any of that out loud. He’s endured enough jokes from his fellow bodyguards. No need to add more fuel to the fire.
He glances over his shoulder to shoot them a warning glare, just in case they get any ideas.
Metal glints from within a man’s dark coat, too dull to be an expensive wristwatch. Seokju grabs Yeona’s arm and drags them both behind the nearest concrete support pillar.
Bang! Bang!
Gunshots echo like thunder through the narrow walkway. A little boy starts wailing, followed by panicked shouts from other shoppers. Yeona trembles beside him, her fingers tangled tightly in his jacket.
Seokju’s heart pounds in his chest, the thudding radiating to his throat and skull.
Firearms.
They need to be careful – both for Yeona’s sake, and for the safety of the innocent civilians nearby.
“Give us the girl and no one gets hurt!” a man shouts in English.
Seokju grits his teeth. A kidnapping attempt, then. They might not harm Yeona, but the same can’t be said for him or the other bodyguards.
He tries to send an update to his superiors, but the message bounces back from lack of signal. He scowls at the concrete slabs above and around him.
Just as he feared – a perfect spot for an ambush.
He angles his wrist until he’s able to catch a glimpse of the scene on his phone’s darkened screen. Three men approach, laughing and muttering amongst themselves. Only one keeps his gun out, though Seokju has to assume all are armed.
Fortunately, no one seems to have been hit by the initial gunfire. Most of the civilians have fled. Two bodyguards hide behind another support column a few meters away, while Mr. Han crouches behind a metal dumpster.
Mr. Han locks stares with him. He twists his fingers in a quick message.
Get to the car.
Seokju nods stiffly. He dips his head to whisper in Yeona’s ear, “Get ready to run.”
Her eyes widen in panic, but she bites her lip and offers a weak nod. She tenses her knees. Seokju watches Mr. Han for the signal.
With a determined grunt, Mr. Han rams his shoulder against the dumpster, sending it skidding towards the gunmen. They startle with shouted curses. The armed man fires two more shots in Mr. Han’s direction, bullets tearing through metal.
The other members of Team 3 leap from their spots, taking advantage of the chaos.
“Go,” Seokju whispers. He gently shoves Yeona forward, making sure to keep himself between her and the bullets.
More gunfire reverberates through the corridor, but he focuses on the path ahead. Pain flares through the side of his calf, followed by a trickling wetness. A graze or ricochet from flying concrete – not a direct hit, thankfully.
Yeona reaches the heavy metal door first. Seokju follows close behind and forcefully slams it shut, cutting off the gunman’s frustrated snarl of, “They’re getting away!”.
The sudden quietness on the other side of the door sends an uneasy prickle down Seokju’s spine. Yeona breathes heavily, her fingers buried in the front of her dress.
“Will they…?” she asks, the question trailing off halfway.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he runs through his mental map of the underground parking garage. They’re currently on the first level; they’ll need to go down another floor to get to their armored car.
“Let’s go,” Seokju taps Yeona’s upper arm and gestures towards the stairwell several dozen meters away. They run as fast as they can, footstep echoes bouncing off the walls.
His head swivels as his narrowed gaze sweeps over the parked cars and concrete barriers. A hazy glow radiates from the dim overhead lights, casting the complex in eerie shadows. No sign of a second ambush. They just have to—
Click.
Seokju goes rigid. If the parking garage wasn’t already so deathly quiet, he might’ve missed the subtle sound of the metal door latching.
Someone’s here.
Someone who doesn’t want to be heard.
An icy chill washes over Seokju, almost as if a bucket of seawater gets dumped on him. The hairs along the back of his neck stand on end.
He’s been in perilous situations before, but there’s something different about now.
Yeona stumbles to a stop beside him. “What’s wrong?”
There!
A shadow darts behind a parked car. Seokju shifts in front of Yeona, bracing himself for the inevitable tear of bullets through flesh. Instead, their stalker simply watches from a distance.
“Yeona,” Seokju says, voice low and tense. “You need to keep going. Without me.”
Yeona shakes her head slowly. He understands her confusion – protocol dictates that he never leaves her side.
The shadow creeps closer. Close enough that Seokju finally sees the glint to their eyes, the rest of their face obscured by a dark scarf. The intensity feels akin to a predator tracking its prey.
Why aren’t they attacking yet? What are they waiting for?
It’s the sort of patience that only comes from unbothered confidence, as if their opponent doesn’t even consider Seokju a threat. Every instinct is screaming at him to run.
That’s how he knows he can’t.
He needs to keep them away from Yeona. Her only chance of escaping will have to come from his sacrifice.
“Go to the car on the floor below. Another member of Team 3 will be waiting for you.” He raises his voice, never once tearing his stare from the approaching assailant.
“Wha—”
Seokju pretends to dig through his pocket and grabs Yeona’s hand. Instead of passing her the keys, he presses several letters into her palm.
Yongsan Station.
He spares a quick glance in her direction to check if she got the message. Yeona’s brows wrinkle slightly before she nods.
Good.
If he can lead their attackers deeper underground, then Yeona can escape to the rail station across from the mall. Once she boards a train, it’ll be much easier for her to slip away in the crowds.
“Do you remember where the car was?” he asks, making sure to speak in English. Then, quieter, he whispers, “Use the service stairwell,” in Korean.
The gunman spoke English earlier. He doesn’t know how much this new threat understands. Best to keep it vague.
“Go!”
Yeona darts for the service stairwell. The mercenary twitches, jerking their head from Seokju to Yeona.
Then, at a striking speed, they dash towards Yeona. If there hadn’t been considerable distance between them, Seokju might not have been able to react in time.
He lunges to the side, intercepting the mercenary with a full body tackle. The mercenary tries to divert him with a well-aimed punch to his throat. Seokju barely dodges in time, the mercenary’s fist skirting across his mouth instead.
Seokju’s shoulder aches and his split lip throbs, even from a glancing blow. The mercenary only stumbles back a single step, his clothes slightly rumpled.
Still, it’s enough to snag the mercenary’s attention. Those dark eyes narrow on him, focused and cold.
“You have to get through me first.” Seokju sucks in a steadying breath and rolls his shoulders back, fists rising into position.
Yeona disappears through the exit, the door slamming shut with a satisfying clang.
Seokju smiles grimly. Now, each second he buys means another second for Yeona to get further away. With shots fired, the police will be there soon, followed closely by reinforcements from the SW Corporation.
The mercenary’s gaze shifts from the stairwell door and back to Seokju. Judging from the body shape and the tufts of short, silvery hair poking out from under the hood, Seokju guesses he’s male.
Shorter than me. Slim build.
It’d be foolish to underestimate his opponent based on size. From their collision a few moments ago, Seokju knows the mercenary is deceptively muscular. Those baggy military fatigues can’t hide everything.
Age is harder to estimate, especially since those pitch-black eyes seem hauntingly ancient. Seokju shudders and shakes the thought away.
Focus.
Age doesn’t matter. Seokju himself has proved that countless times, taking down cocky new recruits and overambitious thugs who thought his youth made him an easy target.
His very earliest memories take place in the SW gym, clumsy kicks and weak punches and his father’s stern voice to do it again. Protecting Yeona is what he’s been trained for – what he’s been raised for.
A mysterious opponent won’t change that, no matter how many goosebumps rise along Seokju’s arms.
The mercenary darts to the side, as if trying to circumvent Seokju again on the way to the stairwell. Seokju swings his leg in a fast kick, his foot aimed for the mercenary’s neck.
The mercenary anticipates the attack. He stops mid-stride and catches Seokju’s ankle. Panic momentarily flares through Seokju as the iron-like fingers close around his foot. A single twist could snap the tendons in his ankle.
The mercenary’s grip starts to shift. Seokju’s ligaments burn as they’re twisted further. If he wants to be able to keep upright, he needs to escape now. Seokju wobbles on his other leg, hopping once to steady himself, before shoving his captured foot closer to the mercenary’s chest.
It’s not a strong blow – more like a forceful nudge – but it’s enough to loosen the mercenary’s grip on his leg. Seokju swings his foot higher, feeling the overextended strain in his hip as his heel grazes the mercenary’s chin, and yanks himself free.
Good. Back to fighting on two legs again. Even so, the victory feels hollow. Kicks have always been his secret weapon, yet the first strike nearly backfired.
He bends slightly at the knees, considering his next move. Luckily, the mercenary doesn’t seem keen to stri—
In a blur of motion, the mercenary’s dark eyes are mere centimeters from Seokju’s face. He’s barely able to throw up his arms in a half-formed shield before a sledgehammer cracks against his left forearm. Painful jitters radiate from the contact point, racing from his elbow to his fingertips.
The mercenary pulls back his fist to strike again. Seokju manages a slightly more coherent defense, deflecting the blow with another painful crack against his wrist. His heart pounds in his chest.
Shit.
Those blows were harder than anything he’s dealt with during previous sparring matches. Even Mr. Han never strikes with that much force.
When the mercenary goes for a third blow, this one aimed for Seokju’s throat, Seokju tries to dodge it completely. The fist passes over his collarbone. For a second, Seokju feels relief.
Then, a hand catches the back of his neck and those strong fingers pinch the vulnerable skin at the base of his skull. Seokju cringes, instincts driving him to temporarily freeze like a kitten caught by the scruff. Fingers dig into his flesh. An inhaled hiss of surprise slips through of his gritted teeth.
His reaction – lashing out with the heel of his palm – is more reflexive rather than calculated. Still, his fingers catch onto the soft fabric of the mercenary’s hood. He yanks the hood over the mercenary’s eyes; Seokju’s heel drives into the top of the mercenary’s thigh.
It’s enough to slip out of the mercenary’s grip. Seokju staggers backwards, putting as much distance as he can between them. Though the mercenary’s grip didn’t put pressure on his windpipe, his breaths still come out ragged. Sweat trickles down his flushed skin.
That was close.
The mercenary could’ve snapped his neck. Seokju felt the strength.
He lifts his first again, but now uncertainty coils in his gut. He’s never struggled this much in a fight. Not since he was much younger, anyway.
The panic builds, rising in his throat like bile, as he remembers Yeona. How long have they been fighting? It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds.
Not enough time.
The mercenary pauses to adjust the scarf wound around his face. After a silent debate, he pushes his hood completely off, revealing a shock of fluffy silvery hair.
Seokju blinks, momentarily caught off guard. He’s never seen hair that color before. At least, not on someone young.
When the mercenary steps towards him, closing the distance between them with two quick strides, Seokju keeps a wary eye on those fists. Suddenly, an ankle loops around his, their lower legs tangled.
Dammit!
Seokju pushes through his first instinct to resist. Instead, he rolls with the attack and lets himself get pulled into the grapple. He tries to twist – to use his height to give himself the upper hand – but the mercenary shoves him to the ground with a knee pressed to the back of his thigh.
Seokju hits the hard ground with a gasp, his chest striking concrete. The mercenary’s weight presses on top of him with unrelenting pressure. He writhes against it, desperate to throw his attacker off.
It’s no use. The mercenary keeps him pinned. Seokju’s hips grind against the concrete, far harder than the practice mats at the SW gym.
The mercenary adjusts his position, his knee shifting from the back of Seokju’s thighs to the small of his back. When Seokju tries to strike him with a backwards elbow jab, the mercenary catches his arm and twists.
Seokju sucks in another pained hiss of air. The mercenary presses even more weight on Seokju’s chest and shoulder. Each gasping breath comes with more difficulty, his ribs crushed between the concrete and the mercenary’s weight.
“Where is Yeona Sin?” the mercenary demands. “Tell me now.”
For a moment, Seokju’s brain goes blank.
Korean?
The words themselves are slow, unpracticed. Even so, there’s an underlying properness to the inflection on certain syllables.
Not quite a native speaker; not quite a foreigner.
The voice itself startles Seokju, too. Young, quiet yet forceful. He sounds like any one of Seokju’s classmates at school.
When Seokju doesn’t immediately respond, the mercenary grunts. “Where is Yeona Sin?” he repeats, emphasizing his words with another twist of Seokju’s arm. “What was that signal earlier? What did you tell her?”
Seokju grimaces as fire flares in his shoulder. He tries to shift to alleviate the strain, but the mercenary holds him firmly.
“Tell me or I’ll break it,” the mercenary insists. His fingers tighten around Seokju’s twisted wrist, while the mercenary’s other palm presses against his upper arm. It wouldn’t take much to snap the bone.
A snapped arm will heal. A snapped neck won’t. The cruel voice nags in the back of his mind.
He shoves the traitorous thought away. He can’t give up now, even if it kills him.
“You’re not going to hurt Yeona. I won’t let you.”
“I don’t want to hurt her.” A pause. “If you tell me where she is, I won’t kill you.”
Yeah, right.
As if he could trust someone who voluntarily abducts and kills people for money.
“Fuck you,” Seokju spits, craning his neck as far as he can to glare at the mercenary out of the corner of his eye.
If his superiors heard him, they would be appalled. He knows the reaction is immature – childish, even – but he can’t help the frustration that burns under his skin. He’s powerless, overwhelmed.
It’s like he’s a little kid again, too weak to escape his trainer’s hold. The mercenary could’ve killed him already, yet he’s holding back. Seokju doesn’t sense sadistic glee radiating off the mercenary; he’s not drawing it out to torture Seokju.
So, what the hell is his problem? None of his other buddies seemed to have an issue with hurting people.
The mercenary’s hand shifts from Seokju’s shoulder to the back of his neck. Fingers return to the ghostly bruises from earlier. The mercenary shoves Seokju’s head down, accidentally pulling at his hair in the process. His cheek scrapes against gritty concrete. For a second, his nose fills with the scent of damp stone and petrol fumes.
The coldness of the hard ground against his chest feels jarring against the heat radiating through the mercenary’s clothes. Seokju struggles to focus, trying to feel for a weak spot with each subtle wriggle, but the mercenary’s grip is inescapable.
“Where?” The mercenary leans in dangerously close, his breath swirling against Seokju’s ear. It sounds like a final warning.
Wait…
He pauses and takes a mental recalibration of where most of the mercenary’s weight settles. Very little pressure lingers on his lower half: no more tangled ankles, no more knee digging into the back of his thigh.
Seokju twists his hips, pressing his knee against the ground for extra purchase. Then, with a strained grunt, he rolls sharply to the side, knocking the mercenary off balance.
It’s more of well-timed flail than an actual attack. Still, it has the desired effect of loosening the fingers from his neck. After another sloppy backwards kick to the mercenary’s chest, Seokju manages to dislodge the man’s grip on his wrist, too.
He clambers onto his hands and knees. His muscles shake from the strain, too exhausted to cooperate. He scrambles to the nearest car and uses the front end as a grip to pull himself to his feet again.
In the reflection of the windshield, he sees a dark blur surging towards him.
Shit.
Seokju jumps onto the hood of the car, his rubber soles squeaking against the black paint as he tries to climb higher. If he gets above the mercenary, he could kick—
Too late.
The mercenary’s arms tangle around his waist and haul him off the car. Seokju tries to fight back, but the momentum of the mercenary’s throw is too fast. A millisecond later, his back and shoulder smash against the side of a nearby SUV. His head collides with the driver’s side window, glass cracking and stars flaring in his vision. Something wet trickles down from the new pain along his hairline.
Seokju staggers, his head spinning, as he steadies himself against the SUV. He braces himself for a second blow, but the mercenary simply stares at him with those unreadable eyes.
He isn’t sure how much time passes, their stares locked. One second? Five? Fifteen?
Seokju’s counting down the time until Yeona’s safe and reinforcements arrive. He isn’t sure what the mercenary could possibly be waiting for.
Tzzt. “Jin, where are you, you little shit?” Tzzt. “You ditched us!”
The words buzz from one of the mercenary’s pockets. Seokju drops his gaze reflexively.
Jin…?
He’s never heard the name before. Then again, he doesn’t know many mercenaries. A wave of nausea crashes against him. His eyelashes flutter closed, the throbbing pain in his head causing his focus to wander. Head trauma… perfect.
When he reopens his eyes, the mercenary – Jin – is gone. He blinks sluggishly.
Where—
An arm loops around his throat while another grabs his chest to keep him from moving. Adrenaline floods Seokju’s veins as he claws at Jin’s forearm. His fingers scrabble uselessly against the fabric.
This is it. Jin’s going to snap his neck any second now. He’s going to die.
He can’t even fight back properly; it feels like his limbs are disconnected by his brain, the encroaching darkness muffling his movements. His chest burns as his vision flickers. All he can feel is Jin’s muscular forearm around his throat, his body pressing tightly against Seokju’s.
A dizzying lightheadedness overtakes panic.
Nothingness soon overtakes everything else.
The others descend quickly on the parking garage, like vultures after a fresh kill. They seem more preoccupied with excuses and curses rather than the actual mission.
“Those fuckers were tougher than they looked,” one man whines. “No one said anything about them being that strong.”
“They broke my nothe!” His companion whines, pinching his swollen bloody nose. “We bedder get exthra for thith.”
“The girl still got away. Boss is gonna be pissed.” Martin smirks at Jin. “He won’t be pleased when I tell him you ditched us in the middle of the fight.”
Jin’s lips pull into a displeased frown. Once incapacitating the bodyguard, he planned on pursuing the target on his own. Now he’s stuck working alongside this useless “team” again.
If he had just killed the bodyguard from the beginning, then he wouldn’t be in this situation. A slashed throat or snapped neck would’ve been a quick, simple solution. A mere ten second delay to apprehending the target.
I didn’t want to kill him. He may have had information about her location. They clearly exchanged some sort of code.
It’s a flimsy excuse to justify his traitorous conscience.
Agitation prickles under his skin. No matter the reason, he still shouldn’t have wasted so much time interrogating the bodyguard. His steadfast loyalty to his client was obvious. Jin would’ve had more luck chasing down his own clues than torturing them out of the other teen.
“Shit – is that the kid they warned us about?” The first mercenary startles and squats by the unconscious bodyguard. His brow furrows in a confused frown. “Wait, he’s not dead.”
Martin whistles. “If someone as scrawny as you could do so much damage, then the brat’s scary reputation must’ve been a bunch of bullshit.”
Jin remains silent. He has no obligation to defend his opponent’s honor, but…
The bodyguard would’ve beaten them. Especially in a one-on-one fight. He was resourceful.
“What do we do now?” The mercenary tentatively prods at the bodyguard’s ribs. “Should we kill him so he doesn’t get in the way?” He cocks his gun and aims it for the teen’s head.
Jin’s eyes narrow slightly. The bodyguard’s fate shouldn’t matter to him, but the sight prompts another inexplicable ripple of anger. He brushes it off as contempt for their blatant incompetence.
They’re wasting time. This isn’t relevant to the mission. Yeona Sin must be at a safe location by now.
Yes, from Jin’s perspective, they ought to leave the bodyguard and continue searching for the target.
Instead, the others remain trapped by their greed and petty vengeance.
“There might be a reward,” the other man adds, dropping his hand from his bloody nose and glancing to their unofficial leader. “The client might pay extra for killing the kid.”
Martin mulls over the situation, eyeing the bodyguard with a calculating squint. “Gregson is right. We can make this work in our favor.”
“Good!” Gregson grins as wide as his broken nose will allow. “It’s what those SW pricks deserve. Shoot him, Jonah.”
Jonah’s gloved finger taps against the trigger. Jin’s molars clench. Why is this mission making him so uncharacteristically frustrated? Perhaps the unnecessary risk? The gratuitous bloodshed?
This is too public of a space for an execution.
Execution.
Jin’s keenly aware of the undercurrent of cowardice in their business. The bodyguard isn’t a threat anymore, but the others will come up with any excuse for an easy kill.
“Wait.”
Jin’s eyes snap to the speaker.
Jonah flinches and frowns at Martin. “Why?”
Martin shakes his head with a huff. “The kid’s more valuable alive. We still don’t know where the girl went. It won’t be hard to break him for more information.”
Jin eyes the trio of mercenaries, skeptical. Brute force and torture will only waste more time.
Martin waves at the others. “Come on – let’s get him out of here before the cops show up. I wonder how long this so-called prodigy can hold out,” he adds with a nasty laugh.
We should be following potential leads left behind during the target’s escape.
Jin glances at the stairwell where Yeona Sin disappeared. She could still be in immediate vicinity.
While the others are distracted by their new prize, he should slip away and conduct his own search. Once their target reunites with her guards or the authorities, he’ll be forced to spill more blood. Finding her now, alone, is the best way to reduce the casualty count.
Only one death is a better outcome than anticipated.
Jin’s blank stare lingers on the unconscious bodyguard. Leaving him with the other mercenaries is akin to a death sentence; they’ll kill him once they realize he won’t betray his client.
The bodyguard must’ve known that sacrifice was inevitable when he raised his fists against Jin. It’s a stark contrast to the crude, ugly brutalism of Jin’s current comrades.
He shakes his head, dismissing the thought with a stifled sigh. There’s little room for admiration or honor in their line of work.
Instead, people fall into two groups: the breathing and the dead. Considering the situation, the bodyguard already belongs to the latter. If Jin truly wants this assignment to succeed, he can’t be distracted by a stranger’s fate.
Nevertheless, he silently follows the other mercenaries.
.
They relocate to an abandoned convenience store.
Wooden planks over the front windows block out the sun. Only a few tendrils of light stream through the cracks to illuminate the grimy storefront. Empty display racks span the store, their shelves coated with dust and cobwebs rather than products. Water drips from some unknown pipe, the rhythmic plop plop plop echoing in the background.
Jin perches on the checkout counter, one ear tilted towards the windows for suspicious sounds. Nearby, the bodyguard slouches in a metallic folding chair, his arms handcuffed behind him.
None of the other mercenaries pay much attention to their unconscious prisoner.
Jonah wanders down the aisles, searching for expired food. Mumbled curses come from the bathroom as Gregson patches up his nose with a first aid kit he found under the counter. Martin disappeared into the backroom soon after they arrived. The sour stench of cigarette smoke drifts through the store, mingling with the scent of stale water and rot.
The bodyguard’s head tilts slightly; Jin catches a sliver of brightness through those long, dark eyelashes.
He’s awake.
Awake, but trying to conceal it. Jin’s used a similar technique when gathering information in volatile situations.
“Did you hear back from the boss about what we should do?” Jonah calls from the refrigeration section. “Does the client still want the girl, or do we move on to a new target?”
The bodyguard pretends to keep his features slackened, but there’s an underlying tautness to his muscles that ruins the illusion of sleeping.
Skilled mercenaries would’ve noticed.
One of Jin’s brows lifts. If the others aren’t careful, they’ll reveal crucial details.
“No, the client wants her,” Martin responds from the backroom. “Our guy on the inside is waiting for an update on where she’s gone, but it might take a while to hear back. The higher ups at SW are being pretty cagey.”
The bodyguard flinches; the metallic links in his handcuffs click. He opens his eyes a little more, taking another subtle sweep of his surroundings.
When he realizes that Jin’s watching, he goes rigid. The color drains from his face, all hints of his pretend drowsiness gone.
Jin simply stares back. He feels no urge to warn his temporary comrades. The people who hired him bought his skills, not his loyalty.
“Hey, look who’s finally up!” Gregson saunters into the storefront. Wads of gauze poke out from his nostrils, giving his words a muffled, nasally tone.
His announcement draws the others closer. Martin returns from the backroom, a glowing cigarette caged between his fingers. He squats in front of the bodyguard and exhales a puff of smoke into his face.
The bodyguard stifles his cough, the underside of his throat clenching, and warily eyes the sizzling cigarette tip.
Jin’s nose wrinkles. Tobacco smoke always reminds him of Mad Dog and those noxious cigars. Even his scarf can’t block out the stench.
For several seconds, no one moves. The smoldering paper burns closer to the filter.
With a smirk, Martin pulls back and tosses the cigarette at the bodyguard’s shoes. He grinds it to ashes with his heel, leaving behind a dark smear against the concrete.
“What? Were you expecting torture?” His laugh echoes through the empty store. “Trying to be a brave boy?”
The bodyguard glares. If anything, it only makes Martin laugh harder.
“Look at you – you’re just some snot-nosed kid. We don’t want to hurt you. Tell us what we want to know, and all of this goes away.”
Martin tries to offer a smile, but the scar along his cheek pulls the expression into a jagged sneer. The bodyguard juts his chin out in defiance.
“Fine. We’ll do this the hard way.”
Smack!
Martin’s palm connects with the bodyguard’s cheek, leaving behind a rosy welt. The bodyguard’s head snaps to the side, and he blinks rapidly before resuming his glare.
“Cute. I’d light another cigarette,” Martin taunts, “but I only got half a pack left. I don’t want to waste them on you.”
Jonah tosses a handful of something orange and dusty into his mouth. “You better listen to him,” he says around his loud crunching. “A couple of slaps is nothing compared to what he can do.”
As if to prove his point, Martin unleashes another slap on the bodyguard’s cheek. Blood smears from his busted lip, reopened after his earlier fight with Jin.
Martin clicks his tongue in distaste and wipes his stained palm against his pants. “Tell us where the girl went.”
The bodyguard says nothing.
“Tell us.”
“Hold on a sec -- what if the kid doesn’t understand English?” Gregson asks with a frown. “Maybe he doesn’t know what we’re saying.”
“Oh, he knows.” Martin scoffs. “He’s doing it on purpose. They told us you’re some bigshot prodigy when it comes to security. They probably drilled it into your head ever since you were young, huh?” He jabs his finger at the bodyguard’s bloody temple.
The bodyguard rolls his head away to escape Martin’s touch. His gaze briefly flits to Jin before darting back to Martin.
“What else did they teach you? Ignore your own pain to protect the client?” Martin continues with a sneer. “After all, they’re the only ones that matter.”
Smack!
“Not useless, replaceable little shits like you.”
Smack!
Martin’s latest hit strikes higher than the cheek, instead catching along the bodyguard’s eye. A breathy gasp of pain escapes. His glare weakens, far less threatening with one eye crinkled and reddened.
Jin shifts on the counter.
Ignore your own pain to protect the client.
How many times had he heard something similar from Mad Dog? From the other handlers at the Camp? Even the other Numbers echoed that phrase in those early days.
It was the only way they could survive. The temporary pain of fractured bones or torn skin was preferable to the horrors brought by failure.
Safe behind his scarf, Jin frowns at the bittersweet memories. The bodyguard’s steadfast loyalty almost reminds him of the Numbers.
Not like 002. Not like 003. Certainly not like 004.
But maybe 006? He’s protecting someone important to him.
He still recalls the brutal sounds of fists against flesh as 006 took beating after beating to protect 032 from Mad Dog’s gleeful spite.
006 refused to abandon 032, even though it would’ve been easier to cast him aside.
It was that strong sense of loyalty that brought them all together.
Jin’s gut churns.
And it was that loyalty that he betrayed when he fled the Camp. His rationale had been to find his true family – the life he lived before becoming 001 – but he feels no closer now than before.
“Hey, Martin -- d’ya think it’s time for a smoke break?” Gregson crosses his arms with a low chuckle. “You already busted one eye. Maybe you can give him a matching set.”
“Aww, no. Not the eyes,” Jonah counters, his grin stained orange. “It’d be a shame to fuck up a nice face like his.”
Martin hums thoughtfully. His fingers trail along the bodyguard’s throat and across his reddened cheeks. “Hmmm… Jonah’s right. You’re rather pretty. We shouldn’t waste a chance like this.”
The bodyguard tries to jerk away, but Martin grips his chin and yanks his face closer. “If you won’t tell us where the girl is, then we outta get something else in return.”
For the first time, a flash of fear crosses the bodyguard’s bruised face before it’s quickly smothered.
“Oh, that’s a really pretty expression.” Martin’s other hand drops to the bodyguard’s collarbone; his thumb runs small circles along the bruise from Jin’s earlier chokehold. “I wonder what other faces you could make for me.”
Jin’s frown grows, his own discomfort building. He’s familiar with the perverse greed lingering in Martin’s eyes. During his early days at the Camp, certain handlers would try to get closer than necessary: wandering hands trailing down his back or clumsy attempts at cornering him late at night.
The Numbers always kept the threats away before anything more could happen. During his time as 001 and Jin, he’s encountered many unfortunate others who didn’t have the same protection.
However, something else in Martin’s words causes Jin’s thoughts to spin.
Pretty.
He’s only heard the word a few times before. He wracks his brain for a suitable translation. There hadn’t been an analogous word in the language they spoke in Grian. When did he last hear someone say it?
Oh, Jin! Look what Thomas got me! Live poppies! Aren’t they so pretty?
Right, of course. He’d never seen Evelyn smile as wide as she did when another mercenary brought those bright red flowers back from a mission. That conversation plays in his mind, a kinder memory he refuses to forget.
Pretty? His lips had been so clumsy as they formed those unfamiliar syllables. What does that mean?
It’s— it’s hard to explain. These poppies are really important to me. It’s like I want to protect them, because they make me feel better.
Jin understood that. Poppies were important for distilling opium. As someone training to be a doctor, it made sense why Evelyn valued them. However, when he told her that, Evelyn shook her head with a giggle.
Well, you’re sort of right, Jin. It’s kind of like medicine. They make me feel good when I look at them. Those poppies… I wish I could look at them forever and ever.
Jin hadn’t understood that. Contentedness came from a full stomach and an uninterrupted sleep – not delicate, fragile petals.
Still, he did whatever he could to help Evelyn shield them from the blistering sun and relentless droughts. Evelyn’s joy was its own reward, even if he didn’t understand what it meant to savor something “pretty.”
Jin searches for any possible connection between Evelyn’s words and the current situation. It feels like a futile effort: this damp, chilly convenience store is the direct opposite of the sunbaked streets of the mercenary village.
Except…
The blood around the bodyguard’s busted mouth matches the same deep crimson of those poppies. The glistening freshness of the blood even mirrors the flowers’ glossy sheen after Evelyn dutifully spritzed them with water during the harshest heatwaves. If he were to run his thumb along the bodyguard’s swollen lip, would it carry the same gritty softness as those petals?
Jin’s gaze lifts. The bodyguard’s eyes, dark and striking against the haze of rising bruises, closely resemble the very heart of those poppy flowers.
Jin finds it hard to look away. Evelyn’s giddy voice rings through his thoughts.
The petals might be the prettiest, but the flower’s center is actually the most important part. It’s what draws the pollinators like bees and butterflies in. They’re hypnotized by it!
Perhaps this is what Evelyn meant by pretty. For some reason, he enjoys looking at the bodyguard. He soaks in every detail the way those poppies relished their daily watering. His memory fills in the gaps of what he can’t see: the firm muscles underneath that tattered suit and the boniness of the bodyguard’s hips as they grappled on the concrete floor.
Heat builds along his thighs and rises through his chest. When Jin’s eyes drop back to the bodyguard’s crimson-smeared lips, that fuzzy warmth seems to radiate directly under his skin.
Strange.
Fevers don’t usually feel like this. Ironically, the blurry pleasantness to his thoughts reminds him more of an opium dream.
Is he unwell? His body feels off.
Jin wriggles, uncomfortable and overheated, in an attempt to alleviate the pressure building below his torso. His heel thuds against the side of the counter.
“Fuck!” Jonah startles. “I forgot you were there. You’re so quiet. It kinda freaks me out.”
“Pfft, ignore him.” Gregson flicks his wrist. “He knows he can’t get paid if he ditches us again.”
Jonah frowns. “Yeah, that was a shitty thing to do. Even though you took the brat down, you shouldn’t get the bonus. Right, Martin?”
Martin pulls his hands away from the bodyguard’s neck and approaches Jin. His beady eyes narrow in a searching squint. His lips draw into a pucker, the scar along his cheek straining.
It’s the closest they’ve been since the mission began. Jin hunches his shoulders slightly, lifting his scarf higher up his face. Now isn’t the time to be recognized.
“They call you Jin, right?” Martin leans closer. “I swear I’ve seen those ey—"
Crash!
The metallic chair skids across the floor, striking Martin in the back of the legs. The bodyguard wobbles unsteadily on his feet before spinning on a heel, catching Gregson in the gut.
“You little shit!”
The bodyguard hesitates for the briefest second, his eyes darting from Jonah to the backroom doorway.
Attack or run.
Jin tilts his head, curious. With his arms handcuffed behind his back, neither will be easy.
The bodyguard settles on dashing around a wire-frame display case. Jonah chases after him, but another forceful kick sends both the mercenary and the display crashing to the ground.
The bodyguard’s balance suffers after the last attack. He tries to steady himself. His wide eyes keep jumping back to Jin, watching him the closest even though Jin hasn’t budged from the counter.
Wham!
Martin’s fist collides with the bodyguard’s chest. He collapses, landing hard on the same shoulder that Jin caught during their earlier fight. The bodyguard gasps and tries to roll over. Gregson’s foot catches him in the ribs, launching him into another display rack.
The bodyguard struggles to get up, but a hefty stomp to his chest keeps him pinned down. The bodyguard writhes, his teeth clenched to contain any cries of pain.
Jin’s nails scrape across the countertop. His chest feels strangely tight, buzzing, almost as if he’s been caught by an electric baton.
When Martin comes closer, the bodyguard tries to lash out with a flailing kick. It skids across Martin’s shin, earning a cold stare and another stomp from Gregson. His boot drives the lingering air from the bodyguard’s lungs, as well as his urge to fight. The bodyguard stops wriggling and instead sucks in air with gasping wheezes, blinking rapidly at ceiling.
Jin’s brows furrow. Shallow breaths. More blood flecks the lips.
Broken ribs. Or fractured, at the very least.
“I’m not playing, kid. Tell us where the girl is.” Martin grabs the bodyguard by the hair and yanks him upright into a kneeling position.
For some reason, the sight – the bodyguard’s head tipped backwards, pale throat rippling and vulnerable – sends another unfamiliar wave of agitation through Jin. There’s anger to the reaction, perhaps, but something else, too.
If anything, the hollowness in his gut feels more akin to hunger, not unlike when other soldiers stole his rations. Whatever this reaction is, Jin is aware enough to recognize part of his distaste comes from the fact that it’s Martin’s fingers tangled in those dark strands.
His fingers twitch, knuckles flexing. Another case of someone laying hands on something that doesn’t belong to them.
Martin wasn’t the one who took the bodyguard down. Normally, Jin doesn’t care about claiming credit, but he’s willing to make an exception in this moment.
“Tell us,” Martin commands, tone stony. He leans in until he’s only centimeters from the bodyguard’s face.
The bodyguard screws his face up in a defiant snarl. After a shuddery inhale, he spits a mouthful of blood in Martin’s face.
Martin clenches his teeth and smashes the bodyguard’s face against the floor. Bone connects with concrete with a brutal crack. He doesn’t move again, his body limp.
From the angle he’s at, Jin can’t tell if the bodyguard is unconscious or simply defeated. If not for the faint rise and fall of that tattered jacket, he might’ve assumed the bodyguard was already dead.
Martin straightens up with a distasteful click of the tongue, brushing the dust from his clothes.
“I’m going to update the boss and get some fresh air. When I return, we’ll take care of the kid.” He fishes his phone from his pocket and glares at the huddled body. “Figure out if you want your death to be slow or fast,” he warns before disappearing into the backroom.
Seconds later, a heavier metal door slams shut.
Jonah and Gregson swap looks.
“Fuuuuuuck, man…”
“There better be a bonus for killing the kid. Dealing with him is such a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have taken this mission if I knew it would be such a shit show. Next time, just give me a simple assassination.”
Jin remains perched on the counter, safely ignored amidst the chaos.
Their mission to abduct Yeona Sin still hasn’t been fulfilled, but they’ll find her soon. Jin doesn’t fail.
His gaze rests on the bodyguard. None of what he did – the defiance, the fighting, that final stand – will make a difference.
In the grand scheme of the assignment, only the client’s desires matter.
Nevertheless, he finds the thought of the bodyguard dying to be unpleasant. He rubs his forefinger against his thumb, remembering how the bodyguard’s neck had been so warm, his hair so sleek.
It’s confusing. It’s unfamiliar. This isn’t the way that missions are supposed to go. He’s supposed to be the impartial tool that fulfills the will of his client.
Jin pauses. An idea stirs in his mind.
What if he finds a new client?