The clock ticked overhead like a cruel metronome, cutting the silence with its sharp, indifferent rhythm. A single bulb swung slightly in the ceiling above them, casting shifting shadows over the table that sat like a battlefield between Rae-a and In-ho. Neither had spoken in several minutes. The remnants of their failed plans — scribbled diagrams, red-marked photographs, crumpled printouts — littered the table like debris from a war they already felt like they were losing.
Rae-a leaned forward in her chair, elbows on the edge, her knuckles white as they pressed into her jaw. The silence wasn't peaceful. It was dense, like the air before a monsoon, humming with things unspoken.
In-ho paced behind her, one hand pressed flat against his lips, the other shoved deep into the pocket of his trench coat. His eyes flicked across the walls like a man scanning escape routes he didn't believe in, but desperately trying to find one of use. Rae-a didn't have to see his face to know his expression — it was the one he wore when plans failed, when control slipped just slightly from his fingers. That edge of frustration hidden behind carefully crafted silence.
"We're not going to find a clean shot," he muttered finally. "Not with the kind of cover he keeps now. We'll never get close enough."
Rae-a's knuckles tapped against her face, trying to keep herself calm, though it felt like it was doing the opposite. "That's the point," Rae-a said, firmly and clearly. "He doesn't come out unless he smells blood. Or finds something that is worth his time."
In-ho halted mid-step, slowly turning to face her. There was a familiar edge in her tone—subtle but sharp—a telltale sign he'd come to recognize. It was the kind of tone she used right before saying something he instinctively knew he wouldn't want to hear.
Rae-a turned her head slightly, just enough for him to catch the profile of her expression — calm, resolved, but beneath that, a kind of hunger. For something that no man could give her. Something primal that had lived under her skin since the day she escaped Kang Chul-soo's world. She needed to do this.
"I need to be the bait," she said, her tone dry and flat, like it was a tactical note. Not a declaration of self-endangerment.
"No."
The refusal left In-ho's mouth so fast it barely had time to form breath, a single syllable spat out like a reflex, more instinct than intention. The moment Rae-a's words landed, his body went cold, the kind of cold that prickled from the inside out, as if his bloodstream had turned to ice.
His mind reeled, recoiling from the idea like it was something foul. He couldn't even begin to wrap his head around the logic—or lack thereof—that led her to this point. This wasn't a strategy. This was suicide cloaked in bravado.
He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, trying to decipher the fire behind her eyes, the unnerving calmness with which she had said it. It terrified him more than if she'd been panicked. Calmness meant commitment. Steadiness meant she'd already accepted the cost.
"What the hell are you thinking?" his voice cracked slightly, caught between fury and disbelief. "No, that's not even—do you hear yourself?"
He couldn't stop the surge of thoughts rushing in, like floodwaters breaching a dam: How could she say that so easily? Did she not understand what she was offering up? Or worse—had she already made peace with not surviving this?
She turned her chair fully now, facing him. Her eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, he hated the way she looked at him. Not with recklessness, but with a fixed intent.
"Just shoot him from a rooftop, then?" Rae-a asked, voice edging toward sarcasm. "Put a bullet in him and call it closure?"
"That's precisely what I'm proposing," he snapped, his voice sharp as flint as he closed the distance between them. He loomed over her, tension rippling through his frame, casting a long shadow over where she sat draped in the chair, maddeningly composed. "Fast. Clean. Keeps you out of danger."
"But then I get no justice," she replied, softer. As if the thought that she wouldn't get her revenge physically hurt her. She needed this.
In-ho ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. He didn't want to understand. Hated that he could understand where she was coming from. He knew Rae-a had spent her whole life trying to find a way out of this tunnel she found herself born in. And when she was free, the consequences to her were worse than losing her own life. He wanted to believe he could change her mind, that his death, even from afar, could give herself a semblence of peace. But Rae-a had already decided. She knew the stakes, and chose that anyway.
"What you're suggesting is suicidal. You know that, don't you?"
"I do." Rae-a stood now, slow and deliberate. She stepped around the table until she was only a few feet away from him. Her eyes flickered, lit by a slow-burning fury that was terrifying not because it was loud, but because it was controlled. "But this isn't just about removing him from the equation. This is for everything he took from me. He destroyed the person I was supposed to become."
Her voice cracked slightly at the end, like a fissure in a porcelain shell, and In-ho felt that sound like a blade against bone.
"I want him to know fear," she whispered. "The kind he carved into my skin for years. I want to see it in his eyes before he dies."
In-ho turned away, because he couldn't stand to look at her — not like this, not when she looked like a woman already halfway to martyrdom.
"This is the part where I tell you not to go," he said, his voice thin, a rare crack of vulnerability exposed between syllables. Hoping that this method would work. "Where I say I won't allow it."
"You won't stop me," she replied simply, sternly.
He spun back toward her. "You think I'd just hand you over to him? Is that what you think of me?"
Rae-a tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "I think you know me well enough by now to realize you don't have a choice."
"No," he snapped. "You don't get to corner me like that. You don't get to pretend this is some noble suicide mission just because it's dressed up in revenge."
"Oh, I don't?" Rae-a stepped closer, and he realized, for the first time in a long time, that he wasn't the one in control anymore. "Then stop me. Chain me up again. Lock the doors. Burn the building down."
He didn't say a word. His silence wasn't indecision—it was a collapse from the inside. Because how could he answer her, when what she said was a reminder of what he'd done to her? During the games, he had forced her into the fire, holding her there to fight through her trauma. Only to then have betrayed her. Those weren't mistakes he could scrub clean with apologies.
He hadn't forgiven himself. Not for the mask, not for the lies, and certainly not for the moment she looked at him and saw the enemy.
Rae-a watched the torment in his expression before her voice softened. "I'm not going in blind. I have connections. People still in the Kang Building who owe me their lives. People who think Chul-soo is a cancer, too."
He blinked. "Who are you talking about?"
Rae-a gave a sly smile. "They aren't exactly friends. But the kind of people who understand debt. And Chul-soo owes them a large one."
She stepped back, her movements fluid — a ghost from a world that had trained her too well. She picked up a pen from the table and started sketching a rough layout on the back of a printout. "There's a favor I've been holding onto. One I told myself I'd never use unless I was ready to burn the whole house down. It's time to check in."
In-ho's voice was gravel when he spoke. "What kind of favor?"
Rae-a leaned across the table, dragging the pen like a blade across the paper. Her smile returned, slow and wicked. "The kind that lets me get access to the Kang Building without getting shot."
The Kang Building. A large 25 story building constructed by Kang Chul-soo at the beginning of his reign in the Underground
Her gaze lifted to his again, glinting like steel.
"You asked what my plan was," she said. "This is it."
In-ho stared at her, and for the first time, he realized the terrible truth: she wasn't reckless. She wasn't being driven by impulse. This was her clarity.
And somehow, that made it worse.
"Rae-a..." he started.
But she only shook her head.
"You can't save me from this, In-ho," she said gently. "This is something I have to do."
He looked at her, the woman who had become both his contradiction and his compass. The fire in her eyes burned bright — too bright — and somewhere deep down, he knew: if he tried to pull her away from this path, she'd never forgive him. Maybe not even herself.
And that, above all, was what he feared most.
He sat down slowly, pressing his fingers together beneath his chin, watching as she finished the sketch with the same ease she might've used drawing up a hit.
He said nothing for a long while.
Then, at last.
"Tell me the plan."
And across the table, Rae-a smirked — not with triumph, but with quiet satisfaction. As if this moment had always been inevitable.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The safehouse smelled of smoke, parchment, and rain-warped wood. The storm had ended, but it left the air heavy with a kind of pregnant silence, the kind that seemed to stretch and thrum between every heartbeat. A bright chandelier overhead flickered occasionally, casting shadows that quivered across the cement walls like ghosts with nowhere left to go. The table between them—once scattered with tactical maps, dossiers, and blueprints—was now stripped bare except for a single pen Rae-a twirled absently between her fingers. Her eyes were on the wall, but her mind was somewhere else. Somewhere ten steps ahead.
In-ho stood with his back against the far wall, jaw tight, arms folded like they were the only things keeping him from falling apart. He'd seen her like this before—eyes distant but burning, posture deceptively calm, that eerie stillness she wore like armor when she was about to walk into the lion's mouth with gasoline in one hand and a lit match in the other. It terrified him every damn time. And this time, he had a sinking feeling it would be worse.
She didn't preface it. Didn't ease into it with logic or a cascade of rationale. She just dropped it like a blade.
"You need to call Chul-soo."
Her voice was even, measured, like she was reciting a grocery list. In-ho's head snapped toward her, the heat of disbelief rising like wildfire in his chest.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"You'll tell him you've got Phantom," she continued, unfazed by his tone. "Alive. Tied up. Say I came after you. That I thought you were planning to take the Underground from him."
He blinked. Stared at her for a beat too long. His arms uncrossed. A slow, involuntary shake of his head followed.
"Have you completely lost your mind?"
She tilted her head slightly, as if waiting for him to catch up. Her smirk was barely there—sharp, amused, knowing—but it grated on him. She didn't answer the question. Didn't argue. That alone made his skin prickle.
"Rae-a," he said, pacing a slow, tense line beside the table now, "you want me to contact Chul-soo, the man who's been trying to slaughter you like a rabid dog, and tell him I have you in my custody? Do you understand what he'll do? He'll demand proof. He'll want to put a bullet between your eyes himself—"
"Exactly," she said coolly.
The word hit like a slap. In-ho stared at her, stunned. "Exactly?" he echoed, voice pitching upward. "You want to put yourself on a silver platter and serve it to him?"
"If I'm the bait," she said, eyes gleaming now, "he'll come."
He stepped forward then, slow but sharp, like a blade being drawn. "And what if he doesn't believe me? What if he thinks I'm compromised?"
"He won't," she said.
"And you know that... how?"
Her silence said everything. She didn't explain. Didn't indulge his spiraling logic. Instead, she merely smirked again—just slightly, maddeningly—and looked back at the wall like it was all unfolding perfectly in her head.
The look made his stomach twist.
He hated that expression. That slight upturn of her mouth when she was thinking too many moves ahead for anyone else to follow. That unnerving calm in her eyes like she'd already lived the outcome, as if failure wasn't even a variable worth calculating.
He raked a hand through his hair, now fully pacing. His voice dropped lower, strained. "Do you even hear yourself right now? We've spent weeks laying low. Every day you stay alive with me feels like a goddamn miracle. And now you want to stroll into the viper's nest because you think he'll come to you?"
She met his gaze then—finally, fully—and what he saw in her eyes made his breath catch. She wasn't afraid. She was ready. Whatever this was, it wasn't reckless desperation. It was something colder. Sharper. She was no longer trying to survive. She was hunting.
He exhaled, a bitter sound. "This won't work."
"It will," she said simply.
He stared at her, trying to read the rest of the plan on her face. "Why do you even think this'll work, Rae-a? What makes you so sure?"
"Because I wont be here. It will be a diversion. I will go to him."
He wanted to scream. To shake her. Instead, he forced the breath back through his nose and closed his eyes for a beat. When he opened them, his voice was flatter, brittle. "Fine. Say I make the call. Say he takes the bait. Where do you expect this little charade to happen? One of his factories? A dockyard? His private bunker?"
She took a step forward. Just one. It was enough.
"No. He won't risk a place that could be ambushed. Not if he thinks I'm dangerous and still breathing." She leaned her palms on the edge of the table, voice dipping lower. "He'll use the helipad."
The words struck harder than he expected. In-ho stiffened, a flicker of dread lancing through his spine.
"From the Kang Building," he said slowly.
She nodded once.
"Are you out of your mind?" The words snapped out before he could stop them, realising what she is suggesting. "That place is a fortress. Twenty-five stories. Facial recognition cameras. Pressure sensors. Heat mapping. There are drones on standby. Even the stairwells are patrolled."
"I know."
"And you still think you can—what—walk in?"
She smirked. "Maybe not walk in. But the top of the Kang Building is isolated. Monitored, yes — but there's a potential opening."
In-ho's eyes narrowed. "An opening for what, Rae-a?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she walked to the edge of the table and placed a hand on its surface. Her fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm. Then, with a small smirk curling at the corner of her mouth, she looked up at him — eyes gleaming with the ghost of something dangerous.
"There's a blind spot," she said.
In-ho stilled. His entire body froze like a man waiting to see if the ground would split beneath him, waiting to see where she was going with this.
"A what?"
"A blind spot," Rae-a repeated. "Just west of the security tower, near the old HVAC system. I studied that building inside and out when I was working under him. That particular spot doesn't have camera coverage because the wind conditions make it impossible to anchor them. They tried, I remember. Three times. It always failed."
He stared at her in disbelief. "So you're saying—"
"I'm going to climb it."
Silence.
Complete, unnerving silence.
"Climb it?" His voice was flat. It wasn't even a question anymore. More like an accusation.
She gave a small, satisfied nod, tapping once on the table like she'd just delivered a checkmate.
"It's the only way to be waiting for him without walking into a death trap. I can't arrive from the ground. I'll be above. Out of sight until I'm ready to be seen."
In-ho ran both hands down his face like a man trying not to scream. "You're talking about free climbing a twenty-five story monolith patrolled by armed guards and motion sensors—"
"With equipment," she interjected, rolling her eyes. "I'm not insane."
"That's your defense?"
She shrugged. "It's not my first time scaling a building."
He stepped toward her, each word now taut with something beyond frustration — something closer to fear.
"That building is sheer glass and steel. There are no footholds, no ledges. If your anchor fails, if your rope swings wrong, if you get caught—"
"I won't," she cut in. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was steady — unnervingly so.
He searched her face for some trace of hesitation, something he could exploit, argue against. But all he found was a quiet certainty.
"You've done this before," he said slowly, warily.
"I used to do it for sport," she replied. "Long before the Underground. Back when I still had time to waste." Her tone grew more wistful than she intended. "There was this mountain — Seoraksan. I climbed it every winter. Alone. No ropes."
He looked at her like she'd just confessed to being born under a different planet.
"You're out of your mind."
She grinned. "Only a little. But it's the only thing I've ever done that made me feel like I had control. Up there, on a cliff face... every move is yours. Every decision is immediate. It's you and gravity, and nothing else."
In-ho stared at her for a long moment. Then his voice dropped, quiet but fierce.
"And how do you plan to get the rope up there in the first place? Because last time I checked, gravity isn't exactly a fan of uphill favors."
She glanced sideways, feigning vague indifference as if they were discussing something as menial as a movie, not a death mission. "I have someone for that."
His jaw clenched. "Who?"
"A favour I'm calling in. One of the few still breathing who hasn't turned their back on me. They'll climb from the inside. Maintenance shaft. Leave the anchor secure just before the exchange."
In-ho's fists clenched at his sides.
"Do you even understand what you're risking?"
Her eyes darkened, the smirk finally falling away.
"Of course I do," she whispered. "Every step. Every breath."
He looked away, staring at the wall as though it could offer him an alternative — a less suicidal plan. But the silence dragged on, and there was nothing left in it except inevitability.
Rae-a moved closer, her voice softer now.
"This ends one way or another. Either I face him on my terms, or we keep running in circles until he gets what he wants."
"And if the rope gives out?" In-ho asked.
"Then I hope I'm remembered for how I climbed, not how I fell."
Something cracked behind his eyes.
"I can't lose you," he said, barely audible.
Rae-a reached up, her fingers ghosting along his wrist — a rare tenderness that made his skin buzz.
"Then help me win."
In-ho exhaled through clenched teeth, turning away before the sheer magnitude of her plan swallowed him whole. The absurdity of it. The risk. The image of her, hanging off the side of that steel monstrosity by nothing but rope and willpower—it burned behind his eyes like acid.
"You're going to get yourself killed," he said, almost to himself.
"Then I'll die doing something I chose," she said behind him, voice like flint.
He turned back. Their eyes locked.
"Rae-a."
She took a step closer, voice gentler now, though no less resolute.
"I'm not asking you to understand," she said. "Just help me set the trap."
And though every part of him wanted to scream, No, what came out instead was silence.
Because he knew.
He would.
God help him, he would.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The house had grown quieter over the weeks. Dust settled where it pleased. The pristine marble floor bore new scuffs from restless pacing. The previously flickering chandelier light fixture had begun to hum like a dying bee, and the shadows it cast grew longer as dusk crept in. Rae-a sat alone in the main room, the world beyond the rain-smudged windows cloaked in that strange, bruised twilight that blurred the lines between day and night.
It had been nearly three weeks since she first pitched the plan to In-ho—three relentless weeks of planning, scrapping, revising, and reimagining. Every angle had been dissected, every variable tested against worst-case scenarios. And still, the final piece eluded her.
She sat hunched over a table strewn with maps of the Kang Building, architectural schematics that had been folded and refolded until their edges curled like burnt parchment. A detailed floorplan of the top ten levels was spread before her, layered with notes in ink, charcoal, even knife scratches where frustration had outpaced rationality. Her hair, tied up in a loose knot, had begun to unravel as she chewed the end of a pen cap, her brows knit in a frown so deep it felt carved into her skin.
The phone buzzed beside her, its screen lighting up with a name she had saved under a decoy: Jin – Repairs.
Her fingers moved before she could think, answering in a brisk whisper. "You're clear?"
A pause, a stifled yawn from the other end, and then the voice of a young woman—breathy, sharp, perpetually anxious. "Y-yeah. Had to fake a smoke break, but I'm alone now. What do you need?"
Rae-a leaned back, eyes scanning the ceiling as if answers might be hiding in the flaking plaster. "You said you work rotation in the surveillance wing?"
"Middle shifts mostly, yeah. Upper floors. Usually tower-side, not roof. That's senior-level coverage."
Rae-a narrowed her eyes. "But you've seen the system layout."
"Well—sort of. I mean, yes. I've studied it. For the floor certs. Roof is tight. Infrared, pressure-activated backup, internal loop with redundancy—basically, it's locked tighter than a virgin's—" the girl faltered, cleared her throat, "—vault."
Rae-a let the comment slide, instead pressing, "Is there any way it can go dark without triggering a sweep?"
There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then the voice returned, choppier now—rambling. "Not really? I mean, if there's a feed disruption, the software flags it. Internal log updates, timestamps the second it notices any anomaly. Plus, there's a secondary observer who always—unless they're on break or switch out, which is rare, like once every—hold on, unless... oh wait, no, because even then there's a—well, there was that time last spring when the update cycle—"
Rae-a's head jerked up, spine stiffening.
"Wait," she interrupted sharply. "What did you say?"
The voice paused, confused. "What part?"
"You said 'update cycle.' Software update?"
"Yeah, it's quarterly. It's a security protocol refresh. All the cams and AI recognition get calibrated for anomalies, but during the install there's a short blackout window. Like, technically, footage isn't lost, it's just... um, inaccessible. But that's usually fine because it's expected. Maintenance logs cover it."
Rae-a felt her heartbeat kick—steady but faster, heavier. Her hand clenched slightly around the pen cap until it cracked between her fingers.
"You said 'blackout.' How long is that window?" she asked, trying to keep her tone measured, even as her body tensed like a spring.
"An hour, maybe a little less. Give or take. Depends on how fast the patch installs. It varies."
Her breath caught in her throat. She sat up straighter, pen forgotten as she reached instinctively for the schematics in front of her, scanning the blind spot area marked in red. Her fingers hovered over the west side HVAC piping section. Her mind had already leapt forward, running simulations. No risk to the surveillance team. No exposure to the operative on the lower floors. No alarms.
"When is the update scheduled?" she asked, her voice now a low, urgent murmur.
The girl on the phone hesitated, sensing the shift in tone. Then she fumbled for an answer. "Um... I think... next week. Thursday. Let me check—yes. Thursday, 21:00. That's 9 PM. We usually run it in the evening to avoid peak hours."
Rae-a exhaled slowly, as if letting go of a breath she'd been holding for months.
One week. 9 PM. One hour.
Her lips parted in a smirk—not one of amusement, but something deeper. Fierce. Controlled. Perfect.
"How long exactly is the system down for?" she asked again, needing to hear it one more time.
"Sixty minutes, give or take five. Depends on the load, but yeah, around an hour."
Rae-a nodded to herself. "Thank you."
"Wait—what's going on? Why do you need—"
But Rae-a had already ended the call.
The phone thudded softly onto the table as she leaned forward, pressing her hands against the map. Her reflection in the darkened windowpane stared back, eyes alight with something dangerous. Not adrenaline. Not even relief.
Precision.
It was almost too clean. Almost.
That window would give her everything she needed. The blind spot would remain untouched. The rope—secured by her contact on the lower floor—would be delivered during the blackout, dropped from a maintenance hatch on the 21st floor and threaded down the ventilation access that cut through the tower's blind edge like a spine. Her route to the roof would be invisible, undocumented, and irreversible once the hour was up.
There would be no surveillance footage of her ascent. No alerts. No trace.
No one but her would be at risk.
Rae-a's hands moved quickly now, reaching for the comms file she had secured in the past week. There were still pieces to align—gear drops, masking tech, extraction timing—but this... this was the foundation. The skeleton of the entire operation.
Now all that was left was to move.
Her next contact was the lower-floor operative—someone embedded beneath the upper suites under the guise of an internal janitorial contractor. They owed her. She'd saved their life once in a back alley raid orchestrated by Chul-soo's underlings—back when Phantom still served the man's empire. That debt was iron-clad, and she knew they wouldn't hesitate. Not when it mattered. They agreed to sort out the ropes up the building.
She stood slowly, gathering the folded blueprint, tucking it under her arm. Her body ached from hours spent hunched, from nights slept half-sitting with a knife beneath her pillow. But her mind? Sharpened. Aligned. For the first time in years, there was clarity.
There was no room for error. Not in this.
This wasn't just a plan anymore.
It was a promise.
And it was going to work.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The week passed like mist over a blade—quick, quiet, and deceptively calm.
Outside the safehouse, the world moved as usual. Rain fell, traffic snarled, the neon signs across the rooftops flickered with half-hearted buzzes, and night bled into morning like ink through fabric. But inside their shared shelter—this borrowed sliver of stillness carved out of chaos—time folded differently.
Jun-ho came and went like a cold wind through a cracked door. He never stayed long enough to settle. He brought updates, contacts, equipment stashed in gym bags, the occasional container of lukewarm food that none of them touched until it had gone cold. His presence was necessary, calculated. But he remained distant from Rae-a, not because of disdain, but because of the unspoken truth hovering between them—she was with In-ho now. Whatever that meant. Whatever that was becoming.
Jun-ho never said it aloud, but Rae-a could feel it. The way he looked at her. Then looked away. Like he knew she could be the reason In-ho would fall apart.
Still, the tension was never loud. It lingered, coiled in the corners of the room, tucked between glances and quiet retreats.
In-ho had taken full control of the operation's backend—coordinating contacts, fielding encrypted comms, managing timelines like an obsessive conductor fine-tuning a symphony no one else could hear. He barely slept, but when he did, it was always beside Rae-a now. It had become natural—habitual even—their nights spent curled beneath worn blankets on the floor of the upstairs room with the cracked window. The first night had been an accident. The second had been intentional. The third had been inevitable.
It wasn't romantic in the way books might describe. No candlelight. No whispered confessions. Just quiet proximity. Arms brushing in the dark. Breath syncing. The kind of closeness born not of longing, but survival. And maybe—just maybe—comfort.
One night, five days before the plan, Rae-a had woken up from a dream she couldn't remember. Her forehead was damp, her shirt clinging to her back. She'd turned over to find In-ho already awake beside her, propped on one elbow, the light of his tablet casting blue shadows across his face.
"You're not sleeping," she muttered, voice rough.
"Neither are you," he replied, not looking at her.
She studied him for a long moment. He was back in black again—black sweater, black pants, bare feet. He always moved so silently, even in the safehouse. A creature of control. Calculation. But beneath that—something was cracking.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked, surprising even herself.
He glanced at her then. "That you'll go through with it."
Rae-a frowned. "The plan?"
"No," he said quietly. "The part where you leave after."
There was a beat of silence. The air between them thinned, grew sharp at the edges.
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Instead, she reached for his hand—tentative, calloused fingers sliding against his with quiet uncertainty. He didn't pull away.
That was their second soft moment that week.
The first had happened the morning before, when she caught him staring at the scar on her collarbone while they drank coffee in silence. She had made a wry comment, something self-deprecating and dry. But instead of laughing, In-ho had set his cup down and gently traced the edge of the mark with his knuckle.
"Why do you hide them?" he asked.
She'd shrugged, almost unthinking. "Makes it easier to pretend they aren't there."
His expression had darkened slightly—not pity, something deeper. Protective. Dangerous.
"I don't forget the things I've done to people," she added.
"You don't need to. That's what makes you human."
She hated how that answer got to her.
The days ticked down.
Rae-a grew more anxious, though she didn't show it outwardly. She spent hours rehearsing the climb in her mind—each movement, each second of exposed rope, each beat of silence during the blackout window. Her hands were always busy. She checked gear three times a day. Cleaned her knives. Recited escape routes out loud. When Jun-ho brought in one last schematic—a side corridor in the ventilation shaft that could serve as an alternate if something failed—she memorized it within an hour.
But the nervous energy began to build, coiling tighter inside her chest like a fist she couldn't unclench.
The night before the operation, she stood on the roof of the safehouse, hands in her pockets, eyes fixed on the moon.
She didn't hear In-ho come up behind her, but she felt him the way she always did—like a shift in air pressure, a shadow falling where there hadn't been one before.
"You're cold," he said quietly.
"I'm thinking," she replied.
He stepped beside her, their shoulders brushing.
"Do you want me to tell you not to do it?" he asked.
She looked at him, really looked. There was no mask. No pretense. Just In-ho—worn, tired, tense in the jaw and eyes. This wasn't the Frontman. Not here. Not with her.
"No," she said finally. "I want you to understand why I have to."
His gaze didn't falter. "I do."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was familiar. Like the space between heartbeats. Rae-a exhaled slowly, and for a second, she allowed herself to lean against him. Just barely. Just enough.
That night, they didn't sleep. They lay side by side, facing each other in the dark, not speaking. At one point, In-ho reached out, his fingers trailing lightly down the side of her face, and she closed her eyes, letting herself believe—for just a moment—that this wasn't temporary. That the coming hours didn't exist.
But morning came.
And with it—the day.
The air was oddly still. Outside, the streets moved normally. Horns blared, the city shifted. But inside the safehouse, the silence was anticipatory. Razor-thin.
Rae-a stood at the window, already dressed in her tactical gear—black cargo pants, compression shirt, light harness tucked discreetly beneath her jacket. Her hair was pulled back tightly, and her expression had returned to that calculating calm she wore like armor.
In-ho watched her from across the room, arms crossed. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line.
"You still think this will work?" he asked finally, not unkindly. Just... worn.
She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze.
"Yes."
He nodded once. Then frowned. "You're asking me to call Chul-soo. To say I have you."
Her eyes gleamed. "Yes."
He looked at her as if she'd asked him to swallow glass. "Do you even understand what kind of chaos that could trigger?"
"I do."
He exhaled sharply, half-frustrated as he stepped closer to her. "You're impossible."
"And you're still going to do it," she said, turning fully to him now, a glint in her eye.
A tense beat.
"Yes," he said, low.
And then, for a moment, everything stilled.
It had begun.
And nothing, from this moment on, would ever be the same again.