The clock read 10:17 a.m. Rae-a was already sweating.
She dropped into a low crouch, her shoulder pressing flush against the freezing concrete wall of the warehouse's lower level — a place she'd never ventured into before, and now wished she had. Regret coiled at the base of her spine, cold and quiet. Her breath came in precise bursts, sharp and metered, the echo of hours spent drilling each movement into muscle and marrow. One hand hovered near the pistol at her hip, fingers flexed in anticipation; the other steadied against the wall, its crumbling texture gritty beneath her glove.
She moved like a ghost, but thought like a soldier — each breath, each heartbeat measured. No room for error. Not now. Not after everything.
And yet...
A shadow of doubt flickered in her chest. Something had slipped lately — a hesitation, a dullness. The edge she once carried like a second spine felt dulled at the tip. Rusted, maybe. Or worn down by something worse than time.
Still, she pressed forward. Because she had to. Because fear had never been enough to stop her.
"Three-point entry. One breach, two sweep. Go again," In-ho ordered from across the room, voice like a whip crack. His voice was monotonous, not because he didn't care, but because he had to keep his emotions seperate to this if he was going to help her as best as he could.
She didn't answer. Just moved.
Bang—dummy flashbang down.
One, two, three—
She surged forward, rolled, cleared the fake stairwell, checked her angles. Her boots barely made a sound.
"Too slow on the pivot," he called again.
"Too slow on your feedback, asshole," she snapped back, tired of what feels more like her incompetency.
In-ho's jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once — a silent tell of everything he refused to say aloud. It wasn't her that angered him. Not really. It was the world that demanded she bleed just to keep breathing. It was the role he'd been forced into — an unwilling spectator, watching her claw her way through hell while he stood powerless, praying she'd still exist when morning came.
His voice was low, controlled.
"Again."
And she did. For the fifth time.
They weren't wasting a second. Not today. And that was more than okay with her.
Because at exactly 7:00 p.m., Rae-a would scale the northwest scaffold of Kang Chul-soo's private tower with two knives, one pistol, and the weight of her entire life strapped to her back.
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By noon, the lower floor of In-ho's home reeked—of gunpowder, metal, and sweat so thick it clung to the walls like grime. The air was heavy with the stench of exertion and adrenaline, layered over with the acrid tang of burnt rubber and the stale breath of rust. Every clang of a steel plate or echo of booted footsteps seemed to vibrate with the gravity of what was coming.
Rae-a was slumped against a slightly aged support beam, chest heaving like she'd run a marathon straight through a furnace. Her tank top clung to her like a second skin, soaked through with sweat, her hair slicked back in a fraying ponytail that had lost its discipline hours ago. She drank from her bottle like it was the only thing keeping her from collapsing, her throat working with each gulp, breath trembling out of her between swallows.
In-ho crouched beside her with mechanical calm, eyes scanning her face, her posture, her readiness—not just physically, but emotionally. He held out a protein bar still in its wrapper, silently. She took it without thanks, fingers brushing his, but didn't open it. Just stared at the floor, blinking slowly, her mind clearly spinning elsewhere.
"What's our margin if I miss the timing on the east wing?" she asked, her voice hoarse from shouting commands and dry air.
"You won't," he said automatically, too fast.
She didn't look at him. "If I do?"
"You won't." His voice was harder this time, sharper. Like if he said it with enough force, it would make it true.
She finally turned to him, and the sharpness in her gaze cut deeper than any blade. "In-ho."
He exhaled slowly through his nose, rubbing the tension at the bridge of it with thumb and forefinger. "Four seconds," he said finally, tone clipped. "That's the window between your climb and the moment the exterior camera tracks body movement. Five before their alert protocol pings the system. I will follow the evacuation protocol, but in the meantime you'll have to defend yourself."
"You mean hide," she said flatly.
"Rae-a," he snapped, a flash of anger breaking through. "Your knives and a pistol won't hold against a machine gun nest. Don't twist this into cowardice."
Her lip twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. It wasn't humor—it was resignation. Like she'd already made peace with this.
She thought about how she needed a pistol. It was short range and quiet. But if she was to be caught then they would be on her guns blazing. They didn't need the silence that she did. That was truly why she needed to hide.
He hated this. Hated the way she sat there so calm, so ready to accept every outcome as if she were just a piece on the board. Her posture didn't shake. Her hands didn't tremble. But there was something in the way her jaw clenched between words, the way she refused to look directly at him for too long. That told him everything.
"You should be rattled," he went on, the words brittle. "You should be scared out of your damn mind right now."
She turned toward him, eyes flaring. "What do you want me to do? Curl up in a corner and cry until the countdown ends? I know what this is, In-ho. I know what I'm walking into. And I sure as hell know what happens if I hesitate."
In-ho rose to his feet abruptly, pacing three steps away before turning back. His hands were clenched at his sides, not from anger—but from the unbearable need to grab her and shake some sense into her, or maybe just hold her long enough that she'd stop sounding like she was already halfway in the grave.
"You think you're the only one with something to lose?" he asked, voice low but tight with emotion. "You think I have been training you like this so you could march to your death with your shoulders squared?"
Rae-a stood too, slowly, her movements fluid but deliberate. She stepped closer until they were eye-to-eye, the tension between them thick as smoke.
"I think," she said softly, "that you trained me because you knew this moment would come. And you needed to know I could survive it."
He didn't answer.
She tilted her head, quieter now. "You're scared, too."
"Of course I am," he snapped, no hesitation in his voice. "I'm terrified. Because I don't know what I'll become if you don't come back."
Her eyes faltered then, just for a heartbeat. It was the first crack in her armor he had seen in a while.
He stepped forward again, closer than was necessary. "So don't ask me to play pretend and act like this is just another run. This is the run. And I'm not losing you."
Her gaze locked with his, sharp and unrelenting—
"You won't lose me, In-ho," she murmured, gaze fixed somewhere just past his shoulder. The words tasted like rust on her tongue — not quite a lie, but far from a promise. Still, if it kept the storm in his chest from swallowing him whole, she'd believe it long enough for the both of them.
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her — really looked — as if trying to memorize the shape of her in case the universe made good on its threats. Then he turned, jaw locking tight, shoulders rigid. His eyes shimmered, not from fatigue, but from the quiet ache of holding back everything he couldn't afford to say.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Everything was counting down. But for now, they were both still standing.
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Rae-a stormed into the safehouse first, her footsteps sharp against the worn wooden floors, fury and fatigue bleeding into every motion. The moment the door shut behind her, she tore off her gear vest and shirt in one breathless sweep, flinging them onto the kitchen table with a wet slap. Her sports bra clung to her, darkened with sweat, her skin slick and glistening beneath the soft yellow light overhead. Scars, both old and jagged, spanned her back and shoulders like a brutal history etched into flesh—burns, knife slices, faded bullet grazes. She didn't care. In-ho had seen worse. Had seen her in blood, in battle, in silence, in scars. And yet—this coil of anxiety somehow felt even more raw.
The tension humming under her skin wasn't just from the heat or exhaustion or the weight of the mission ahead. It was something colder. Deeper. A clawing dread she couldn't name. Not fear—not exactly. But something cruelly close to it.
She didn't even hear him enter behind her until the soft creak of the door sounded, followed by the stuttered halt of his boots.
In-ho froze just a few steps inside. The sound of her shirt hitting the table had barely faded when his gaze landed on her figure—shirtless, damp with sweat, skin gleaming in the low light like some war-touched statue. His breath hitched without warning, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as his eyes moved up from the curve of her shoulder blades to the scars that webbed along her back. Scars he knew were there. Scars she never bothered to hide anymore. But now, in this still, silent moment—when she wasn't armored in anger or adrenaline—they looked like something sacred and painful all at once.
The scent of her sweat, the heat still radiating from her skin, the quiet heaviness in her stance—it hit him harder than the gunfire ever could. She hadn't flinched at disrobing in front of him. Not because she trusted him completely, but because at this point, this—this—felt less vulnerable than telling him she was scared.
And he saw it.
God, he saw it.
The way her shoulders sagged ever so slightly after she let her clothes drop. The way her fingers curled and uncurled by her sides. The hair that stuck to her neck as she reached up to tie it back—tight, quick, practiced. Efficient. But her hands trembled just enough to betray her.
"You didn't eat the bar," he said, voice low, looking up from the phone he'd picked up from the coffee table. His words came out more like a distraction. Or maybe a lifeline.
She didn't turn to face him. Just fastened her ponytail with a band and twisted it tight. "I'm not feeling very hungry."
He paused mid-text, thumb hovering above the screen. He watched her in the reflection of the dark TV screen—how she moved more slowly than usual, how her breath was just a touch too shallow, her focus a little too frayed.
It wasn't just today. It had been building for weeks. She was eating less. Sleeping less. Trembling more when she thought no one was watching. Rae-a didn't complain—she never did—but the signs were there. And the signs didn't lie. Not to him.
In-ho rolled his sleeves up to the elbows slowly, deliberately, the motion grounding him. Then he moved to the kitchen, setting his phone down without a word. She didn't ask what he was doing, and he didn't tell her. But her eyes followed him.
His hands moved with the kind of familiarity born of old habits—precise, deliberate, and steady, even as tension knotted itself into his shoulders. The fridge opened, drawers slid, a cutting board thunked softly onto the counter. He worked in silence, slicing thin sheets of salmon, rolling rice, adjusting portions the way he remembered she liked it: light on soy, no wasabi. Just simple, clean flavor. One of the only foods she'd ever admitted to liking during their months of being around one another.
He hated himself a little for what he was doing. Because he knew she wouldn't refuse food if he made it. It wasn't fair. It was quiet manipulation wrapped in care. But she would eat. And that was the only thing that mattered.
When he set the plate down in front of her—clean, cold sushi arranged with the kind of neatness only someone like In-ho could manage—her brows rose in surprise, and something flickered across her expression. Memory.
She picked up a piece of sushi with her fingers—graceful despite the tremor she likely thought she was hiding—and gave him a glance from the corner of her eye, something unreadable stirring beneath the coolness of her expression. Her lashes were still damp from sweat. A strand of hair clung stubbornly to her cheek. The bruises along her side had darkened since the mission, just faint shadows where muscle memory and pain intersected. He hadn't let himself look at them too long, but he'd seen enough.
"You know," she said, voice almost too casual, "this reminds me of the night the lights went out during the games."
In-ho froze—not in a dramatic way, not visibly. But something within him stopped. Clicked out of rhythm like a watch catching on its gears.
He didn't sit down. Didn't move. His body remained angled just slightly away from her, the plate still cool in his hands from the effort he'd made to prepare it perfectly—precisely.
Her words cracked open something he'd sealed tightly, and it bled memory into the moment whether he wanted it or not.
That night.
That goddamned night.
The bloodshed, the chaos, the way her eyes had found him with that sharp, devastating clarity of someone who knew—who had just uncovered a truth that could never be put back where it came from. It was the moment her trust shattered. The moment he saw her soul fracture and silently recede, like a tide dragged out to sea.
She took a bite. Deliberate. Slow. Her eyes didn't leave his as she chewed and swallowed like she was testing him. Or maybe testing herself. Maybe this was her way of asking if he remembered. If it hurt.
"We were eating sushi then too," she added, setting the piece down with the tip of her fingers. "Then I found out you were the Frontman."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It pressed between them like a third presence, something old and bruised and still bleeding.
He exhaled—not quite a laugh, not quite a breath. It escaped more like a sound that had been sitting too long in his chest, stale and sharp at the edges.
"Hell of a night," he murmured, voice flat.
"You think?" she returned dryly, one brow raised, but it was devoid of bite. There was no venom behind it. Only something quieter. More tired. Her sarcasm was armor, dulled now. Paper-thin.
His eyes dropped to the roll she'd left half-eaten. She wasn't hungry. He knew she wasn't. She hadn't been eating right in days—meals left untouched, barely nibbled at. She'd sleep in short bursts, shallow breathing, eyes flickering under her lids like she was never fully letting herself rest. Always coiled. Always ready to bolt.
It killed him that he noticed it all. That he couldn't fix it.
He really hoped that after tonight, all of this could change.
"So much has changed," she said suddenly, the edge in her voice softening, unraveling into something closer to vulnerability. Her fingers toyed with a stray sesame seed on the plate, eyes watching it roll in small circles like it could distract her from what she'd just confessed.
"Back then, I wanted to kill you."
She didn't say it like a threat. Not like a wound, either. It was just fact. A simple observation spoken with the tired acceptance of someone who had lived long enough to wear their hate out.
In-ho nodded, gaze still locked on the plate.
"Back then," he said quietly, "I thought I deserved it."
And he had. Truly, he had. There were nights—nights after she found out, after she looked at him like he was no better than the evil that walked the earth—when he didn't sleep. He sat in the darkness, fingers curled against his temple, wishing he could cut the Frontman out of himself like a tumor. But it had rooted too deep. The mask had teeth. It didn't let go.
"And now?" she asked.
The question was soft. No challenge, no venom. Just... breath. Just air, shaped into something that sounded almost like hope if he listened too closely.
He turned to her slowly, like the weight of what she'd asked required time to lift. And when his eyes landed on her—truly landed—he saw everything she wasn't saying.
The bruises she wasn't acknowledging. The way her arms had folded across her midsection, subconsciously protective, self-soothing. The fine tremor in her fingers that hadn't stopped since the warehouse. She probably hadn't noticed it.
But he had.
And he hated that she still tried to look strong, even now. Even here. With him.
"Now I just want you to live," he said.
It was not a declaration. It was not a dramatic, sweeping confession. It was barely more than a whisper.
But in it lived everything he couldn't bear to lose. Every night he had watched her bleed and still get back up. Every time he had sent someone else to die instead of her. Every time he had stayed in the shadows so she wouldn't see how far he'd already fallen for her.
And in that moment, her eyes shifted. Not sharply. Not suddenly. Just enough to meet his, and hold.
She didn't speak. Her mouth didn't even twitch. But something in her posture loosened. Not relaxed—but unguarded, just for a beat.
She reached for the sushi again, fingers slow, careful. She didn't look away.
And this time—she ate.
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Rae-a stood barefoot in the middle of the living room, her arms loosely at her sides, but her leg bounced in place with restless energy. It was a quiet, involuntary tic—a silent drumbeat of unease she had never quite managed to unlearn, no matter how many times she told herself to stop. Her eyes were locked on a single black climbing glove lying a few feet away on the floor, as if it had insulted her simply by existing. There was nothing extraordinary about it, just another piece of gear, but in this moment it felt symbolic—like the last domino standing before the end of everything.
In-ho walked in holding her harness, the weight of it resting against his hip. "The gear check's clean," he said simply, his voice steady but careful, like he was testing the waters.
Rae-a didn't turn to look at him. She stayed where she was, her eyes still fixed on the glove, her silence thicker than usual. Her face was unreadable, locked in that stoic stillness he'd come to know—but something about her posture told him she was somewhere else entirely.
He paused, studying her for a long moment before taking a slow step forward, as if not to startle her out of whatever corner of her thoughts she'd disappeared into. "What is it?" he asked, softer now, almost tentative.
She crouched and picked up the glove, holding it loosely in her hand as she finally spoke. "This is the last time I'll ever do this," she murmured. "Run. Climb. Kill just to stay alive." Her voice wasn't bitter or resigned—just low, quiet, and almost too calm. "After tonight, there's nothing else. This is it."
For a moment he said nothing. The weight of her words settled between them like smoke. He knew this version of her—this eerie stillness that came not from control, but from exhaustion so deep it hollowed you out from the inside. Then, after a breath, he stepped forward again and said with unwavering certainty, "Good."
She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance back at him, clearly surprised.
Without waiting, he moved closer, his body finally brushing against hers. His arm slid around her waist with an ease that was both intimate and protective, not forceful, but full of quiet intention. His warmth pressed into her side, anchoring her there like a tether to reality. "That means you get to stop looking over your shoulder. That you get to stop surviving and start living."
Rae-a let out a breath that might've been a laugh if it weren't so flat. "You talk like you're sure i'll make it."
"I am," he said simply, no hesitation in his voice, just conviction.
She turned fully to face him then, the glove now held limply in her fingers, her dark eyes searching his face. He didn't flinch from the scrutiny. He held her gaze with a kind of warmth that made her stomach twist, not because it was romantic or dramatic—but because it was steady. Grounded. Unafraid.
"You get annoying when you're hopeful," she muttered under her breath.
In-ho's lips quirked, but only briefly. "You get reckless when you think you've already lost."
The words landed hard. She didn't try to deflect them. Didn't roll her eyes or fire back something snarky. She just stood there, quiet, and let them sink in. She hated that he was right, but she hated more how deeply it unsettled her to be seen so clearly.
And so she stayed still, in the circle of his arm, the glove still crumpled in her hand, the storm ahead creeping closer by the second. But for now, with his breath near her temple and his certainty pressing gently into her skin, Rae-a allowed herself to lean—just a little—into something other than that damn coil of dread.
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5:15 PM.
The light was beginning to dim outside, slanting in cold through the high, narrow windows of the estate, casting elongated shadows across the hallway floor. As the hour struck, neither of them spoke—only the soft, synchronized tread of their footsteps echoed off the stone. The path to the dungeon was hidden behind a narrow steel door at the end of a forgotten corridor, one Rae-a hadn't even noticed until In-ho stopped in front of it and keyed in a sequence on the embedded panel.
It unlocked with a mechanical hiss, the sound sharp and surgical.
Rae-a felt the chill even before the door fully opened. The air that rushed out smelled like dust, iron, and the kind of stillness that only settled in places built to keep people forgotten. She didn't move immediately. Her hand brushed the strap of her harness absently, fingers twitching with restless energy, and her eyes scanned the darkened descent like it might suddenly swallow her whole.
"This place looks like it hasn't been used in years," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
"It hasn't," In-ho said, stepping inside first. His voice was low, unreadable. "Only a few people know it exists. I wanted it that way."
There was no pride in the way he said it. No cruelty. Just the practical detachment of someone who'd learned to compartmentalize necessity and regret. He flicked a switch near the wall and a row of dull, overhead lights sputtered to life, humming as they illuminated a narrow concrete staircase descending into shadows.
They walked in silence, Rae-a trailing just a few paces behind. Her boots barely made a sound, but each step seemed louder in her ears. The tension between them didn't fill the space—it strangled it. By the time they reached the bottom, it was a living thing, pressing down on their lungs.
The dungeon wasn't a torture chamber, not in the dramatic, cinematic sense. It was clinical. Spare. Cold. Concrete walls, thick and grooved from time and damp. A single steel chair bolted into the center of the room, with a rusted drain beneath it. Chains hung loosely from hooks in the corners. A wall-mounted table held empty syringes, old restraints, a few scattered tools. It was not the kind of place people were meant to walk back out of.
Rae-a stepped in and stopped just past the threshold, her shoulders drawing in slightly as her eyes adjusted. She stood very still, her arms at her sides, but her hands were clenched into subtle fists. She didn't look at In-ho. Didn't have to. She could feel his presence behind her, the same way one feels a storm building at their back.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence was so thick it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.
In-ho took a few steps forward, the soles of his shoes whispering against the cold floor. He didn't speak right away. His gaze flicked over the room, lingering on the chair for half a second too long, as if confronting some part of himself he didn't want Rae-a to see.
The dungeon lights buzzed overhead, their flicker making the shadows twitch like restless ghosts. The steel chair at the center of the room looked more like a relic of war than a piece of furniture—cold, unforgiving, with rust curling around the bolts and a single drain carved into the concrete beneath it like a quiet threat. Rae-a sat in it now, her wrists bound to the arms with worn leather straps, the edges frayed with time. Her ankles were secured similarly, but loosely—enough to sell the illusion without cutting off circulation. It was all part of the plan.
She exhaled through her nose, slow and even, as In-ho stood a few feet away, the burner phone already ringing in his hand. One ring. Two. Each tone sharp as a blade. His posture was taut, chin lifted, fingers clutched too tight around the phone like he was preparing to go to war. Because in a way, he was. Every move from this moment forward would be watched, scrutinized. If they slipped—if Chul-soo even sniffed hesitation—it would all come undone.
But Rae-a's eyes didn't leave him. Not when the third ring sounded. Not when it kept ringing.
"In-ho."
He turned his head slightly, distracted. "What?"
"Cut me."
He blinked, convinced he must have heard her wrong. "What?"
She wet her lips, the cold air making her mouth dry. "He's going to ask for proof. Blood sells the story."
The phone kept ringing, unanswered. It cast an eerie rhythm into the silence, steady as a heartbeat.
In-ho stared at her, his expression unreadable at first. Then something shifted. His jaw clenched, his shoulders stiffening like the request physically wounded him. "No."
"We don't have time to argue—"
"I'm not hurting you," he said, firmer this time. "That's not part of the plan."
"Yes, it is." Her tone remained level, but her voice tightened, fraying at the edges. "You just didn't want to admit it. He won't believe bruises or binds alone. You know he won't."
In-ho looked away, and for a moment, she thought he might walk out. But he didn't. He just stood there, staring down at the floor, like he could somehow rewrite the moment if he thought hard enough. The ringing stopped. Missed call.
The silence that followed felt louder than the phone ever had.
Rae-a leaned forward slightly, her bound arms straining against the leather. "Do it," she said, more gently this time. "A surface cut. Shallow. Just enough to bleed."
He still didn't move.
"I've bled worse. You've seen it."
"That's not the point," he muttered, finally meeting her eyes. "You think I want to be the one to do this to you? I've spent every moment since this began trying to protect you, and now you want me to—"
"To help me," she cut in, voice sharp but not cruel. "We're past the point of comfort, In-ho. We either sell the story or we both die with it."
He stared at her. Saw the steadiness in her gaze, the brutal resolve in it. She wasn't afraid. She had accepted it—whatever it took, whatever pain it meant. She trusted him to do what was necessary, even if it cost her.
With a quiet, shuddering breath, In-ho stepped forward. He reached into the side pocket of his coat and withdrew a small tactical blade. The edge gleamed under the buzzing lights. Not serrated—clean, sharp, surgical.
"You tell me where," he said hoarsely.
She nodded toward her left upper arm. "Here. Visible, but nothing that limits movement."
He crouched beside her, knees creaking against the floor, and hesitated for a moment longer. His fingers found the edge of her sleeve and gently rolled it back. His hand was steady, but his eyes weren't. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
The knife pressed against her skin. A breath held between them.
Then a shallow line drawn with practiced precision—quick, clean, barely more than a scratch to someone like her.
Rae-a winced, her jaw tightening as the sting spread through her arm. Her eyes fluttered shut for a beat, but she didn't cry out. When she opened them again, her breath was visible in the cold air as she reassured him. "Good. That's good."
In-ho dropped the blade like it burned him, the clatter of metal against concrete far too loud. His fingers hovered near her shoulder but didn't touch her. He looked at the blood beading along the cut like it was proof of his own failure.
She watched him, her voice softer now. "It's okay."
But it wasn't—not really. Not for him. Because in that moment, hurting her, even for the sake of the mission, felt like a betrayal of everything he'd vowed to be.
He turned away slightly, breathing uneven. Then she spoke again.
"One more."
He paused.
"Cut my forehead."
In-ho froze. "Rae-a—"
"A head wound bleeds fast. Messier. More convincing."
He turned back to her, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "No. That's too much."
"I'll flinch. You don't have to go deep. Just—just enough."
She tilted her head slightly, baring her temple, as if offering a part of herself to be sacrificed. His throat tightened. His fingers trembled as he picked the blade back up.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered under his breath.
But he stepped close again after he picked it back up. Raised the knife.
She braced herself, closing her eyes just before it came. The blade nicked her skin above the brow, shallow but fast. Blood bloomed almost instantly, warm and slick, trailing down her temple in a vivid crimson ribbon. She gasped—more from the shock than pain—and winced sharply as it dripped past her eye. Her head lolled slightly to the side, breath stuttering through parted lips.
In-hobacked up once more, horror etched into every line of his face. His hands trembled as he reached for a nearby rag from the table, soft but stained, and carefully pressed it against Rae-a's lips, muffling any sharp sounds that might betray them. She closed her mouth around it without protest, her eyes locking with his in silent understanding.
She opened one eye and looked at him, her words muffled. "Now it's convincing."
He couldn't speak. Just looked at her—tied, bleeding, and somehow still composed—and felt something in him splinter.
He began to ring the phone again.
In-ho's thumb hovered briefly over the call button before pressing it with deliberate calm. The phone rang sharply through the stillness of the dungeon, until Kang Chul-soo's gruff voice answered, clipped and suspicious. "What is it?"
Without a flicker of hesitation, In-ho's voice cut through the silence, steady and controlled. "Phantom. She's been captured. She's here."
There was a pause on the other end—a flicker of disbelief, then a low growl. "You're telling me you have her? Show me. Proof."
In-ho didn't flinch. With practiced ease, he switched the call to video. The screen lit up, revealing Rae-a seated on the steel chair, her body bruised, a fresh cut bleeding down the side of her temple, streaking her pale skin with dark red. A rag was tucked firmly into her mouth, muffling any sound, but her eyes blazed fiercely at the camera, burning with a hatred so sharp it could cut through steel.
In-ho angled the phone just enough so Chul-soo could see the full scope—the bindings, the blood, the defiant glare that seemed to scream, I'm still here. I'm still fighting.
In-ho's gaze flicked to Rae-a's, catching the raw fire in her eyes. He felt a grim satisfaction. Not once did he waver; no trace of nervousness betrayed him. He knew exactly how dangerous that look was—and how lucky he was to stand on this side of it.
Chul-soo's sneer cut through the phone's speaker, thick with dark amusement and barely concealed thrill. "So you actually managed to catch Phantom. Impressive, In-ho. This better be worth my time." His voice dropped low, a dangerous edge sharpening every word. "I'll be there at XXX in one hour. Don't disappoint me."
In-ho's eyes didn't flicker, his tone calm and unyielding as he replied, "I'll be there. With her."
Before ending the call, In-ho took a step forward, bringing the camera into full view of Rae-a. Her eyes snapped open, sharp and fierce, catching In-ho's with a flash of startled defiance. Without hesitation, he reached out, grasped her arm firmly, and pulled her up. The sudden motion caused her to wince softly, but her gaze burned brighter than ever, locked onto the camera with an unspoken warning.
Chul-soo could see everything—the tied, bleeding Phantom, the rag pressed against her mouth, and now this forceful display of control. The silent tension between them crackled with raw intensity, the fierce hatred in Rae-a's eyes speaking louder than any words could.
Chul-soo's voice came again, gruffer, edged with a mix of anger and grudging respect. "Keep her alive. Don't screw this up."
In-ho held her steady for a moment longer, then ended the call, the image seared into Chul-soo's mind as the screen went dark.
The moment the screen went dark, In-ho moved swiftly, his fingers gentle but urgent as he peeled the rag from Rae-a's mouth. She gasped, the tight fabric releasing a sudden rush of blood and saliva that she spat out onto the cold concrete floor. Her breath came ragged, but her eyes—sharp and burning—fixed on him with a grudging respect.
"I liked your little touch at the end," she said, voice rough but edged with faint admiration, each word a small victory carved from pain.
In-ho's smirk was slow, almost pleased, a rare crack in his usual stoicism. "I had to make sure Chul-soo believed it. Convincing him is the only way forward."
She gave a tired wave of her hand, dismissing the apology that hovered unspoken in his expression. "No need to say sorry. You did what you had to do."
Their shared glance held a spark of something unspoken—a fragile thread of alliance stitched together by necessity and trust. Rae-a shifted slightly, wincing as fresh aches flared through her bruised body, but the fire in her gaze hadn't dimmed.
The plan was moving. The first act had played out perfectly, and now it was time to step into the shadows of phase two. The weight of what was to come settled between them, heavy but resolute. They both knew there was no turning back now.