Seoul — Jongno District. Two Days Later.
The sound of a bone saw hummed over the vinyl hiss of a Pat Benatar cassette.
Kairi stood in the middle of a butcher's basement. Not a real butcher. Just one of her newer "brothers" playing house—Sunbae Yoo, a former back-alley doctor turned corpse disposal expert. He wore thick rubber gloves and a cigarette behind his ear.
"You're getting reckless," he muttered, nodding toward the cooling corpse on the slab. "Two in one week, and in public places."
"People talk when they breathe," Kairi replied, calm. "My children are missing."
Sunbae didn't look at her. "You think they're still in Seoul?"
She stayed silent.
Then finally:
"No. Not anymore."
She stepped over the red floor, boots clean, expression unreadable.
"They're hiding. That woman—Katarina—she was always good at disappearing. Cowardly, but methodical."
Outside, the alleys of Jongno pulsed with post-midnight traffic. Street kids smoked behind trash bins. Gisaeng-style bars lit up in pale pink and green.
Kairi stepped into the neon, eyes sharp like a wolf's beneath her black trench coat. Her phone buzzed.
"동해에서 버스 확인됨. 고등학생 두 명. 한국어 이상함. 일본식."
(Confirmed two teens at Donghae bus terminal. High school. Odd Korean. Japanese accent.)
Her mouth twitched into a smile so subtle it might've been mistaken for a flinch.
She hung up.
Then whispered, under her breath:
"가까워졌네. (We're getting closer.)"
Kamikawa – Early Morning.
The mountains breathed fog.
At the train station near the edge of town, Ryouma stood alone, watching the rails disappear into mist. In his hand: an old bus ticket. Seoul to Donghae. Crumpled, half-torn.
He shouldn't have kept it.
But something about destroying the evidence felt… dishonest. Like pretending none of it had happened.
He heard the footsteps before he turned.
Souta.
Hair braided, blazer neat. Still clutching her English vocabulary notebook like it was armor.
"You ready?" she asked. Her voice was brighter now. Practiced.
"No."
"Same."
They started walking. Together.