The city stank of old prayers and cheap blood.
Jung Min stood at the edge of the rooftop, eyes scanning the skyline through drizzle and neon glow. Even now, at midnight, Seoul refused to sleep. Billboards buzzed. Airships drifted. Somewhere down below, someone was screaming.
And somewhere else, someone was listening.
He lit another cigarette. It was his fourth. He didn't care. He didn't even like the taste. Just the ritual.
Behind him, Azari sat cross-legged on a blanket, still pale but upright. The relic floated nearby, dormant but twitchy, like it could wake up from a bad dream at any second.
Jung Min glanced back.
"You eat?"
She nodded. "Half a protein bar and a lie-down. I'm thriving."
He smirked. It didn't last.
"Good. You'll need more than sarcasm when they come."
Azari looked up. "They?"
He turned to her fully now, eyes cold.
"You think Minjae was a message? He was the warm-up. The Order's got entire squads built for retrieval. Others for cleanup. If they can't take the relic, they'll make sure no one else can."
She swallowed.
"You said they're called Saints?"
"Used to be. Now they're just ghosts with salaries."
A thud echoed nearby.
Jung Min's hand went to his gun instantly.
Another thud. Closer. Measured.
He motioned for Azari to stay put. She nodded, crawling toward cover without another word.
Good girl. She learns fast.
Jung Min slipped into the shadows near the rooftop access door, back pressed against rusted brick. The rain masked the sound of footsteps, but not the weight of them.
Then the door creaked open.
Boots. One pair. Slow, deliberate steps.
No sword. No glow. Just a man in a hooded raincoat and torn dress shoes.
He stepped forward, looked around, then up—directly at Jung Min.
"You're early," the man said.
"You're stupid," Jung Min replied, stepping out with his gun already drawn.
"Fair."
He wasn't a Saint.
Too dirty. Too casual.
No relic markings. No armor.
But there was something in his eyes. Something sharp.
"Who the hell are you?"
The man pulled down his hood.
Short hair. Burn scar across his neck. Unshaven. Smiling like it was a threat.
"Name's Kang Ryu. I freelance."
Jung Min narrowed his eyes.
"Freelance what?"
"Mercenary. Killer. Trash collector. Depends on the coin. This week? I'm hunting saints. Former ones, mostly."
He cracked his neck, then pointed a gloved finger at Jung Min.
"Starting with you."
Jung Min didn't hesitate. Pulled the trigger.
The shot hit Ryu square in the chest—
—and he didn't fall.
Didn't even flinch.
He looked down, then back up.
"Oh yeah," he said. "Forgot to mention."
He peeled his glove off.
Underneath, the skin pulsed dark red. Veins black.
A demonic binding mark, burned directly into his palm.
"I'm rented out. Soul included."
Jung Min cursed under his breath.
"Of course you are."
Ryu grinned.
"And now I'm yours, Saint."
He charged.
And Jung Min fired again.
This time, the bullet screamed.