The night in Seoul was deep and sticky, like oil. The rain had long stopped, but the streets still shone with reflections of signs—red, blue, white—and seemed alive. A distant engine wailed, and that sound was swallowed by the city's echoing heart.
Underground, in the old banking district, the air was different—dense, almost lifeless. The smell of copper, plastic, and concrete dust mixed with Seungho's light, almost imperceptible scent of pheromones—not the wolf's smell of power, not a threat, but something measured, neutral, like ice water. He was holding himself back. He couldn't breathe too loudly here.
— Five minutes to the window, — the technician said quietly, kneeling by the terminal. Light from the monitor glinted on his wrist, reflecting in his eyes. — Security system is on a restart cycle. After this, we'll have to leave.
Seungho nodded. His voice was low, steady, as if not a single thought was running inside him. Though a whole storm was.
A faint signal trembled in his ear.
— Are you there? — Do-yun's voice was muffled, as if through a soft filter.
— Here, — he replied.
— Your... smell is different, — Do-yun said quietly. — Steel.
Seungho barely smiled.
— So you don't smell my fear.
A pause. A breath on the other end. The barely audible peep of the baby.
— We're waiting. Don't be late.
The vault corridors were narrow and low. The light was even, white, without shadows. The metal walls seemed to swallow the sound of footsteps. Seungho walked first. Behind him—Oh-hwa, calm as always, and two of his men. No words, no glances. Only steady breathing.
— Code? — he asked.
— Entered, — Oh-hwa nodded. — Thirteen minutes left.
They descended to level "C-3". A massive lock stood at the door stamped with the three intersecting circles. Seungho swiped his card. The indicators blinked thrice. A click. The door opened with a dull sigh.
The smell of the vault hit his face—cold, dusty, with a tang of old papers and plastic. Shelves, like rows of coffins. On each—metal safe deposit boxes with codes.
— Eight forty-two, — Oh-hwa said, checking her tablet.
He found it quickly. The key card went into the slot again, and the lock obediently clicked. Inside—not money, not jewels. Bundles of documents, three old cassettes, two hard drives, and a thick envelope wrapped in a black ribbon.
Seungho pulled out one of the cassettes. Label: "Project Kim Yong-gwan. Confidential."
— Damn... — Oh-hwa lowered her voice. — This is all about those supplies. About people.
Seungho nodded, not opening it.
— We take everything.
They were packing the findings into protective containers. Time was fading. And suddenly—a faint crackle in the comms.
— Yun. I hear a siren. What's happening? — Do-yun's voice was trembling, but clear.
He froze. Then looked up at Oh-hwa. She checked the sensor.
— Movement on the surface. Scanners detected heat. Someone's coming.
— Three minutes, — the technician said. — We won't have time to take everything out.
— Then we take the main things, — Seungho said. — The envelope and the recordings. The rest will burn, if necessary.
When they reached level -1, red emergency lights were already flickering in the corridor. The hum intensified. The metal rang with vibration. The air smelled of burnt plastic and fear.
Oh-hwa covered their retreat, shooting at a surveillance camera.
— Ten seconds, and the perimeter will close again!
Seungho bolted out first, clutching the case to his chest. The metal door slammed shut behind him with the sound of a finale.
It was quiet on the street. Too quiet. He turned—and saw flames erupt in the windows of the old warehouse across the street. Orange tongues lashed into the sky, painting it copper. The blast from the glass shattered even here, on the other side of the street.
— Diversion, — Oh-hwa whispered. — They were waiting for us.
The car smelled of ash. Seungho held the case as if it were a heart. Oh-hwa drove without a word. The city around them seemed to gasp—signals, sirens, headlights in the mirrors.
— Are you alive? — came through the earpiece.
— Yes.
— The fire—was it them?
— Yes. They knew where to look. But they were too late.
Seungho closed his eyes. He couldn't afford weakness.
They reached the apartment close to midnight. No news. Only news on the TV—a fire, evacuation, suspicions. Seungho wasn't listening. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the envelope. On the paper—the imprint of a black seal: three circles, like a symbol of the eternal circle of betrayal.
He opened it. Inside—lists. Names. Dates. Transfers. Surnames—familiar, almost all from the city hall and police. Park. Hwang. Their signatures are nearby. And a cassette dated five years ago.
He put it in the player. The tape hissed, screeched. Then—voices.
— He thinks he can hide.
— He won't. His name will become a stigma.
— Yun?
— Yes. Let the world see the monster we will create. Let him become a mirror of all our sins.
Hwang's voice was light, almost singing. And then—laughter. Insane, empty, like an echo in a dead well.
Seungho ripped out the cassette. His hands were trembling.
He looked up—and saw a message from Do-yun on his phone screen.
"He fell asleep again. Everything's fine. Come back before the city wakes up."
He looked at the envelope, at the three circles, intertwined like a brand. And he understood—everything that began with betrayal ended in the same place. Only now he had a name, proof, and most importantly—a reason to live.
He pressed the call. When Do-yun answered, his voice was sleepy, but soft:
— Did you find it already?
— Yes.
— And?
— It's over.
He just listened to the breathing on the other end and imagined what their home smelled like—milk, freshness, warmth.