George Bush Center for Intelligence — Fairfax County, Virginia
The only light in the secure conference room came from the projector, casting stark shadows across the faces of the assembled intelligence team. The air was cool and still, heavy with the weight of the information being presented.
A senior analyst, his voice a low baritone, broke the silence. "The suspect in the South Korean military bombings has been identified. He successfully exfiltrated to China."
A new slide clicked onto the screen—a driver's license photo of a young man with an unassuming face.
"Subject is Kang Min-ho, age thirty-one. South Korean national, no prior criminal record. Prior to the attacks, he sold his e-commerce platform and migrated the entire operation to Shenzhen. This provided the perfect cover for his relocation." The analyst paused for effect. "More importantly, he was a high-net-worth individual granted access to American Express's most exclusive tier: the Onyx Circle."
The slide changed to a sleek graphic outlining the "Onyx Circle."
"This isn't just a credit card tier. It's a privacy veil for a select group who require—and can afford—absolute financial discretion and security. The fact that our suspect is a member is our most significant lead." He gestured to a new file marker on the screen. "We've just received corroborating data, courtesy of a joint task force with the South Korean National Intelligence Service (NIS) and the National Tax Service (NTS)."
A redacted document with the logos of both South Korean agencies appeared.
"The NTS, leveraging its audit authority, and the NIS, through their own channels, have confirmed a critical data point. Kang Min-ho was one of only two Onyx Circle clients residing in South Korea. This isn't a massive global program. It's an exclusive club, and our bomber was a card-carrying member."
The briefing was handed over to a female field analyst. A satellite image of a Swiss alpine region now dominated the screen, a red circle highlighting a mountain face.
"This is his suspected final destination. A former Swiss Army bunker, now a fortified server farm operated by the Pragma Group." She advanced the slide. "Our forensic accounting, combined with the South Korean data, has determined that the servers in this facility are rented exclusively to a handful of entities requiring the highest level of secrecy. The primary client is the American Express Company, specifically for its Onyx Circle operations."
She let the implication settle before continuing.
"It gets worse. We've identified that Amex, through a series of Panamanian shell companies, opened private Swiss bank accounts. The Pragma Group doesn't just host their servers; it facilitates a complete, closed-loop financial ecosystem for its clients. It's a ghost economy."
The slide advanced to the corporate logo: a minimalist, abstract 'P' next to the words PRAGMA GROUP.
"The Pragma Group itself remains a black box. A holding company so opaque we can't trace its ultimate ownership."
A photograph of a nervous-looking man in a suit appeared.
"This was our asset inside, Klaus Müller. A mid-level compliance officer." She advanced through a series of covertly taken photos: a breathtakingly modern office interior with climbing walls and sleep pods, a lavish cafeteria, and a full-service spa.
"The place is a fortress of luxury. Notably, the workforce is almost entirely female," she noted, her tone dry and analytical. "The construction was handled by Baumann Construction AG, a suspected subsidiary. The critical infrastructure was handled by top-tier European firms: servers by Siemens, and the blast doors and elevators by Jäger Security, Sicherheitsbau & Sicherheitswartung GmbH."
Her expression tightened. Forensics on the bomb fragments from the South Korean installations identified key components with a high probability of originating from Saab Bofors Dynamics Schweiz AG. The Swiss subsidiary, of course, denies any knowledge and claims the serial numbers are forgeries."
She clicked to the final slide—a crisp, professional headshot of a man in his late forties with sharp features and thinning, neatly styled hair. The name beneath it was Joel Kornberg.
"And this," she said, her voice dropping, "is what Klaus Müller died for. Before his accident, he managed to exfiltrate one final piece of data: the identity of the Pragma Group's CEO."
She let the image sink in.
"Joel Kornberg. Swiss national. Forty-eight years old. His resume is a tour through the most discreet and powerful echelons of European finance and industry. He's never held a CEO title before Pragma, only 'Managing Director' or 'Senior Partner' at a series of private equity firms and industrial holding companies. He is, on paper, the perfect, low-profile technocrat to run a black box."
She advanced to a series of surveillance photos and an aerial shot of a large forested area with a single house nestled deep within. A perimeter was highlighted in red.
"Our initial surveillance confirms Müller's data. Kornberg lives outside St. Gallen. The property itself is a three-bedroom house, architecturally modest. But context is everything." She zoomed in on the aerial shot. "The house sits on a fifty-hectare private forest, an inheritance from his family. It's not just a home; it's a compound. And it's not guarded by a local firm. The entire perimeter security, access control, and physical protection detail is provided by Jäger Security, Sicherheitsbau & Sicherheitswartung GmbH—the same company that installed the blast doors at the Pragma server farm."
She clicked to a photo of a ten-year-old Mercedes SLS AMG. "His only visible indulgence is this car, which he garages. He lives with his girlfriend, a curator at a local museum. No private jets, no yachts, no obvious vices. The man isn't just low-profile; he's a ghost in his own fortress."
The senior analyst leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "So, the 'modest house' is a redoubt. The 'inheritance' is a birthright of power and seclusion. He doesn't want the treasure for himself; he just wants to control the archive. That makes him far more dangerous. He's a believer, not a hedonist. The luxury isn't for him; it's for his employees—a control mechanism."
He looked around the table, his gaze grim. "Kornberg is the key. He's the first human thread we've found in this tapestry. But pulling on it means going through a private army, on his own turf."
The field analyst closed the briefing. "We will, of course, redirect all intelligence on Kornberg to our liaison officers for distribution to our cooperation partners."
…
Across the world, Kim Dong-seung sat slumped on his soft couch, the glow of the television washing over him. He held his arms up, hands interlocked behind his head, his gaze vacant. A news segment flashed on the screen—a vague report about sabotage at multiple U.S. military bases. The report was careful not to specify the perpetrator or the methods, and it was short, quickly replaced by a weather forecast.
"Man, fuck this shit," he grunted to the empty room. "What am I supposed to do now?"
He stretched, his body aching with a strange blend of exhaustion and restless energy. "Having this much free time sucks a bit. Maybe I should travel. Or… do something."
He sat there for a while watching other news. One mentioned that the rate of missing Koreans had increased, and the other said that industrial production had grown by 2.7%.
"Dang. Do people truly enjoy watching TV? Maybe for Netflix or Amazon Prime. But for this retarded bullshit?"
He scratched his head, the motion growing more intense with his frustration.
A new thought, bright and sudden, cut through the boredom. "Let's buy stuff. Food? I've got enough to feed people in a third-world country." He dismissed the idea. Then it hit him.
"I need proper clothes! A suit!"
A wide, genuine grin spread across his face. The aimlessness vanished, replaced by pure, focused purpose.
"This is it!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and dancing a clumsy, joyful jig across his living room floor.
…
Buoyed by a new sense of purpose, Kim Dong-seung embarked on his retail therapy mission. His first stop was a North Face store, where he efficiently picked out a selection of high-end shells and technical gear. Next, he visited a revered, old-world tailor for a flawless, dark-grey Brioni suit. His final stop was an Adidas flagship store, where he indulged his personal taste, picking up several limited-edition sneakers.
Arms laden with bags, he returned to the parking garage. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face as he saw the fresh, crumpled dent in his rear bumper. He ran his fingers over the damaged metal, shrugged, and dismissed it. "Cosmetic," he muttered to himself.
Suddenly, a translucent blue screen, visible only to him, materialized in the center of his vision.
[New repeatable Quest Line: 'Improve Seoul']
[Objective: Improve the quality of life for various people]
[Reward: ???]
Dong-seung froze, his mind racing. Repeatable? So I can do it as many times as I want? Nice. I can grind that stuff. Maybe I'll truly get magic spells for the first time.
Interestingly, there was no penalty or condition. It didn't specify how he had to do it. He wasn't a greedy or evil person by any means. But he immediately thought of two options: donating or contributing via a service. He preferred the latter since it made money too. A slow, triumphant grin spread across his face as he stared into the middle distance, already planning.
In the service van fifty meters away, one of the two NIS agents lowered his binoculars. "Why is this guy now grinning and staring into space? I checked his profile; he has no records of a mental illness."
But "old habits" die hard. Shaking off his reverie, Dong-seung conducted a slow, deliberate circuit of the vehicle. He checked the wheel wells, ran a hand along the undercarriage as best he could, inspected the front grill, and even scanned the roof. His eyes passed over the expertly repaired crack in the rear bumper, the black Flex Seal blending seamlessly with the damaged plastic. He saw a dent. Nothing more.
The NIS agent made a note in a simple college-ruled notepad. "This guy is suspicious. Which civilian does a full SDR sweep on their own car in a shopping mall garage?" he muttered to his partner.
His partner, the one who had applied the tracker, gave a thin smile. "The kind we're looking for. The hunt is officially on."
As Dong-seung drove away, his mind was no longer on suits or spies, but on quests and magical rewards. His meticulous caution had just written the first piece of hard evidence against him in an NIS file, even as his reality was expanding in ways they could never comprehend.
…
He pulled into a parking spot in front of a standalone toy store called "Playful Planet." It was charming and brightly painted with whimsical shapes and designs, looking like it had been plucked from a children's picture book. This company probably had a very creative designer, he mused, probably a woman.
Stepping inside was a shock to his system, a visceral plunge into nostalgia. The smell of wood and plastic instantly transported him back to his childhood, when his uncle would bring him exquisite toys from his business trips abroad. Many of Dong-seung's favorites, which he still kept and sometimes re-examined, were from Germany or were handmade.
His most treasured possession was a fully wooden house, a masterpiece of miniature craftsmanship. It wasn't just a toy; it was a replica of a traditional German home. The windows were made of real Plexiglas, and each one had the unique, quirky German mechanism that allowed it to tilt inwards for ventilation. Every piece of furniture was carefully made and placed inside.
His uncle hadn't just given him the toy; he had sat with him for hours, explaining the cultural significance of the architecture and the famous German love for order (Ordnung). He'd woven tales of his own expansive travels through the Black Forest and along the Rhine, making the toy a portal to another world. The address of the artisan, a small shop in Kurort Seiffen, was engraved on the bottom. If I ever get to Switzerland, I'll cross the border and find this glorious person, he thought.
In the surveillance van down the street, Agent Park lowered his binoculars. "Subject has entered a toy store. 'Playful Planet.' Stand by."
His partner, Agent Kim, frowned. "A toy store? After buying tactical gear and a Brioni suit?" He pulled up Dong-seungs file on his tablet. "No children listed. No nieces or nephews. This doesn't fit."
Park kept his eyes glued to the entrance. "Maybe he's buying a gift."
"Maybe," Kim conceded, his tone skeptical. "Or maybe we're looking at a different kind of profile. A wealthy, single man with no obvious connections to children, making a deliberate stop at a toy store... It's a red flag. Could be a kink. Could be something darker. Log it as suspicious behavior, potentially indicative of a sexual interest in minors. It would fit the pattern of a personality capable of compartmentalizing a violent double life."