Ryon's semi-basement apartment looked less like a home and more like a shelter.
Through the narrow window near the ceiling, neon from the street spilled inside — pink, blue, violet, flickering across the bare concrete walls.
The city outside breathed; he breathed back — in the rhythm of his strikes.
The air was heavy, metallic, soaked with sweat and rust.
An old punching bag hung from the ceiling, its leather cracked from years of impact.
On the floor — a barbell, two weights, a bottle of water. Nothing more. No décor, no comfort, no softness.
Ryon moved soundlessly.
A hit — inhale. Step — exhale.
His body worked like a well-tuned machine.
Sweat shimmered across his shoulders, tendons flexed beneath skin.
A copper strand of hair slipped free from his hood and brushed his eye.
In the mirror he saw a reflection that barely looked human —
a black mask covering his face, revealing only his eyes: green, deep, sharp as broken glass.
There was calm in them, but also danger — the stillness before a strike.
He'd learned long ago: showing emotion meant showing a weakness.
The phone on the table vibrated.
A soft click — and Min-Ki's voice filled the room, smooth and even, carrying that faint metallic undertone.
— Connection check. Do you hear me?
— I hear you.
— Good. Then we work. Area — Mapo District. Cameras on Hongdae-5 went offline after midnight. You'll walk the route, verify the coordinates, upload the data.
— Understood.
— And listen, there've been strange signals all night. Someone else is sniffing around our paths.
— I'll handle it.
— No heroics, Ryon. This is a test, not a mission.
— I'm no hero. Just doing my job.
Min-Ki's chuckle was short and dry.
— Exactly. Do it. And keep your mask on — face-scanners trigger faster than you blink.
Ryon zipped his black jacket up to the throat, pulled the hood low.
Black gloves. Lightweight sneakers.
A man without a name — only a purpose.
Perfect for fog.
He paused before leaving, meeting his reflection again:
the mask, the eyes, the single copper strand falling across his cheek.
Enough to be remembered — but never recognized.
***
Outside, Seoul breathed like a living organism, humid and feverish under its neon skin.
Rain drizzled in fine, silver dust.
The air smelled of coffee, wet asphalt, and electricity.
Min-Ki's voice murmured in his ear:
— First checkpoint, café Mirae. New cameras on the façade. Check their angle, take a test shot.
Ryon walked quickly, almost silent.
His green eyes scanned reflections in every window; nothing escaped his notice.
— Photo done.
— Good. Next point — under the bridge, blind zone. Be careful; someone tampered with the wiring yesterday.
— Copy.
— And … your pulse is climbing.
— It's raining. I don't like it.
— You never like anything. Try talking more.
— I'm not here for conversation.
— Still … when you stay quiet like that, it sounds like a threat.
He didn't answer.
Only slipped his hands into his pockets and kept walking.
***
At the next corner he felt it — a stare.
Not a camera. Human.
His muscles tightened; breathing shortened.
He raised his head — and saw him.
A tall figure through the mist.
About one-ninety-three centimeters, broad-shouldered, holding a camera.
The lens pointed straight at him.
— Min-Ki, I've got contact. Male, camera, north side.
— Distance?
— Fifteen meters. Stationary. Watching.
— Don't engage. Just leave.
But his body refused.
That look — too deliberate.
The man wasn't random. Not curious. Not naïve.
He knew what he was seeing.
Neon from a nearby bar slid over his face — sharp cheekbones, damp black hair pushed back, eyes calm and dark.
A droplet ran down the lens. The shutter clicked — loud in the stillness.
— Hey, — the man said quietly, — you're not just out for a walk, are you?
— Maybe.
— A hunter?
— Or prey.
Min-Ki's voice snapped in his ear:
— Ryon, leave. That's not a civilian. Repeat — disengage.
Still, he didn't move.
Their eyes met — and time froze.
Fog swirled between them; neon blurred into watercolor.
The man stepped closer.
— Don't like masks, — he murmured. — They make me guess who's underneath.
— Then keep guessing.
— Or I could find out.
He raised the camera again.
Ryon tensed, shifted — and light flashed.
A shot — not from the camera.
A sharp crack split the air.
Someone fired a taser from the alley.
Ryon reacted instantly: lunged forward, grabbed the stranger by the collar, dragged him behind a metal dumpster.
The charge hissed past, striking the wall.
Then silence. Only rain and static.
— You alive?
— Apparently, — the man exhaled. — You… saved me?
— No. I just didn't want to die beside you.
He peered out — empty street, no footsteps, no shadows.
Only the hum of neon.
— What was that?
— Good question. You tell me.
The thought hit him cold and sharp: Too convenient.
Too calm.
Too aware.
— Put the camera down.
— It's off.
— I didn't ask.
The man lowered it slowly. His gaze met Ryon's — steady, curious, from a head taller.
— Now I really want to know who you are.
— Don't.
— Why not?
— Because you might like the answer.
He stood, switched the comm back on.
— Min-Ki, abort. Ambush confirmed. Someone's tracking the line.
— Understood. Be careful, Ryon. You might be the bait.
Ryon cut the channel without replying.
***
Later, when the rain thinned and fog lay low over the river, they ended up beneath an old bridge.
Water dripped from the beams like clockwork.
The man — Jisohn, as he finally called himself — sat with the camera on his knees.
Ryon stood opposite, hands in pockets, mask still on.
— You didn't save me, — Jisohn said. — You tested me.
— Maybe.
— So you don't trust people.
— Never learned how.
A pause.
Thunder far away.
The air smelled of metal and coffee.
— Then who are you?
— No one.
— No one with green eyes and a copper strand of hair? — Jisohn smiled faintly.
— You've got good eyesight. That's dangerous.
— I'm a photographer.
— Even worse.
And yet, as Ryon turned to leave, he realized something had shifted.
Not in the mission — in himself.
Like someone had nudged the axis of his world a few degrees off center.
He returned home close to dawn.
Dropped his wet jacket on the floor.
Phone blinking with a new message from Min-Ki:
"Report received.
Unauthorized observer confirmed.
Stay alert.
And Ryon … don't let anyone get too close."
He walked to the window.
Fog still lingered; neon was fading.
He touched the edge of his mask but didn't take it off.
In the glass — his own eyes stared back: green, defiant, alive.
He whispered:
— Too late. He already got close.