The countdown didn't start with a siren. It started with the quiet, rhythmic drip of a nutrient IV in the infirmary—a sound that, in the absolute silence of the medical wing, felt like a hammer striking an anvil.
Seol-wol sat on the edge of a cold, poly-carbon bunk, his spine curved like a bow. His eyes were locked on the digital clock mounted above the heavy, reinforced door.
The red numbers hummed with a low-frequency light that seemed to pulse in his retinas.
[70:42:15]
Every second that ticked by felt like a drop of liquid lead falling into the pit of his stomach.
They were back in the belly of the beast, stripped of the tactical gear that made them feel like soldiers and draped in thin, grey medical tunics. The fabric was coarse and smelled of industrial bleach, making them look like the very "processors" Seol-wol had seen in the canisters on the train. The smell of the infirmary—sharp antiseptic, thick air, and the faint, metallic tang of blood—was making his head throb with a dull, rhythmic ache.
"Drink this. Do not spill it. The nutrients are expensive," a flat, synthesized voice commanded.
Seol-wol looked up to see a medical droid hovering inches from his face, its white chassis stained with old chemical burns. It extended a cup of thick, neon-blue fluid that glowed with a sickly bioluminescence.
Beside him, Junseo was already hooked up to a stabilizer unit, his pale arm bruised in three different places where the automated needles had struggled to find a viable vein.
His brother looked fragile—too thin, his skin a translucent shade of grey that made the blue veins in his neck stand out like jagged cracks in marble.
"Junseo," Seol-wol whispered, his voice cracking. He reached out, intending to offer a small comfort, to touch his brother's shoulder.
Junseo flinched. It wasn't a large movement, but the reaction through the Sync was violent. It sent a sting through Seol-wol's nervous system that felt like an open flame touching a raw nerve. Seol-wol recoiled, his own hand hissing with phantom electricity.
"Don't, Wol-wol hyung... please," Junseo muttered, his eyes squeezed shut. "My skin... it feels like it's vibrating. Every time the air moves, it feels like glass rubbing against my bones."
The "Sync-Sickness" was no longer a theoretical risk; it was their new reality. The Harvest on the train hadn't just drained their energy; it had frayed the delicate neural bridge between their minds. Now, their connection was a jagged, weeping wound.
Every thought Seol-wol had—every flash of fear or anger—leaked into Junseo's mind like acid.
"We have three days," Seol-wol said, his voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur as he glanced at the black dome of the security camera in the corner. "Three days to find out what Miran's real play is. He said the map to the Primal Core is in that box, but the box is in Borislav's private vault now. We're blind, Junseo. Totally blind."
"I don't care about the map, Hyung," Junseo whispered, finally opening his eyes. They were bloodshot, the pupils dilated until they swallowed the iris. For the first time in their lives, there was a flash of genuine, jagged resentment in his gaze. "You saw those canisters on the train. You saw the 'processors.' Miran called us the 'keys.'
What happens to the key when the lock is finally turned? Does the hand just throw it away? Or do we get fused into the door forever?"
Seol-wol had no answer. He reached into the hidden fold of his medical tunic, feeling the cold, jagged edges of the metal bolt he had salvaged from the sub-levels weeks ago. It was the only thing in this entire facility that wasn't a synthetic lie, wasn't a piece of high-tech bait. It was just a piece of honest, broken iron.
The heavy infirmary doors hissed open, and the rhythmic, military thud of combat boots echoed against the sterile floor. Seol-wol stiffened, his hand clenching around the bolt, expecting Borislav to walk in and demand a demonstration.
Instead, it was Peter and Orina.
They looked like ghosts themselves. Peter's usual arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a hollow-eyed stare. Orina's tactical vest was singed at the edges, and she walked with a slight limp that she was clearly trying to hide from the cameras.
"Orders changed," Peter said, his voice flat.
"Borislav didn't sleep. He's been in the lab since we landed. He wants a full neural diagnostic in the morning. He's not satisfied with the current output. He's ordered the tech-priests to push your sync-ratio to 95% for the final breach."
"95 percent?" Seol-wol stood up so fast his chair screeched harshly against the floor.
"That's a death sentence! Junseo can barely hold a glass of water without his hands shaking. If you pump that much current through his link, his brain will fry before we even touch the vault door!"
Orina stepped forward, her jaw tight, her eyes darting to the medical droid to ensure its sensors were muffled. "It's not a request, Seol-wol. It's a calibration. Borislav is a cornered animal. The Excellency is breathing down his neck, demanding results. He'd burn through a dozen pairs of twins just to see that vault open for five seconds of data."
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a ghost of a whisper. "And you need to watch your back. Miran didn't go to the elite quarters. He's been standing in the observation deck above the Vault Room for the last six hours. He hasn't eaten. He hasn't moved. He's just... staring down at the spot where the Box is being analyzed. Like a gargoyle waiting for a storm."
The weight of the "Ghost Heist" reveal felt heavier than ever. Miran wasn't just a savior; he was a master who had built a cage and invited them into it.
Suddenly, the lights in the infirmary flickered and dimmed to a deep, bruised purple. A low-frequency hum, so deep it vibrated in their teeth, thrummed through the floorboards. Seol-wol recognized that frequency. It was the "signature" of the Cold Box. Borislav was attempting to force an interface without them.
Across the room, Junseo let out a choked, gutteral scream. He arched off the bed, his back snapping into a rigid curve as the IV lines tore from his skin. The Sync spiked violently, a jagged mountain of white noise, static, and pure, unadulterated agony that flooded into Seol-wol's mind.
"Junseo!" Seol-wol lunged for his brother, ignoring the electrical bite that scorched his palms as he grabbed Junseo's shoulders.
Through the link, Seol-wol was no longer in the infirmary. He saw a flash—a vision of a sprawling, geometric nightmare deep beneath the earth's crust. A place of blinding white light and infinite, soul-crushing cold.
And in the center of that white void, a voice that sounded like a thousand whispers layered over one another spoke directly into his soul:
"The heir returns. The blood recognizes the lock. Bring the ghosts to the hearth."
The spike passed as quickly as it had arrived, leaving the room in a terrifying silence. Junseo collapsed back onto the mattress, unconscious, a thin trail of blood leaking from his ear. Seol-wol remained on the floor, gasping for air, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He looked up at the clock.
[69:12:05]
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. Borislav was going to kill them by accident, trying to play with a power he didn't understand. And Miran? Miran was letting it happen to see how much they could take.
"Peter," Seol-wol said, standing up and wiping a smear of blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes were no longer those of a desperate thief; they were the eyes of a predator. "I need to get to the observation deck. Now."
"You're insane," Peter hissed, glancing at the door. "If you're caught out of the medical wing, Borislav will have you put in a sensory deprivation tank until the mission starts."
"Miran is there," Seol-wol said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet calm. "And Miran is the only one who knows how to stop that Box from melting my brother's brain. If Miran wants ghosts to do his dirty work, he's going to have to pay for them in information."
As Seol-wol slipped out of the infirmary, using the shadows of the ventilation ducts to bypass the primary security corridors, he felt a strange, cold clarity. He was no longer just a pawn in Borislav's game or a key in Miran's inheritance.
He was the variable.
He climbed the maintenance ladder toward the observation deck, each rung a step closer to the man who claimed to own the shadows. If Miran wanted a Ghost Heist, Seol-wol would give him one—but first, he was going to find out exactly what kind of monster was buried at the bottom of the map.