Helix Crown Tower still cut the sky like a blade.
Glass and steel, cold and flawless, its upper floors hidden in mist as if the building itself refused to let the city see its peak.
Kang Tae-Hyun had once ruled from the top.
Now he stood across the street, swallowed by evening crowds, wearing borrowed clothes and a face no one would ever recognize.
Han Jae-Min.
Night sanitation staff.
Basement level.
He watched people enter through the front doors—executives in tailored suits, researchers with ID badges glowing faint blue, investors stepping out of black cars.
The world moved as if he had never existed.
A massive screen on the opposite building replayed a tribute montage.
His smile.
His speeches.
His charity events.
The lie of a good man.
He turned away.
And walked to the side entrance.
The service door was half-lit, guarded by a single bored security officer.
"ID," the man muttered.
Tae-Hyun handed over the temporary card he had collected from the labor office an hour earlier.
The guard barely glanced.
"Basement access only. Don't wander."
Tae-Hyun inclined his head.
"I won't."
The door buzzed open.
The moment he crossed the threshold, something in him reacted.
Not memory.
Recognition.
His pulse slowed.
His senses sharpened.
The air inside Helix Crown carried layers—ozone from machinery, antiseptic from labs, recycled chill from underground ventilation.
His building.
He had chosen every material.
Approved every design.
And yet, as he descended into the service elevator, he realized he had never truly known what lived beneath it.
The doors slid shut.
The elevator dropped.
One level.
Two.
Three.
Each floor passed without stopping.
B4.
B5.
B6.
The lights flickered.
Finally, the display glowed:
B9
The doors opened.
And the world changed.
This was not corporate.
This was not legal.
The corridor was wider than necessary, built to move equipment, not people. The lights were dimmer. The walls thicker. Cameras placed not for theft—but containment.
Men in gray uniforms pushed sealed carts past him without a word.
The floor vibrated faintly.
Something large was operating nearby.
He reported to a small office.
A woman behind the desk barely looked up. "Cleaning unit?"
"Yes."
She slid a device toward him. "Section C. Bio-waste. Don't touch anything sealed. And don't ask questions."
He took the device.
Turned.
Walked into Section C.
The air grew colder.
Not from temperature.
From sterility.
Heavy doors lined the hall, each marked only by codes.
C-17
C-18
C-19
His device blinked.
C-21
He stopped.
The door before him was thicker than the rest.
No window.
No sound.
He placed his palm against it.
And his world erupted.
Signals flooded him—biological signatures layered upon layered, some strong, some broken, some barely alive.
He staggered half a step back, breath sharp.
Inside that room—
were humans.
And things that were no longer entirely human.
His jaw tightened.
So this was where they had hidden it.
Not in the top floors.
But in the ground.
In the dark.
He forced his breathing to steady.
Focused.
Filtered.
The overwhelming flood narrowed.
And one presence stood out.
Not unstable.
Not distorted.
Controlled.
Precise.
Familiar.
His gaze lifted slowly.
Beyond the sealed door, down the corridor's curve, glass walls revealed the interior of a major research wing.
Bright.
White.
Alive.
Doctors in sterile coats moved between stations. Holographic panels floated with genetic maps and cellular diagrams. Machines hummed with restrained power.
And at the center of it—
giving instructions, studying a screen, hair tied back, expression calm and focused—
stood Dr. Seo.
She wore a Helix Crown research badge.
High clearance.
She was not hospital staff.
She was Helix.
The realization settled cold.
So this was her world.
This was where she belonged.
Inside the very system that had rebuilt him.
He watched her for a long moment.
The hum inside him shifted.
Not violently.
Not urgently.
Quietly.
As if something fundamental had aligned.
A researcher beside her said something.
She nodded.
Then suddenly, she paused.
Her hand lowered.
Her gaze lifted.
Slowly.
Directly.
Through reinforced glass and distance and layers of secrecy—
her eyes met his.
He did not move.
Did not breathe.
Did not look away.
For one impossible second, the entire underground wing seemed to still.
Dr. Seo frowned slightly.
Not in recognition.
In confusion.
As if her body had noticed something before her mind could explain it.
Then a technician called her name.
She broke eye contact.
Turned away.
The moment ended.
But Tae-Hyun remained where he was.
Heart slow.
Mind razor-clear.
So this was how it would begin.
Not with blood.
Not yet.
But with proximity.
With infiltration.
With learning the shape of the enemy from the inside.
He lowered his gaze.
Activated the sanitation unit.
And pushed his cart forward into the depths of the lab where he had been born the second time.
Above him, executives mourned a dead CEO.
Below them, the devil walked back into hell.