Evening arrived without ceremony.
The sky dimmed, light thinning through the cracks of the city, and our place felt smaller than it ever had. We didn't have much to pack. We never did. A change of clothes.
Tools we trusted more than people. Things that fit into a bag without asking questions.
Junseo moved around the room with an ease that hadn't been there earlier.
Our conversation had settled him—at least on the surface. He didn't look angry anymore. Didn't look like he was about to explode. That, more than anything, told me how much weight he'd been carrying.
I watched him zip his bag shut.
Maybe this was how new beginnings started after all.
Quiet. Unremarkable. Disguised as just another night.
For a moment—just a moment—I allowed myself to imagine something else. A life where this ended cleanly. Where we walked away with enough to disappear, to live without looking over our shoulders.
A good life.
The thought felt dangerous.
The walkie-talkie crackled to life before I could hold onto it.
Static. Then a voice—flat, efficient.
"It's time."
Junseo looked at me. I nodded.
We left without turning back.
The city looked different at night—less forgiving. Streetlights stretched long shadows across empty roads as we followed the route we'd been given. No detours. No questions.
The airport was quiet in a way public places never truly are. Too controlled. Too intentional.
A man approached us near the far end of the terminal. No uniform. No name.
"Follow," he said, already turning away.
We didn't ask where.
Past security. Past gates meant for ordinary travelers. The air grew colder, sharper, carrying the smell of fuel and metal.
Then we saw it.
The jet waited on the tarmac—sleek, dark, untouched by logos or flags. Its lights glowed low against the night, like it was trying not to be seen.
Figures stood nearby, silhouettes under the floodlights. Still. Watching.
Not locals.
Junseo slowed beside me. "Hyung," he muttered, almost joking, "you ever notice how every bad decision starts near an airport?"
didn't smile.
"Airports just make people honest," I said. "About their mistakes."
Junseo snorted quietly but didn't reply.
We were guided toward the jet without ceremony.
All aboard.
Orina climbed in first, casual like this was routine. Peter followed, adjusting his coat as if he were heading into a meeting rather than crossing borders. Gu Wen came next, eyes already glued to the tablet in his hands, fingers moving before he'd even taken his seat.
Borislav stepped in last—unhurried, certain—like the plane wouldn't dare leave without him.
Junseo and I took the seats we were indicated. Leather. Clean. Cold beneath my palms. The kind of luxury meant to reassure you while quietly reminding you who paid for it.
The door was still open when the atmosphere shifted.
No footsteps announced him.
No voice.
Just presence.
Miran entered without looking at anyone.
Tall. Pale under the cabin lights. White hair pulled back neatly, not a strand out of place.
His blue eyes swept the space once—not curious, not cautious.
Claiming.
He took the seat opposite us, crossing one leg over the other with lazy precision, like he'd done this a thousand times before and grown bored of pretending otherwise.
No greeting.
No introduction.
Junseo leaned closer to me and whispered, "Hyung… that guy really does look like he owns the place."
I didn't answer.
Miran's gaze flicked briefly toward Junseo.
Just once.
Junseo stiffened.
Then Miran looked away, already done with him.
The cabin door sealed shut with a heavy hiss.
Engines roared to life.
As the jet began to move, the city lights slid away from the windows—shrinking, blurring, disappearing like they'd never existed.
No one spoke during takeoff.
Not Orina. Not Peter. Not even Borislav.
The silence felt deliberate.
Hours passed in fragments—dimmed lights, the steady hum of the engine, Junseo eventually falling asleep despite himself. I stayed awake, staring at the dark beyond the window, feeling the distance stretch beneath us mile by mile.
Borders didn't feel real from this height.
Only consequences did.
When the descent began, the sky outside had changed.
Dawn crept in pale and sharp, painting the clouds in cold blues and greys.
The land below was vast.
Unforgiving.
Snow-dusted concrete. Steel structures. Long stretches of nothing between places that mattered.
Russia.
The jet touched down smoothly, but the impact still settled deep in my bones.
As we slowed on the runway, Miran finally spoke.
"Welcome," he said, voice calm, accented, effortless.
Not warm.
Not hostile.
Certain.
"This," he continued, eyes lifting to meet mine at last, "is where things stop being simple."
I met his gaze.
And for the first time since the deal was made—
I believed him.