Practice was supposed to be a grind, but today, it felt like a hunt.
"Ten wooden birds," the instructor barked, his voice echoing off the sterile steel of the training hall. "Two hours. The building is your playground. Whoever finds them first gets whatever they want for twenty-four hours."
A murmur rippled through the candidates. In a place where even your breath was scheduled, twenty-four hours of freedom was like offering a gallon of water to a man in a desert.
I looked up. Borislav was leaning against the mezzanine railing, a glass of something dark in his hand. He caught my eye and gave a slow, deliberate nod—a king granting a favor to his favorite jester. Do it, his look said. Win a day of your life back.
Then the teams were announced.
"Team Four: Seol-wol, Junseo, Orina, Susan..." the instructor paused, his eyes sliding to a figure in the corner. "...and Miran Konstantinov."
I felt my jaw lock. Beside me, Junseo let out a long, pained whistle.
"Great," my brother whispered, leaning in so close I could smell the cheap cafeteria coffee on his breath. "We've got the Ice King. Should I pack a parka, or do you think his personality will just freeze us to death on the spot?"
"Quiet," I hissed, though my own heart was doing a nervous tap-dance against my ribs.
I didn't want him on my team. I didn't want him anywhere near me. Every time Miran was in the room, the air felt too heavy to breathe. He didn't walk toward us; he just appeared, his white hair a sharp, jagged contrast against the dark tactical gear of the other candidates.
He didn't say hello. He didn't look at Orina or Susan. He just stared at me with those eyes—blue, vacant, and terrifyingly focused.
"Two hours," the instructor yelled. "Go!"
The room exploded into motion. Teams scrambled for the exits, boots thundering against the metal floors.
"Okay, listen up," Orina said, her voice sharp and professional. "We split up. Susan, you take the lower vents. I'll take the comms rooms. Junseo—"
"I'll take the cafeteria," Junseo interrupted, already looking hopeful. "Birds like crumbs, right?"
"You'll take the maintenance shafts," I corrected, grabbing him by the back of his jacket before he could bolt. "Use your light. Look for wood grain, not metal."
I turned to the last member of our team. Miran was standing still, his hands resting loosely at his sides, watching the chaos like it was a theater performance he found mildly boring.
"And you?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
Miran stepped into my space. He didn't crowd me, but he was tall—unnervingly so. "I don't look for birds, Thief," he said, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "I look for the people looking for them. It's faster."
"We're a team," I reminded him, my eyes narrowing. "Try to act like it."
He didn't answer. He just turned and vanished into the shadows of the north corridor without a sound.
"He's creepy," Susan muttered, shivering. "Let's just move."
I watched them scatter, but I stayed put for a second. My "old-fashioned" brain started to click. Borislav wouldn't hide these birds in obvious places. He was a man who appreciated the subtle. He wouldn't put them in the vents. He'd put them where people refused to look.
I started walking toward the archive wing—the place where the old paper records were kept. It was a place of dust and silence, a place the high-tech recruits hated.
I'd been searching for twenty minutes, my fingers tracing the undersides of heavy oak desks, when I heard it.
Scritch.
Not a boot. Not a breath. The sound of wood sliding against wood.
I rounded the corner of a tall filing cabinet, my hand already reaching out—and froze.
Miran was there. He was holding a small, hand-carved wooden sparrow between two fingers. He didn't look surprised to see me. In the dim, flickering light of the archives, he looked less like a man and more like a ghost.
"One," he said, holding the bird out.
I reached for it, but he didn't drop it into my hand. He kept his grip, forcing me to step closer, until our fingers were inches apart.
"You're good at finding things that are hidden, Seol-wol," he murmured. His voice had a strange edge to it now—not irritation, but a cold curiosity. "But can you find things that don't want to be found?"
I didn't pull back. "I've spent my life taking things from people who thought they were safe, Miran. A wooden bird is nothing."
"Is that so?" He finally let go, the bird dropping into my palm. His skin brushed mine—just for a second—and it was like touching a live wire.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the floor above us, followed by Junseo's unmistakable shriek.
"HYUNG! THE VENTS! THEY HAVE FANS! VERY FAST FANS!"
I closed my eyes for a second, sighing. "I have to go save my brother. Again."
"Two minutes," Miran said suddenly.
I stopped. "What?"
"You're two minutes older," Miran said, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "The burden of the 'Hyung.' It makes you slow."
He walked past me, his shoulder hitting mine with enough force to remind me he was there, leaving me standing in the dust with a wooden bird and a heart that wouldn't stop hammering.