The morning after the drill brought a rare reprieve. A technical glitch in the facility's main neural-link server—likely a "gift" from Gu Wan's tireless tinkering—had put all official training on hold for six hours. For the Remnants, this was better than a holiday. It was a chance to breathe without a sensor attached to their skin.
Seol-wol found himself in the "Gear Room," a cluttered workshop filled with the skeletons of discarded drones and piles of tangled copper wiring. It was the only place in the facility that didn't feel like a hospital or a prison. It felt like home.
"Hand me the 2-millimeter driver, Wol-wol hyung," Junseo muttered from underneath a heavy transport crate. Only his legs were sticking out, his boots scuffed and worn.
Seol-wol reached into the toolbox, his movements fluid and relaxed. He felt lighter today. The distance from the training pods had allowed the "Neural Residue" to settle into a dull, manageable ache rather than a screaming siren.
"Here," Seol-wol said, sliding the tool toward his brother's hand. "What are you even doing under there? Borislav told us to leave the heavy equipment to the automated droids."
"The droids are idiots," Junseo's muffled voice echoed from beneath the crate. There was a loud clank, followed by a string of colorful curses that made Seol-wol chuckle.
Junseo slid out, his face smeared with black grease and a triumphant grin on his lips. "I'm rigging a manual release. If the power goes out during the heist, those 'perfect' droids will turn into 500-pound paperweights. We'll be the only ones moving."
Seol-wol sat back on a pile of industrial mats, watching his brother. This was the Junseo he knew—not the paranoid guard, but the clever thief who thrived on finding the flaws in "perfect" systems.
"You always did like the mechanical stuff and the digital," Seol-wol remarked, picking up a stray piece of wire and twisting it into a nervous loop.
"Digital is cool and modern . Metal is honest," Junseo replied, wiping his hands on a rag that was arguably dirtier than his skin.
He leaned against the crate, looking at his brother. "You look better today, hyung.
Less... haunted."
"I feel better," Seol-wol admitted. "It's quiet.
No Miran, no sensors. Just us."
The door to the Gear Room slid open with a protest of rusty metal. Orina and Kyla walked in, carrying a tray of "borrowed" snacks from the upper-tier kitchen—real apples and a packet of actual tea leaves.
"Don't get used to it," Orina warned, tossing an apple to Junseo, who caught it mid-air with a sharp snap. "I had to crawl through a ventilation shaft that smelled like a dead rat to get these. If anyone tells Borislav, I'm blaming Gu Wan."
"Why Gu Wan?" Kyla asked, sitting down next to Seol-wol. She looked refreshed, her hair pulled back in a messy braid.
"Because no one can prove he didn't do it," Orina shrugged, biting into her own fruit. "He's probably rewritten the security logs to show he was in three places at once anyway."
The group sat in a circle on the floor, the harsh industrial lights of the workshop softened by the piles of junk surrounding them. For a few minutes, they weren't the "Remnants" or "tools" of a Russian arms dealer. They were just kids who had grown up too fast, sharing stolen fruit in a cold room.
"When we finish this," Kyla said softly, looking at the apple in her hands. "Where are you going to go? With the credits Borislav promised?"
The room went quiet. In their world, talking about the future was a jinx. But today, the air felt safe enough to dream.
"Somewhere with a sun that doesn't look like a fluorescent bulb," Junseo said immediately. "And a beach. I want to see if the ocean is actually as blue as it looks in the old data-files."
"I'm going back for my sister," Orina said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Buy her out of the contract she's in. Then... maybe open a shop. Somewhere quiet. No cameras."
Seol-wol listened, a bittersweet ache in his chest. He looked at Kyla. "And you?"
"I just want a house with a garden," she whispered. "Somewhere I can grow things that don't need a technician to stay alive." She leaned her shoulder against Seol-wol's.
It was a simple, human contact. No "Sync," no electric jolt. Just warmth.
Seol-wol felt a sense of peace he hadn't known in weeks. He reached out and ruffled Junseo's hair, ignoring the younger brother's indignant squawk. "We'll get to that beach, Junseo. I promise."
But the peace was a fragile thing.
The workshop's intercom system hissed to life, a high-pitched whine that set Seol-wol's teeth on edge.
"Remnant 01. Report to Sector 4.
Immediately."
The voice wasn't Borislav's. It was a cold, cultured voice that Seol-wol recognized instantly. Miran.
The room froze. The laughter died. The half-eaten apples suddenly looked like trash. Seol-wol felt the "Neural Residue" ignite like a doused flame. The connection he had fought so hard to quiet was screaming again, pulling at his mind with a terrifying, magnetic force.
"Hyung, don't go," Junseo said, his voice hard, the humor gone from his eyes. "The server is down. There's no reason for you to be in Sector 4."
"If I don't go, he'll come here," Seol-wol said, standing up. His legs felt heavy, as if the floor itself was trying to keep him there. He looked at his friends—their worried faces, the stolen snacks—and felt a wave of grief.
He walked to the door, his heart hammering against his ribs. Every step toward Sector 4 felt like a step away from his own life and into a cage he had helped build.
As he reached the heavy blast doors of Sector 4, they opened automatically, as if the building itself was welcoming its master.
The room inside was dark, illuminated only by a single, massive floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the snowy wasteland surrounding the facility.
Miran Konstantinov stood by the glass, his silhouette tall and imposing against the white void outside. He didn't turn around.
"You're late, Seol-wol," Miran said, his voice echoing in the empty space.
"The training is suspended," Seol-wol replied, his voice echoing the defiance he didn't truly feel. "I shouldn't be here."
Miran turned slowly. In his hand, he held a small, crystalline drive—the same kind used to store the blueprints for the heist. But this one was glowing with a strange, violet light.
"The training is a lie," Miran said, stepping closer until he was within Seol-wol's personal space. The "Sync" flared to 99%, the sheer force of it making Seol-wol's knees buckle. Miran caught him by the waist, his grip like iron. "Borislav isn't planning a heist, Seol-wol. He's planning a sacrifice. And you and your 'brother' are the first ones on the altar."
Miran leaned down, his breath warm against Seol-wol's cold skin. "The only question is... are you going to die with them, or are you going to live with me?"
The silence in Sector 4 was absolute, broken only by the faint, rhythmic hum of the ventilation system. Miran's words hung in the air like a terminal diagnosis. "Are you going to die with them, or are you going to live with me?"
Seol-wol felt a cold sweat break across his neck. He blinked, his mind struggling to process the offer. It didn't sound like a romantic gesture; it sounded like a life raft being offered by the person who had sunk the ship.
"What..." Seol-wol's voice was barely a whisper, thick with confusion. "What did you just say?"
Miran didn't answer immediately. He stepped forward, closing the small gap between them until Seol-wol could see the flecks of amber in his dark irises. The "Sync" flared, not with aggression this time, but with a heavy, suffocating clarity. Miran looked at him with a gaze so intense it felt like he was reading the very code of Seol-wol's thoughts.
"Do you even know what you are doing here, Seol-wol?" Miran asked, his voice low and melodic, yet sharp as a razor. "Do you have any idea what this 'heist' is actually about?
Who Borislav truly is? Or even... who I am?"
Seol-wol opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat. He realized, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that he had never asked those questions. He had been so focused on surviving the next hour, the next drill, the next meal, that he hadn't looked at the architecture of the cage he was in.
"We're thieves," Seol-wol finally managed to say, though it sounded weak even to his own ears. "We're here to steal a prototype. Borislav needs the best, so he's training us with the best technology."
"Digital techniques," Miran repeated, a dark, mocking tilt to his lips. "You think these neural links and high-stress synchronization drills are just for a simple break-and-enter? You think a man like Borislav has the resources to build a facility like this on his own? Use your head, thief. Who do you think is standing behind him? Who do you think is funding the 'techniques' that are currently rewiring your brain?"
Seol-wol felt the room tilt. He looked at the sleek, black panels of the walls, the glowing interfaces, the sheer wealth of the technology. It was far beyond anything a street-level middleman like Borislav should possess.
Miran turned away, walking back toward the massive floor-to-ceiling glass. He stopped, looking out over the white, jagged horizon of the wasteland. He didn't turn around fully, only shifting his body enough to look back at Seol-wol over his shoulder. The light from the snow outside silhouetted his frame, making him look like a shadow cast against the world.
"Do you know what happened to the people who failed the tests?" Miran asked. "The ones who didn't meet the threshold in the first week?"
Seol-wol swallowed hard. He remembered a few faces—men and women who had been dragged away after their sync numbers dropped. "They were sent back," Seol-wol said, trying to convince himself. "Borislav said they were returned to the places they were recruited from. Back to the slums."
Miran let out a soft, dry chuckle. It was a sound devoid of any humor, cold as the ice on the other side of the glass. He turned and walked back toward Seol-wol, his boots clicking with terrifying precision on the floor. He stopped right in front of him and placed a heavy, steady hand on Seol-wol's shoulder.
The contact sent a jolt through the link, but Miran's touch was surprisingly calm.
"You are a remarkably naive thief, Seol-wol," Miran murmured, his eyes searching Seol-wol's face with a strange flick of pity. "I truly wonder what is going to happen to you when the lights finally go out."
Before Seol-wol could find his voice, before he could demand a real answer, Miran's hand dropped. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the exit. The heavy blast doors hissed open for him, and then he was gone, leaving Seol-wol standing alone in the center of the dark room.
"Wait!" Seol-wol called out, turning to follow. "What do you mean? Miran!"
He reached the doorway just as a group of men moved across the far end of the hallway. They weren't the usual facility guards. These men were heavily armed, wearing tactical gear without any identifying insignia. Their movements were synchronized, military-grade.
In the center of the group was Borislav. But the man who usually walked with the arrogance of a king was now walking with his head bowed, speaking in hushed, deferential tones to a figure obscured by the shadows of the guards.
Seol-wol froze. He realized then that Borislav wasn't the master of this place. He was just a servant. There were people much higher, much more dangerous, lurking in the architecture of this facility. The "heist" wasn't a job—it was a performance for an audience Seol-wol couldn't see.
He tried to step further into the hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs, desperate to catch a glimpse of the figure Borislav was talking to. He needed to know who was pulling the strings.
But as he took a step forward, a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder from behind.
Seol-wol gasped, his body locking up in terror. He didn't turn around. He couldn't.
Because ...