The morning did not bring the sun. It brought the flickering hum of the dormitory's overhead grids—a harsh, artificial white that felt like it was trying to peel back Seol-wol's eyelids. It brought the bitter taste of a secret that felt like a jagged stone lodged in his throat, impossible to swallow and dangerous to keep.
Seol-wol sat on the edge of his cot in his private room, his head hanging low. He stared at the palms of his hands, tracing the lines of his skin as if they belonged to a stranger. He had spent hours the night before scrubbing them with cold, industrial soap until the skin was raw. He was trying to wash away the phantom sensation of the ventilation dust and the oily, metallic residue of the lower levels. But more than that, he was trying to wash away the memory of what he had seen.
Every time he closed his eyes, the darkness behind his lids became a screen. He saw the man in the chair—the "failed" Remnant whose name he didn't even know. He heard the high-pitched, mosquito-like whine of the neural surge, and the sickening thud of a human life being discarded like a broken battery.
But as the "Duty Call" buzzed against his wrist, vibrating against his bone, Seol-wol forced his face into a mask of cold indifference. He practiced it in the small, cracked mirror above his sink: the steady gaze, the relaxed jaw, the empty eyes. He had to be a thief today. Not a witness. Not a brother. Just a shadow in the machine.
He stepped out into the hallway, where the air was thick and stagnant, smelling of recycled oxygen, floor wax, and the burnt-bean scent of industrial coffee. He found Junseo standing by his own door across the hall, the younger brother already mid-motion as he adjusted the reinforced straps of his tactical vest.
"Sleep like a log, Wol-wol hyung?" Junseo asked, his voice bright and humming with the restless adrenaline of the upcoming mission. "I was running the holographic simulations in my head all night. I think I found a way to shave three seconds off the breach into the fourth carriage. If we skip the secondary bypass and go straight for the thermal lock—"
Seol-wol looked at his brother—at the genuine, boyish excitement in his eyes—and felt a wave of nausea so strong he had to grip the doorframe. "The simulation is one thing, Junseo. The real locomotive will be different. It'll be louder. It'll be faster. The wind at those speeds... it'll try to rip you off the roof."
"That's why we're the best," Junseo grinned, stepping forward and punching Seol-wol lightly on the shoulder. It was their usual ritual, but today, Seol-wol flinched. Junseo didn't seem to notice. "The 'Twin Brothers,' remember? We move in, we take the box, and we're back before the tea gets cold. This is just a warmup, hyung."
Seol-wol forced a stiff nod. He couldn't tell him. Not yet. He had to carry the image of the basement alone. If Junseo knew the truth, his "Sync" would spike with fear, and the monitors in Borislav's office would pick it up instantly. To save Junseo, Seol-wol had to lie to him with every breath.
They moved toward the Assembly Hall, the sound of their synchronized footsteps echoing like a heartbeat. Inside, the large holographic projector was already humming, casting a ghostly blue light across the room.
A translucent model of the High-Speed Reinforced Locomotive shimmered in the air, a brutal, armored beast designed to cut through the Siberian tundra like a bullet.
Borislav was already there, standing with the core crew—Peter, Orina, and Kyla. Several other Remnants, the secondary support teams, stood in the shadows. Gu Wan was tucked into a corner as usual, his face illuminated by the pale blue glow of his tablet as he cross-referenced the train's security schedules with a speed that seemed superhuman.
"Focus, everyone," Borislav commanded, his voice echoing in the sterile hall. He gestured toward the flickering blue train. "As you have practiced in the simulations, this is a preliminary strike. A test of your efficiency before the primary objective. We need the Cryogenic Container—the 'Cold Box'—located in the reinforced vault of the fourth carriage. It contains the master blueprints for the Classified Underground Sector.
Without those prints, our main mission next week is impossible. You fail here, you fail everything."
Seol-wol watched the blue light of the hologram dance across Borislav's face. He looked for a flicker of the cold murderer he had seen in the basement, but Borislav was a master of his own mask. He looked like nothing more than a motivated contractor, a man invested in the success of his employees. It was the most terrifying thing about him.
"The train doesn't stop," Borislav continued, his finger tracing the path of the tracks. "You will intercept it at the 404-marker. Peter, you and Orina will secure the roof and neutralize the external sensors. Kyla, you're on the thermal monitors to ensure no backup is triggered. The other Remnants have their assignments for the distraction. But the core retrieval... that is for Seol-wol and Junseo.
The box is reinforced and temperature-locked. If you don't keep the sync steady, the internal security will melt the blueprints before you can even touch the handle."
Borislav stepped toward Seol-wol, his eyes narrowing slightly, searching for a crack in the boy's composure. "I've seen your practice numbers, Seol-wol. They're nearly perfect. But this isn't a holographic room anymore. There is no 'reset' button. The sensations will be real. The biting wind, the vibration of the steel, the pressure in your lungs. Can you handle it?"
Seol-wol felt the weight of Peter's gaze from across the room—the big man's eyes were heavy with a silent warning. He also felt the "Sync" with Junseo, who was radiating a confident, sharp energy that felt like a spark in the dark.
"We know the map," Seol-wol said, his voice level and devoid of emotion. "We've run the simulation sixty times. We know exactly where the box sits."
I'm doing this because I need to know, Seol-wol thought, his eyes fixed on Borislav's throat. If those blueprints lead to the Excellency, then that box is the only map I have to the truth. I'm not stealing for you. I'm stealing for us.
"Good," Borislav said, a thin, oily smile touching his lips. "Get to the transport. You have one hour until the intercept window."
As the group broke apart to gather their gear, a frantic energy filled the room. Kyla lingered near Seol-wol, her eyes darting toward the guards before she leaned in close. She looked at his hands, noticing the faint, angry red marks on his fingertips—scars from his desperate climb through the vents.
"Seol-wol," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the projector. "The holographic sensation for the fourth carriage... did it feel 'off' to you? Like there was a lag in the thermal response during the final breach?"
Seol-wol paused, his hand gripping the heavy nylon strap of his gear bag. "Why?"
"I was looking at the raw code Gu Wan pulled from the locomotive's manifest," she murmured, her voice trembling. "The simulation shows a standard security grid. But the power draw for that fourth carriage is too high. It's like the train is carrying something else. Something heavy.
Something that generates its own magnetic field. The blueprints shouldn't require that much power to protect."
Seol-wol's jaw tightened. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. "Keep that to yourself, Kyla.
Don't let Borislav know you're digging into the power draws. Just focus on the sensors."
He turned away, his mind spinning. The "Classified Underground Sector" wasn't just a place—it was a tomb, and the blueprints were the key.
He walked toward the transport bay, the air growing colder as he approached the hangars. As he entered the narrow, dimly lit corridor leading to the vehicles, he felt a familiar, jagged spike in his neural link. A sudden surge of heat that made his breath catch.
Miran.
The high-status cadet was leaning against a stack of equipment crates, his dark coat making him look like a shadow that had refused to fade in the morning light. He wasn't dressed for a mission; he looked like a spectator at a tragedy.
"The blueprints for the underground," Miran said, his voice a low, mocking drawl that seemed to vibrate inside Seol-wol's head.
"Do you even know what you're really going to find in that sector, Seol-wol? Or are you just happy being the dog that fetches the stick for a master who will eventually put you down?"
Seol-wol stopped, refusing to show the shiver that Miran's presence always provoked. He clutched his bag tighter. "I'm doing my job. We need those credits."
Miran stepped forward, the "Sync" flaring with a sudden, overwhelming heat that felt like a physical touch. He leaned in, his lips inches from Seol-wol's ear, the scent of expensive tobacco and cold rain filling Seol-wol's senses. "The blueprints aren't for a building, thief. They're for a cage. And if you go on that train today, you're just helping them build the walls higher around your own neck."
Miran pulled back, a strange, dangerous glint in his eyes—a mixture of amusement and something that looked like a warning.
"Tell me... did the man in the basement look like he was being 'reassigned' to a better place?"
Seol-wol froze. The blood drained from his face, leaving him cold. The air in the corridor suddenly felt like it was freezing into ice.
Miran knew. He had seen him, or he had been part of the audience in the shadows.
"Don't fail the retrieval," Miran whispered, his hand brushing Seol-wol's shoulder—a touch that felt more like a threat than a comfort—before he turned and walked away. "I'd hate for your seat in the basement to be ready so soon."