The transport vehicle was less of a plane and more of an armored coffin, a windowless box of reinforced titanium that seemed to vibrate with a predatory intent.
Inside, the air was a thick, unpleasant soup of stale oxygen, the chemical tang of gun oil, and the sharp, metallic ozone scent of the tactical suits as they drew power from the wall-mounted charging ports.
Seol-wol sat with his back against the vibrating hull, every rattle of the engine echoing through his spine like a warning.
The cabin was bathed in a deep, bleeding crimson light—the "tactical red" used to preserve night vision but which, in Seol-wol's mind, looked only like the blood on the basement floor.
Across from him, the crew was a tableau of grim preparation. Peter was a mountain of a man in the shadows, his massive hands moving with a haunting, mechanical rhythm as he checked the tension on his carbon-fiber rappelling cables for the tenth time.
Each snap of the locking carabiner sounded like a bone breaking in the silence. Beside him, Orina was sharpening a combat knife, the rhythmic skrit-skrit of the stone against the blade creating a high-pitched friction that set Seol-wol's teeth on edge.
Then there was Junseo.
His brother sat directly in Seol-wol's line of sight, his knee bouncing with a restless, frantic energy. Through the Sync, Seol-wol didn't just see his brother; he felt him.
Junseo's pulse was a bright, rapid drumbeat against Seol-wol's own ribs. It was a pulse filled with the raw, dangerous adrenaline of a boy who still believed in the "big score."
Seol-wol had to fight to keep his own vitals from spiking. He knew that even here, miles above the earth, the neural links in their necks were transmitting every heartbeat, every surge of cortisol, back to the monitors in Borislav's office. If his fear became too loud, it would leak through the link and alert the handlers. He had to bury the image of the executed man—the way his heels had drummed against the floor—under a mountain of cold, industrial focus.
"You're quiet, hyung," Junseo said, his voice a low vibration that barely carried over the roar of the engines. "Even for you. You're staring at your hands like you expect them to disappear."
Seol-wol looked up, forcing his eyes to lose their haunted sharpness. He softened his gaze, projecting a fake sense of calm through the link. "Just thinking about the physics of the jump, Junseo. The simulation didn't account for the crosswinds in the Ural canyons. At three hundred kilometers per hour, the air becomes as solid as a wall. If we miss the magnetic lock on the roof by even an inch..."
"We won't miss," Junseo whispered, leaning forward so his face was inches from Seol-wol's in the red gloom. "We're the Twin Brothers. We've spent half our lives jumping between rooftops in the slums with nothing but a prayer and a pair of worn-out sneakers. Now we have ten-million-credit suits and Peter guarding the perimeter. This is the easy part, Wol-wol hyung."
Seol-wol reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he placed a hand on Junseo's bouncing knee to steady it. The physical contact sent a surge through the neural link—a wave of Junseo's pure, uncomplicated loyalty and his absolute, terrifying trust in his older brother. It felt like a hot blade in Seol-wol's chest.
I am leading him into a slaughterhouse, Seol-wol thought, his throat tightening. And he is thanking me for the opportunity.
The transport hit a sudden pocket of turbulence, dropping fifty feet in a heartbeat.
The hull groaned, the metal screaming under the pressure. The crew stayed still, their bodies swaying in unison like kelp in a dark current.
"Ten minutes to intercept," the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. It was a voice stripped of any humanity, distorted by a high-frequency scrambler. "Check oxygen levels. Finalize sync."
The atmosphere in the cabin shifted instantly. The idle movements stopped. The "human" element of the crew vanished, replaced by the "Remnants." Peter stood up, his head nearly brushing the reinforced ceiling, and began hooking his heavy harness into the deployment rack. Orina sheathed her knife with a definitive, lethal click.
Seol-wol stood up, his legs feeling heavy, as if the gravity of the sub-levels was still pulling at his boots. He checked his wrist-comm.
The mission clock was a series of glowing red digits, bleeding away the seconds of their lives.
He looked toward Kyla. She was tucked into her seat, her fingers blurring across a handheld tactical monitor. She caught Seol-wol's eye for a fraction of a second, and in that moment, the mask slipped. He saw the raw, jagged terror she was hiding—the memory of the "Power Draw" she had found in the code. She knew this train wasn't just a transport for blueprints. She knew they were jumping onto a moving lightning rod. She looked away quickly, her breath hitching in her mask.
"Check your seals," Peter growled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "Once that ramp drops, the pressure differential is going to try to suck your lungs out of your throat. If you aren't tethered to your brother, you're a frozen smear on the Siberian tracks before you even see the train."
Seol-wol moved to Junseo, his hands moving with the practiced, automatic precision of a master thief. He checked the oxygen seals on Junseo's neck, his fingers brushing the skin just above the neural link. He tightened the shoulder straps on his brother's vest, pulling them so tight that Junseo let out a small gasp.
"Easy, Wol-wol hyung," Junseo chuckled, though the tremor of fear was finally beginning to bleed into his voice. "I still need to be able to breathe to steal, you know.
You're acting like I'm going to fly away."
"Stay close to me," Seol-wol said, his voice cracking, thick with a desperation he couldn't hide. He didn't say it like a command; he said it like a dying wish. "No matter what happens when we breach that fourth carriage, Junseo... you do not leave my line of sight. If the alarms go off, if the guards move—you stay on my six. Do you understand?"
Junseo's smile finally faded, replaced by a look of deep, furrowed confusion. Through the Sync, he felt a wave of Seol-wol's cold, paralyzing dread. "Hyung? You're acting like—"
"Do you understand?" Seol-wol repeated, his grip on Junseo's arm so tight his knuckles turned white.
Junseo swallowed hard, the adrenaline in his system turning bitter. He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I understand. I've got your back. I always have."
The floor beneath them began to tilt violently as the transport banked hard into its final descent. The low hum of the engines rose into a screaming, high-pitched whine as the air brakes engaged, fighting against the freezing Siberian winds.
"Marker 404 in sight," the pilot announced.
"Deploying in sixty seconds. Good luck, Remnants. Don't waste the equipment."
The back ramp of the transport began to hiss, the pressurized seal breaking with a sound like a dying breath. A sliver of the outside world pierced the red darkness of the cabin—a jagged, blinding line of white snow and the terrifying, distant roar of the void.
Seol-wol looked out as the ramp lowered. Far below, cutting through the endless, desolate white of the wasteland like a black, bleeding scar, was the Trans-Siberian Black-Alpha.
It was a nightmare of iron and steam. Even from this height, it looked invincible—a massive, reinforced locomotive moving so fast it left a wake of pulverized ice and shattered air in its path. Seol-wol could see the automated turrets on the roof, swiveling with the predatory grace of insects, their thermal sensors searching the sky for exactly what they were about to become.
The "Sync" spiked to a deafening, white-noise level. Seol-wol could feel Junseo's heart hammering against his own ribs, their two lives merging into one frantic pulse. But underneath the terror, Seol-wol felt a new, jagged resolve. He reached into his tactical pocket and touched the small metal bolt Junseo had given him—the only honest thing in a world built on lies.
The ramp dropped fully. The scream of the wind filled the cabin, sucking the heat out in a single, violent gust. The temperature plummeted to forty below zero, turning their breath into crystals of ice.
"Jump! Jump! Jump!" Peter roared over the howling gale.
Seol-wol grabbed Junseo's hand, their gloved fingers locking together in a grip that had survived a decade of poverty and shadows. He looked at his brother one last time—the boy who wanted a beach—and then he looked down at the iron beast below.
"Now!" Seol-wol screamed.
They stepped off the edge of the world, falling into the white void. But as they plummeted toward the black heart of the train, Seol-wol saw something the others had missed.
On the roof of the fourth carriage, a panel was already sliding open. Not for a breach.
Not for them.
Something was already waiting for them to land.