The first man through the door didn't see Joon-seo.
That was his last mistake.
The doorframe splintered inward, smoke and dust flooding the apartment. Two figures moved fast, disciplined, weapons up—clean angles, overlapping lines of fire. Professionals.
Joon-seo was already moving.
He slid Min-jae's body gently to the floor, stepped into shadow, and let the room shrink until there were only trajectories and timing. His breath slowed. His heart did not race.
Again.
The first man advanced, sweeping left. Joon-seo came from the blind side, using the door as cover, crashing his shoulder into the man's chest. The impact knocked the air out of him. Joon-seo twisted the weapon down, fired once—into the wall, not the man—then slammed the butt into his temple.
The man dropped.
The second reacted instantly, firing twice. Plaster burst. Joon-seo ducked, rolled, came up behind the couch. He didn't think about how he knew where the man would move next.
He just knew.
When the second man rounded the corner, Joon-seo was already there. The fight was brief. Brutal. Quiet.
When it ended, the apartment was breathing smoke and silence again.
Joon-seo stood in the wreckage, chest rising and falling evenly.
He stared at his hands.
They weren't shaking.
That was the worst part.
.....
Sirens wailed somewhere far away. Or maybe closer. Joon-seo didn't wait to find out.
He grabbed the phone Min-jae had left on the table, slipped out through the back stairwell, and vanished into the morning crowd. Melbourne woke around him—coffee machines hissing, trams clattering, people complaining about the weather.
No one noticed the man who had just rediscovered how to kill.
He ducked into a public restroom near the river and locked himself into a stall. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked wrong—too calm, eyes too clear.
"You didn't have a choice," he told himself.
The reflection didn't argue.
His phone buzzed.
Seo-yeon:
Are you alive?
He stared at the name.
So she would text him after all.
Joon-seo:
They killed Min-jae.
The reply took longer this time.
Seo-yeon:
I know.
His jaw tightened.
Joon-seo:
You sent them.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Seo-yeon:
No.
Joon-seo:
You're lying.
Seo-yeon:
I'm late.
That chilled him.
Joon-seo:
Late for what?
The phone rang.
He hesitated—then answered.
"Where are you?" Seo-yeon asked. No preamble. No softness.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes," she said. "Because Phase Black just escalated to Containment Plus."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she replied evenly, "you're no longer the priority."
His stomach dropped. "Then what is?"
"Anyone who's ever touched Southern Cross."
Joon-seo thought of Min-jae's last breath. Of the way his eyes had held relief and regret at the same time.
"You said you owed me," Joon-seo said. "This is how you pay?"
Silence stretched across the line.
"I didn't think you'd wake up this fast," Seo-yeon said quietly.
"Answer the question."
She exhaled. "Meet me."
"Why would I trust you?"
"Because," she said, "if I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be holding that phone."
A location pinged onto his screen.
Docklands. Again.
Joon-seo laughed, sharp and humorless. "You really like that place."
"It's where this started," she replied. "And where it can end—if you let it."
He closed his eyes.
"Why did you do it?" he asked. "The project. Me."
The pause this time was heavy.
"Because I believed the lie," Seo-yeon said. "That monsters could be aimed."
Her voice hardened. "I was wrong."
....
They met beneath a skeletal crane overlooking the water, the city crouched behind them like a witness pretending not to see.
Seo-yeon stood alone.
No backup. No visible weapons. Rain streaked her coat, darkening it. She looked tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix.
"You shouldn't be here," Joon-seo said, scanning the shadows.
"Neither should you," she replied.
He stopped a few paces away. "They're killing everyone."
"Yes."
"And you're still standing."
Her gaze didn't flinch. "For now."
He studied her, searching for cracks. "Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"
"Because you looked at me like I was human," she said softly. "And I couldn't finish the job."
Something twisted in his chest.
"You trained me," he said. "You broke me."
"I tried to save you," she said. "That's the lie I tell myself."
Wind cut across the water, cold and sharp.
"Min-jae said you weren't always the hunter," Joon-seo said.
Her eyes darkened. "He always talked too much."
"Tell me the truth."
She hesitated. Then reached into her coat and pulled out a small drive.
"This," she said, "is why Southern Cross never died."
He took it slowly.
"What's on it?"
"Names," she replied. "Australian. Korean. Corporate. Government."
Joon-seo's throat went dry. "If this gets out—"
"The world burns," she finished. "And they'll kill us long before that."
Footsteps echoed somewhere behind them.
Seo-yeon's head snapped up.
"Too late," she murmured.
From the shadows, engines growled. Black vans rolled into view, headlights cutting through rain.
Joon-seo felt it again—the calm, the narrowing, the readiness.
Seo-yeon met his eyes.
"Do you trust me?" she asked.
He thought of the boy in the white room. Of Min-jae's blood. Of the part of himself that had just woken up.
"No," he said.
Then he chambered the pistol.
"But I'll fight with you."
Seo-yeon nodded once.
The vans stopped.
Doors opened.
And the night leaned in, eager to see which ghosts would survive.