The vans didn't rush them.
They waited.
Headlights burned through the rain, engines idling like patient predators. Men stepped out in twos and threes, spacing themselves with professional care. No shouting. No threats.
They already knew how this would end.
Seo-yeon leaned closer to Joon-seo, voice barely audible. "They're not here to arrest us."
"I figured," he murmured.
"Rules have changed," she said. "No witnesses. No retrieval."
Joon-seo flexed his fingers. The world felt sharper—edges defined, sounds isolated. He hated how natural it felt.
"Then we don't let them control the tempo," he said.
She glanced at him. "You're thinking like him again."
"Good," he replied. "He survives."
The first shot shattered the quiet.
They moved.
Joon-seo ran toward the crane supports, using steel and shadow, forcing the shooters to adjust. Bullets sparked off metal. He slid behind a concrete barrier and returned fire—not wildly, not emotionally. Precisely enough to make them hesitate.
Seo-yeon flanked left, movements clean, economical. They didn't look at each other, didn't need to. Their spacing was perfect, like a dance rehearsed in another life.
That thought cut deeper than fear.
A van door slammed open. Someone shouted orders in Korean.
Seo-yeon stiffened.
That's command," she said. "They brought oversight."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning someone important wants your head."
Joon-seo exhaled slowly. "Figures."
A figure stepped into the open, rain slicking his hair back, coat immaculate despite the weather. He raised a hand, and the gunfire stopped.
"Han Seo-yeon," the man called calmly. "Stand down."
Her jaw tightened. "Director Kwon."
Joon-seo peeked around the barrier. The man's gaze flicked to him instantly, sharp with interest rather than anger.
"So that's Seventeen," Kwon said. "Alive after all."
Joon-seo felt the word settle into him like a brand.
Kwon smiled. "You were expensive. Difficult. Worth it."
Seo-yeon stepped forward despite herself. "You said the project was terminated."
"And it was," Kwon replied. "On paper."
He gestured to the men around them. "Reality is more flexible."
Rain dripped from Joon-seo's hair into his eyes. "You trained kids," he said. "You erased them."
Kwon shrugged. "We refined assets."
Something cold twisted in Joon-seo's chest—not rage, not yet. Understanding.
"This doesn't end with me," Joon-seo said.
"No," Kwon agreed pleasantly. "It ends because of you."
Kwon raised his hand again.
Seo-yeon moved.
She fired—not at Kwon, but at the floodlight behind him. Glass exploded, plunging the dock into partial darkness. Joon-seo surged forward at the same time, using the momentary confusion to break their line.
Chaos erupted.
This time, it was different.
Joon-seo didn't just react—he remembered.
Not faces. Not names.
Patterns.
He knew where they'd reposition. He knew who would hesitate. He knew which man would panic if isolated. He moved through them like a current, never staying still long enough to be pinned.
A hand grabbed his jacket.
He twisted, disarmed, shoved the man aside. The man fell hard and didn't get up
Joon-seo froze for half a second.
I didn't have to push that hard.
The thought came too late.
Seo-yeon shouted his name.
A van roared to life, barreling toward them. Joon-seo grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind the crane support as the vehicle skidded past, smashing into stacked containers.
The noise echoed like thunder.
When it settled, half the men were down. The rest were retreating—disciplined, controlled.
Kwon was already gone.
Rain fell harder, washing the dock clean of sound and certainty.
Joon-seo leaned against the steel beam, chest heaving—not from exhaustion, but from something else.
Seo-yeon studied him carefully.
"You felt it," she said.
He didn't answer.
"You crossed the line back," she continued. "That calm—you remember how to use it now."
"I didn't want to," he said hoarsely.
"No one ever does," she replied. "That's why it works."
Sirens wailed closer now. Real ones. Civilian ones.
"We need to move," she said.
They disappeared into the city again, soaked and silent.
...........
They took shelter in an abandoned storage unit near the river. The door rattled shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the world.
Joon-seo sank onto a crate, head in his hands.
"I killed someone," he said quietly.
Seo-yeon didn't correct him.
"I felt… nothing," he continued. "And then I felt everything at once."
She knelt in front of him. "That's the price of memory," she said. "It comes back with interest."
He looked up at her. "How many did I kill before?"
Her eyes flickered away.
"Enough," she said.
The silence that followed was heavier than gunfire.
Joon-seo straightened slowly. "They won't stop."
"No," she agreed. "They'll adapt."
"Then so will we."
She studied his face, seeing the shift—the resolve hardening into something dangerous and controlled.
"There's a failsafe," she said after a moment. "Something they buried deeper than you."
"What?"
"A location," she replied. "Where Southern Cross began. Where the records still exist."
Joon-seo's pulse quickened. "Where?"
Seo-yeon met his eyes.
"South Korea."
The word settled between them like a verdict.
"If we go there," he said, "this stops being survival."
"Yes," she said softly. "It becomes war."
Outside, the rain finally began to ease.
Inside, something else had just begun.
END OF CHAPTER 5