They surfaced into rain and sirens.
Seoul was awake now—fully awake—its arteries clogged with traffic, its screens screaming headlines that meant nothing and everything. Emergency alerts pulsed on phones. Somewhere beneath their feet, alarms wailed in a language designed to make people obey before they understood.
Seo-yeon didn't slow.
She led Joon-seo through a maintenance stairwell, out into a service alley, and into the back of a delivery truck that was already moving. The doors slammed shut, plunging them into darkness broken only by a thin blade of light near the hinges.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The truck rattled over uneven pavement. Joon-seo braced himself against a crate and focused on breathing. Not to calm down—he was already calm—but to keep the pressure in his chest from hardening into something permanent.
"You burned the archive," he said finally.
"Yes," Seo-yeon replied.
"Everything?"
"Everything that could be traced back to you."
He laughed quietly. "That wasn't the question."
The truck turned. The light shifted.
"I destroyed the public record," she said. "Not the private ones."
"So they still have copies."
"They always do."
Joon-seo closed his eyes. "Then nothing changed."
"That's not true," she said. "They lost control of the narrative."
He opened his eyes. "You think that matters to men like Kwon?"
She didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was steadier than he felt.
"It matters to me."
The truck slowed. Stopped. Doors opened again.
They were ushered into a subterranean garage, then into a stairwell that smelled like concrete and old oil. The city noise faded behind steel doors.
Seo-yeon led him into a small apartment—spare, anonymous, safe in the way only places meant to be abandoned were. She locked the door, checked the windows, and finally leaned back against the wall.
Her shoulders sagged.
Joon-seo watched her carefully. This was the first time he'd seen the mask slip completely.
"You were going to let them take me," he said.
Her eyes closed.
"Yes."
The word fell between them, heavy and unforgiving.
"Why?" he asked. Not accusing. Just wanting the truth to stop moving.
"Because," she said quietly, "if I hesitated again, more people would die."
He nodded slowly. "Like Min-jae."
She flinched.
"You don't get to carry that alone," he said.
"I don't want you carrying it at all."
"That's not how this works," he replied. "You taught me that."
Silence stretched.
Then Seo-yeon straightened, something resolute sliding back into place. "They'll respond fast. You humiliated them. Kwon won't survive that."
"You think they'll kill him?" Joon-seo asked.
"No," she said. "They'll make him useful."
Joon-seo's phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown number.
He stared at it. Then answered.
"You shouldn't have come back," a familiar voice said.
Kwon.
Seo-yeon's gaze snapped to the phone.
"You survived," Joon-seo said.
A soft chuckle. "Barely. You've always had a talent for excess."
"You called to threaten me?" Joon-seo asked. "Or to beg?"
"Neither," Kwon replied. "I called to warn you."
Seo-yeon shook her head sharply. Joon-seo raised a hand—wait.
"You broke the archive," Kwon continued. "Impressive. But incomplete."
Joon-seo felt the pressure return. "Get to the point."
"There's a secondary site," Kwon said. "Off-books. Offshore. Not Korea."
Seo-yeon went still.
"Where?" Joon-seo asked.
"Australia," Kwon said. "You never really left the project, Seventeen. You just moved the center of it."
The line went dead.
Joon-seo lowered the phone slowly.
Seo-yeon stared at him. "He's lying."
"He's not," Joon-seo said. "He wouldn't waste a move like that."
She turned away, jaw tight. "Then we're back where we started."
"No," Joon-seo said. "We're not."
She looked at him.
"I remember more now," he continued. "Not skills. Patterns. I remember how they think."
"And?" she asked.
"And they won't expect what comes next."
A beat.
Seo-yeon studied his face—the calm, the resolve, the quiet fury that no longer needed permission.
"You're not running anymore," she said.
"No," he agreed. "I'm choosing."
Her breath caught—just once.
Outside, the city's noise swelled and receded like a tide.
Inside, the distance between them felt suddenly fragile. Dangerous.
"This ends in Australia," Seo-yeon said.
"It began there," Joon-seo replied. "That's fitting."
She nodded. "Then we need allies."
He smiled without humor. "I know where to find ghosts."
They stood in silence, side by side, the weight of what they were about to do pressing in.
When Seo-yeon finally spoke, her voice was soft and unsteady in a way it had never been before.
"If we survive this," she said, "there's no absolution waiting."
Joon-seo met her eyes.
"I'm not looking for forgiveness," he said. "Just the truth."
Somewhere far away, plans were already shifting.
And the war—now fully awake—began to move its pieces.
End of Chapter 7