The first leak hit the internet at 02:17 a.m. GMT.
It didn't trend at first.
That was how they knew it was real.
Joon-seo watched the laptop screen from the dim safety of a rented farmhouse outside Kalgoorlie, the desert stretching endlessly beyond the cracked windows. A single bulb buzzed overhead. Seo-yeon stood behind him, arms folded, eyes fixed on the scrolling data as if willing it to misbehave.
Encrypted financial trails.
Shipping manifests.
Training schedules.
Psychological evaluations.
Names bled into places. Places into dates. Dates into deaths.
Southern Cross was no longer a ghost.
It was evidence.
"This should already be buried," Seo-yeon muttered.
Joon-seo didn't look away. "It won't be."
She glanced at him sharply. "You're too sure."
"No," he replied quietly. "I just know how they panic."
As if summoned, the second wave hit.
A whistleblower forum reposted the files. Then an investigative journalist in Berlin mirrored the data. Then a South American human rights group translated portions of it into Spanish and Portuguese.
The lie fractured.
Phones began to ring across the world.
Seo-yeon's device buzzed first.
Then Joon-seo's.
Then the old satellite phone they'd pulled from storage—one that wasn't supposed to exist.
Seo-yeon exhaled slowly. "It's started."
Joon-seo leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. He felt… strange. Not relief. Not triumph.
Exposure.
Like standing in open sunlight after years underground.
"They'll come for us," she said. "Harder than before."
"Yes," he agreed. "But now they have to move fast."
"And fast leaves mistakes."
Their eyes met.
For the first time, they were smiling for the same reason.
........
By morning, the Australian government was denying everything.
By afternoon, they were "launching an internal inquiry."
By evening, a former defense contractor was found dead in what the news carefully called a suspected suicide.
Seo-yeon threw her phone across the room.
"They're accelerating," she said. "That means we hit something important."
Joon-seo stood by the window, watching dust twist into the air outside. "Or someone."
The farmhouse door creaked open.
Both of them moved instantly.
Weapons up. Breathing synchronized. Silence thick enough to snap.
A figure stepped inside slowly, hands raised.
"Relax," the man said. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be bleeding."
Joon-seo frowned. "That line's getting old."
The man lowered his hands.
He was Australian. Mid-forties. Sun-worn skin. Eyes sharp with intelligence and regret. He wore civilian clothes but moved like someone who'd forgotten how to be normal.
"My name is Daniel Crowe," he said. "Former ASIO liaison. Southern Cross-adjacent."
Seo-yeon stiffened. "Adjacent how?"
Crowe smiled humorlessly. "I signed off on logistics. Transport. Cover stories. I told myself I wasn't part of it."
Joon-seo studied him. "And now?"
"Now I can't sleep," Crowe replied. "And I'm tired of pretending that makes me innocent."
Seo-yeon didn't lower her weapon. "Why are you here?"
"Because," Crowe said, "you just blew the lid off a grave I helped dig."
He glanced at Joon-seo. "And because they're going to try to kill you in a way that looks like justice."
Joon-seo tilted his head. "Explain."
"They won't deny the project anymore," Crowe continued. "They'll reframe it. Rogue actors. Necessary evils. And you—" his gaze sharpened "—you'll be presented as proof it worked."
Seo-yeon felt the meaning hit her like ice.
"They'll make him the villain," she said.
"Yes," Crowe replied. "A manufactured monster who 'broke containment.' They'll justify everything by pointing at you."
Joon-seo let out a slow breath. "So I become the reason the program existed."
"Exactly."
Silence settled heavy in the room..
Seo-yeon looked at Joon-seo, something close to fear flickering beneath her control. "They'll erase your humanity."
He met her gaze steadily. "They already tried."
Crowe shifted his weight. "There's more."
"Of course there is," Joon-seo said.
"There's another survivor," Crowe continued. "Someone older. Higher clearance. Someone they never wiped."
Seo-yeon's eyes widened. "That's impossible."
"They didn't need to," Crowe replied. "She volunteered."
The word struck like a slap.
Joon-seo's chest tightened. "Who?"
Crowe hesitated. "Her designation was Subject Zero."
Seo-yeon's face drained of color.
"No," she whispered.
Joon-seo turned to her sharply. "You know her."
Seo-yeon closed her eyes.
"She trained us," she said. "Before me. Before Seoul. Before Australia."
Crowe nodded. "She's alive. And she's running damage control."
Joon-seo felt something twist deep inside him—not memory, but instinctive dread.
"What does she want?" he asked.
Crowe looked directly at him. "You."
......
That night, Seo-yeon couldn't sleep.
She sat outside on the farmhouse steps, knees drawn to her chest, the desert sky sprawling above her like an accusation. Joon-seo joined her quietly, handing her a mug of lukewarm coffee.
"You never told me about her," he said.
"She wasn't supposed to exist anymore," Seo-yeon replied.
"But she does."
"Yes."
She stared into the dark. "She believed in the program. Not as policy. As faith."
Joon-seo sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"And you?" he asked.
Seo-yeon swallowed. "I believed in control."
They sat in silence for a long moment.
"You were going to sacrifice me," he said finally. Not accusing. Just stating truth.
"Yes."
"And now?"
She turned to him, eyes reflecting starlight and something fragile.
"Now I don't know who I am if I do."
The honesty in her voice cut deeper than any betrayal.
Joon-seo looked away. "That makes two of us."
A distant engine broke the stillness.
Both of them tensed.
Then Crowe's voice drifted from inside. "We've got movement."
They rushed in.
On the screen: a convoy cutting through desert roads miles away—unmarked, fast, deliberate.
"They're not coming for you," Crowe said grimly.
Joon-seo frowned. "Then who?"
Crowe zoomed in on the lead vehicle.
A woman stepped out in the feed—tall, composed, silver beginning to thread through dark hair. She moved with absolute certainty, like the world was arranged for her convenience.
Seo-yeon's breath caught.
"That's her," she said. "Subject Zero."
The woman looked straight at the camera.
And smiled.
.......
Hours later, they met in the open.
No guns raised. No shouting. Just distance and tension stretched thin as wire.
Subject Zero stood alone, the desert wind tugging at her coat.
"Kang Joon-seo," she said warmly. "You grew into yourself."
His jaw clenched. "You trained me to kill."
"Yes," she agreed calmly. "And you were exceptional."
Seo-yeon stepped forward. "This ends now."
Subject Zero turned to her. "Does it? Or does it just make you feel better to say that?"
She looked back at Joon-seo. "You exposed the truth. Very dramatic. Very human."
She smiled faintly. "Now let me tell you what happens next."
The air felt heavy.
"You can die as proof," Subject Zero continued, "or live as precedent."
Joon-seo laughed softly. "You think I'll choose either?"
She tilted her head. "You always did."
He met her gaze, calm and unflinching.
"Then you never understood me," he said.
Something flickered in her eyes—surprise.
Seo-yeon's hand slid closer to Joon-seo's.
And for the first time since the world began watching, the architects of Southern Cross realized something terrifying.
Their weapon was no longer theirs.
And he was no longer alone.
END OF CHAPTER 9