The broadcast began without warning.
No countdown. No dramatic music. Just a sudden interruption across networks, screens freezing for half a second before reforming into a familiar blue-and-white government seal.
Joon-seo recognized it instantly.
"That's not Australian," he said quietly.
Seo-yeon stood behind him, her blood already cold. "It's joint."
Crowe swore under his breath. "They're moving faster than I thought."
The seal dissolved into a man at a podium—clean-cut, calm, authoritative. The kind of face people trusted because it looked like it belonged to order.
"Earlier today," the man began, "classified documents were illegally released, endangering national security and international stability."
Joon-seo's image appeared beside him.
Older photos first. Blurred. Grainy. Then newer ones—clearer, sharper, pulled from surveillance angles that made him look predatory, isolated, wrong.
"Kang Joon-seo," the man continued, "is a former intelligence asset who went rogue."
Seo-yeon felt something snap tight inside her chest.
"They're doing it," she whispered.
The man spoke on, voice measured. "The program referred to in the leaks was a defensive initiative. Its failures are regrettable. But its successes—" he gestured toward Joon-seo's image "—were corrupted by one individual's instability."
The word echoed.
Instability.
Joon-seo watched himself be dismantled in real time.
Psychological profiles followed. Carefully edited. Highlighting aggression. Isolation. Trauma. Every scar reframed as evidence.
"He's a threat," the man concluded. "And we are working with our partners to bring him to justice."
The broadcast ended.
Silence flooded the farmhouse.
Seo-yeon turned to Joon-seo. "Say something."
He didn't respond.
Crowe cleared his throat. "Public opinion will split. At first."
"At first," Seo-yeon echoed. "Then fear wins."
Joon-seo finally spoke. "They're not wrong."
Both of them looked at him.
"I am dangerous," he said calmly. "Just not in the way they're saying."
Seo-yeon stepped closer. "They're turning you into a symbol."
"Yes," he agreed. "Symbols are easier to kill."
Outside, engines roared.
Crowe's face drained of color. "They're here."
........
They didn't knock.
The windows shattered inward, glass exploding like rain. Smoke flooded the room, acrid and blinding. Seo-yeon moved first—always first—grabbing Joon-seo's arm and pulling him down as bullets stitched the walls above them.
"Back exit!" Crowe shouted.
They ran.
Through smoke. Through chaos. Through a world collapsing into noise.
Outside, the desert had become a battlefield—black vehicles cutting across the sand, figures moving with surgical precision. Not soldiers.
Hunters.
Joon-seo felt something inside him unfold.
Not rage.
Clarity.
He moved without thinking, body remembering what the mind refused to. He disarmed one attacker, redirected another, used momentum instead of force. Brutal, efficient, terrifyingly controlled.
Seo-yeon saw it—and felt both awe and horror.
This is what they made.
They escaped by inches.
By luck.
By blood.
When they finally reached cover, breath ragged, the farmhouse burned behind them—a funeral pyre for any illusion of safety.
Crowe slumped against a rock, bleeding from the shoulder. "We can't keep running like this."
Joon-seo stared at the flames. "We won't."
Seo-yeon looked at him sharply. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking," he said, "that if they want a monster…"
He turned to face them.
"…they don't get to choose the shape."
.......
They went underground again—but this time, not to hide.
They went to speak.
The next leak wasn't data.
It was a confession.
A video appeared online twelve hours later. No logos. No editing tricks. Just Joon-seo, sitting alone in a bare room, eyes steady, voice quiet.
"My name is Kang Joon-seo," he said. "And everything they told you about me is true."
The world leaned in.
"I was trained to kill. To obey. To forget. I've done things I can't undo."
Comments exploded. Fear. Anger. Fascination.
"But they didn't tell you why," he continued. "They didn't tell you who ordered it. Or who benefited."
He paused.
"I am not asking for forgiveness."
Seo-yeon watched the video from a secure feed, heart in her throat.
"I am asking you to look at me," Joon-seo said. "Not as a weapon. But as proof."
The video cut to black.
Within minutes, it was everywhere.
Subject Zero watched it from a private terminal, expression unreadable.
"So," she murmured. "He chose fire."
She turned to her aides. "Prepare the contingency."
........
That night, Seo-yeon confronted him.
"You didn't tell me," she said, voice shaking despite herself.
"I couldn't," he replied. "You would've stopped me."
"Yes," she snapped. "Because it will get you killed."
"Maybe," he said. "But silence was already killing me."
She stared at him, anger bleeding into something far more dangerous.
"You're not just risking yourself," she said. "You're risking us."
He stepped closer. "That's why I did it."
Her breath caught. "Don't."
"I won't pretend anymore," he said softly. "Not with you."
The distance between them disappeared.
For a moment, the world narrowed to breath and heat and unspoken fear. His hand hovered near hers—never touching.
"If I die," he said, "I don't want my last truth to be unfinished."
Her eyes glistened. "You don't get to decide that alone."
"I know."
She closed the distance, resting her forehead against his chest. Just that. Nothing more.
"I hate you," she whispered.
He exhaled. "I know."
"But if they take you," she continued, voice breaking, "they'll have to go through me."
His hand finally closed over hers.
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
........
Across the ocean, governments panicked.
Protests erupted. Hashtags trended. Whistleblowers emerged like fractures spreading through ice.
And in a secure underground facility, Subject Zero stood before a glass wall.
Behind it, rows of young faces watched through mirrored screens.
"The world is afraid," she said calmly. "And fear needs order."
Her gaze hardened.
"Release Phase Two."
The lights dimmed.
Somewhere deep in the facility, alarms began to sound.
........
Joon-seo woke before dawn, heart pounding.
He didn't know why—only that something had shifted.
Seo-yeon was already awake, staring at her phone.
"They've activated something," she said.
Crowe looked up sharply. "What?"
She swallowed. "New sightings. New operatives."
Joon-seo closed his eyes.
He felt them.
Not memories.
Not yet.
But echoes.
"They didn't just make me," he said quietly.
"They made more."
The sun rose over the desert, red and unforgiving.
And for the first time, Joon-seo understood the true cost of survival.
He wasn't running from the past anymore.
He was racing the future.
END OF CHAPTER 10.