Bo's gaze didn't waver. "Well, it is, Haoran. That's what they call him. He is considered the core of the Kremlin."
Haoran frowned, his brows drawing together, thoughts running sharp and fast.
The core of the Kremlin? What the hell does that mean? That he's at the very center of Russian power? That everything revolves around him? Or does it mean he's the last line of defense, silent but catastrophic if unleashed?
His eyes flickered as he tried to piece it together.
I thought surely people wouldn't refer to someone as a deadly weapon… but it seems this man is supposed to be like a nuclear bomb. The core of the Kremlin, silent until the moment of detonation.
Out loud, he asked, "Huh… meaning what? He's the center of Russian power, or what?"
Bo's lips curved again. "Well, yeah, you could say it like that."
Haoran's jaw tightened, his gaze lowering to the polished floor. Just who is this guy that people refer to him as a demon?
He lifted his eyes again, voice sharp. "Does this guy have something to do with Logan's death?"
Bo's smirk vanished, replaced by something colder. "I can't say for sure. It's just a hunch. But you certainly won't be able to avoid running into him if you're going after the top figures in Russia."
Bo leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. "He's not called the Core of the Kremlin for nothing. So stay clear of him as much as possible. But if you do cross paths… don't try to fight him."
Haoran stared at him for a long moment. And then, unexpectedly, a grin curled across his lips. Not a warm grin, but a sharp, wolfish one.
Now I'm even more interested in this guy.
The thought lingered, dangerous and steady. He didn't say it out loud, but Bo saw it in his eyes—the glint of curiosity mixed with the thrill of challenge.
A knock echoed on the heavy office door.
"Ah, please, come in," Chief Bo said smoothly, without even glancing up.
The door creaked open and an aide stepped inside, carrying a bouquet of fresh roses, their crimson petals bright against the sterile air of the MSS building. Without a word, the aide placed them in Haoran's hands and slipped back out.
Haoran stared down at the flowers, his brow furrowing. Roses. The stems were trimmed, wrapped neatly in dark paper. He lifted them slightly, his fingers brushing over the thorns that had been carefully removed.
"I've already prepared everything for you," Chief Bo said, his tone far too casual for the weight of the moment. "You don't have to waste any time, and you can save yourself the trouble of packing. Nice, right? Although…" his lips curved into that infuriating smirk, "you haven't bought anything after that underwear purchase two months ago, so I really put a lot of thought into what to buy for your trip."
Haoran's eyes narrowed. He looked up slowly, his tone dry, laced with sarcasm.
"Eyy… seems you're more interested in my underwear than in me."
Bo chuckled, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. "The flowers are for your mom. Tell her they're from me—" he winked "—and wish her a happy birthday on my behalf."
Haoran's gaze hardened, his voice flat.
"I won't tell her the flowers are from you. She'll be upset if she learns the present is from the man who took her son away… even on her birthday."
The room fell into a brief silence, broken only by the hum of the overhead lights. Bo chuckled again, softer this time, almost indulgent.
"你真体贴 (nǐ zhēn tǐtiē)… You're so considerate."
Haoran turned sharply, the roses still in his hand, his other reaching instinctively for the weight of the folder inside his jacket. He strode toward the door, his posture disciplined, steps steady.
His mind, however, was far less calm.
These roses… a flimsy gesture to cover the fact that he's dragging me away again. My mother won't care about the flowers. She'll care that I'm not there. She'll care that Jianjun will sit beside her at the table tonight with an empty chair where I should've been. And she'll smile anyway, because that's what she does. But I'll know the disappointment in her eyes, even if she never says it.
His hand gripped the doorknob.
"Haoran."
He froze. The Chief's voice carried no sarcasm this time, no smirk, no jest. Just something heavy, something real.
"…Don't die."
Haoran's shoulders stiffened, but he didn't turn around. He gave only the smallest of nods, sharp and precise, before pulling the door open and stepping into the cold hallway.
Don't die? Haoran thought, the echo of the words biting deeper than he expected. That's the kind of thing you say when you already know I might not come back. That's the kind of thing you say when you're sending someone into a fire you wouldn't dare enter yourself.
His footsteps rang against the polished floor as he left the office behind, his grip tightening around the roses.
But dying isn't an option for me. Not yet. Not while I still have a mother waiting for her son, a brother waiting to eat cake, and a perfect record that hasn't cracked. If Bes is truly the demon they say he is… then let him be. I'll still go. Because it's my job. And because refusing was never an option.
Ever since Dad and my sister Jin Xiu died, it has only been the three of us—Mom, Jianjun, and me. Just us.
Sometimes, when the house is quiet, I think about how fragile that "just us" really is. A family of four carved down to three, then clinging to the balance like it could break at any second. It's a strange thing, the way death rearranges everything without asking permission. One absence becomes a silence at the dinner table, then an extra plate no one dares to use, then a space in your heart you learn to walk around instead of through.
Jianjun was too young to really remember Dad. Sometimes he looks at me like I'm supposed to be both brother and father. But I can't be him. I don't even know if I can be myself anymore.
It's funny—children dream about being everything under the sun. The president one day, a doctor the next. An astronaut, a celebrity, a soldier. Dreams that change with the wind, because children don't understand what it costs to hold onto a dream. I was like that too. Even back when I sat for the gaokao, the college entrance exam, I had no idea what I was chasing. I didn't know I'd become an agent for the Ministry of State Security. Back then, I thought "spies" were something out of novels or cheap TV dramas. Now I know better.
My sister, though… Jin Xiu was different. Her dream never changed. She wanted to be just like Dad. He wore the uniform like it was stitched into his skin, and she admired him for it. She thought strength and service were the noblest things a person could offer. She used to say, 'If Dad can do it, so can I. And if I do it, it'll make him proud.'
And yet, she died with that dream still clenched in her fists.
Mom never forgave the uniform for taking him, and she never forgave the dream for taking her. She didn't want any of us to step foot in the military, not ever. She was terrified of losing another child, terrified of watching another coffin lowered into the ground while neighbors whispered empty condolences. She wanted Jianjun to be a doctor, maybe. Me? She just wanted me to be safe. Safe was all she ever asked for.
But I wasn't built for "safe." Maybe I inherited too much of Dad's discipline, or maybe I was cursed with Jin Xiu's stubbornness. Either way, I walked into the one path Mom dreaded most.
Sometimes I wonder what it cost her, watching me put on the black suit and vanish into the state's shadows. Did she feel betrayed? Did she feel like she was losing me the same way she lost Dad and Jin Xiu? Or did she just quietly accept it, because she knew she couldn't stop me?
I tell myself I do this job for them—for her, for Jianjun, for the family name that was cut in half. But if I'm being honest with myself… I don't know if that's true anymore. Maybe I'm here because I don't know how to be anything else. Maybe this is the only way I know how to keep breathing: to fight in the dark, to follow orders, to trade pieces of my humanity for the illusion of control.
Mom wanted safety. I chose danger. And every mission is just another chance to prove her fears right.
But not today. Not yet. Not while Jianjun is still too young to bury another sibling. Not while Mom still lights incense for Dad and Jin Xiu and whispers prayers into the smoke. I can't join them in the earth. Not now.
Haoran chuckled lightly, eyes fixed on the dark tarmac beyond the oval-shaped airplane window. The chuckle wasn't out of amusement—it was more of a release, an exhale of tension he didn't want clinging to him before departure. The fluorescent glow of the cabin lights reflected faintly in the glass, doubling his image, a blurred overlay of Haoran the man and Kim Bora the disguise.
The phone in his hand buzzed once, the screen faintly illuminating his features. He brought it close to his lips and whispered, barely audible over the hum of the aircraft preparing for takeoff.
"Bié dānxīn, māma… wǒ huì huílái de."
Don't worry, Mom… I'll come back.
He shut off the device and slipped it into his pocket. His expression hardened as though sealing away the vulnerability of that moment. When he leaned back into the seat, his voice was firm, quiet, resolute:
"Alright. I'm ready to go to Russia."
The plane lifted minutes later, shuddering as it broke from the runway, the cabin pressing with the familiar pull of gravity. Haoran sat still, calm, as though the ascent didn't affect him at all. He had endured jumps from helicopters at higher altitudes; this was nothing.
Halfway into the flight, Haoran unbuckled his seatbelt and rose without hurry, making his way down the narrow aisle. The bathroom was cramped, but it was enough. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and leaned against the sink.
From the small cabinet he retrieved the tools of his disguise. A wig of sleek black hair, parted and cut exactly to match Kim Bora's recent photographs. Glasses with just the right prescription to fit her profile. He fixed both carefully, scrutinizing his reflection under the harsh white light.
The shoes came next. He adjusted the 12-centimeter heels strapped to his feet, flexing his ankles once to test balance. It wasn't uncomfortable. He had trained in worse—heels were child's play compared to running in combat boots on fractured terrain. To the average man, it would've been torment. To Haoran, it was simply part of the uniform.
The silicone inserts pressed against his chest, shaping his torso into the curve of Bora's figure. He straightened the blouse, tucked it neatly into the waistband of his slacks, then unclicked the lipstick. One stroke across the lower lip, another for the upper, and a soft rub to even the color. He stared at his reflection for a moment, long enough to register that Kim Bora stared back. Same eyes, same posture, same air of poise. His disguise team had done their work well, but it was his discipline that brought the illusion to life.
He was about to adjust the collar when he caught it—the sound of raised voices muffled through the door. Commotion.
"Sir, please take your seat," one of the flight attendants said firmly, though her tone strained with forced politeness.
The sharp protest of a man's voice followed, slurred and aggressive. "Don't tell me what to do!"
Haoran frowned. A drunk. Perfect.
He listened as the struggle escalated. The man's footsteps were uneven, heavy, moving dangerously close to where he stood behind the door. Then—
The bathroom door shuddered as the drunk stumbled against it. The lock rattled. A second later the door flew open and the man crashed inward, catching himself against the small wall.
"What the hell—?!" the drunk slurred, reeking of cheap liquor. His eyes glazed over Haoran's form without recognition, though confusion flickered in his drunken haze.
"Sir, let me—" a flight attendant rushed forward to intervene.
"Don't f***ing touch me!" the drunk snarled, jerking away violently. The attendants exchanged worried glances, helpless to contain the chaos in the narrow aisle.
From farther down the cabin, another voice shouted:
"Captain, a drunk passenger is causing a stir in the cabin. I think we should let the control center know—"
Haoran's jaw tightened. His thoughts raced, cold and precise.
If they report this, protocol demands an emergency landing. Nearest airport, immediate stop. All passengers offloaded. Baggage checks. Security sweeps. Re-boarding procedures. Hours of delay. Hours wasted.
He groaned under his breath. I hate getting involved in other people's business. But this mission is time-sensitive. A delay could ruin everything. Best to keep this plane flying.
The drunk man turned toward him again, his unsteady gaze narrowing. "Who the hell are you supposed to—"
Before he could finish, Haoran moved. One hand gripped the man's collar, the other braced his wrist. In a smooth, practiced motion he pulled the drunk inside the bathroom and shut the door behind them. The attendants gasped, frozen, but they didn't intervene—the precision of his action was too fast, too deliberate, as if the chaos had simply been absorbed into order.
Inside, the man struggled, cursing under his breath, but Haoran's grip was iron. He slammed the drunk lightly against the cramped wall, not enough to injure but enough to command silence.
"Shut your mouth," Haoran whispered, his voice low, steady, and dangerous. His eyes, reflected in the mirror behind the drunk, held no trace of Kim Bora. They were all Haoran—sharp, cold, uncompromising.
The drunk faltered, fear cutting through the fog of alcohol.
Haoran leaned in, voice quiet but lethal. "If you don't want to spend the rest of this flight unconscious in the cargo hold, sit down, stay quiet, and sleep it off. Understand?"
The man swallowed hard and nodded.
Haoran adjusted his grip, released him, and straightened his own appearance in the mirror without a flicker of concern. The lipstick hadn't smudged. The blouse was still tucked. Kim Bora stared back at him, flawless.
Good. Crisis averted. Now, back to the real mission.
"Dear passengers, this is your captain speaking. We will soon be arriving at Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow…"
The voice droned on through the intercom, a muffled hum of routine instructions about seatbelts and cabin checks. Haoran barely listened. His gaze lingered on the city lights below, clusters of yellow and white scattered across the sprawling darkness. Moscow—cold, unfamiliar, and dangerous.
The plane touched down with a jolt, wheels screeching faintly against the runway before slowing into a steady roll. Haoran exhaled once, not out of relief but as a mental reset.
By the time he stepped into the terminal, the noise of the crowd folded around him: the rhythmic clicks of luggage wheels, the overlapping announcements in Russian and English, the murmur of tired passengers. His own heels struck sharply against the marble floor, distinct, deliberate, carrying the poise of Kim Bora's persona. Every step was controlled—no stumble, no hesitation.
He checked the sleek watch on his wrist.
"Looks like I arrived a bit late… but still made it," he thought, adjusting the drape of his coat. It was a subtle motion, but necessary—presentation mattered. A single misstep in appearance could unravel everything.
"Miss Kim!"
The call made him pivot. A man approached, his steps brisk, his face open with practiced hospitality. He was broad-shouldered but not imposing, wearing the tailored suit of a corporate professional.
"No scent," Haoran registered immediately, his instincts sharp beneath the surface calm. I suppose he's a beta. Less of a threat, but betas have their uses—useful as handlers, useful as watchers.
The man extended his hand with a wide smile.
"Hello! I'm Alexei Popov, an employee of Rosneft! I heard you were coming a day in advance and came out to escort you."
Haoran's eyes flicked briefly to the hand. Shaking it would cement the image of Bora's civility, but too much eagerness could also betray nerves. He let the silence stretch for a beat before clearing his throat, deliberately neutral.
"But I didn't receive any information about someone picking me up from the airport." His brow arched faintly, skepticism sharpening his tone.
Alexei chuckled, the sound good-natured but perhaps too rehearsed. "Oh, but I definitely contacted your company this morning."
Haoran's phone buzzed. A vibration that cut clean through the noise of the terminal. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand and checked the screen. A single message glared back at him from Chief Bo.
他們會讓俄羅斯石油公司派人來機場接金姆
(Rosneft will send someone to the airport to pick up Kim.)
Haoran suppressed the sigh building in his chest. His expression remained unreadable, but in his head the groan echoed. At least you could have told me earlier. Would it kill you to be timely for once, Chief?
He slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. "I see."
"You've come a long way. You must be tired," Alexei said, his smile polite, his tone warm.
"Yes," Haoran replied evenly, allowing the faintest trace of fatigue into his voice, the kind Bora might show. Then he added, coolly: "There was a small problem on the plane."
Alexei's eyes flickered with interest. "Ah. Did a drunk passenger cause any trouble?"
Haoran's gaze sharpened, though his face betrayed nothing but mild surprise. "How did you know?"
Alexei gave a short laugh, tapping his chest. "Well, we Russians love to take a little bit of vodka—it's just in our blood. Every flight, there's always someone who drinks too much. It's a national stereotype, but sadly true."
Haoran studied him, measuring the cadence of his words, the slight shift of his posture. He's casual, almost too casual. Does he really not know what happened on that plane, or is he probing?
Alexei gestured toward the baggage claim. "Come on then, let me help with your luggage."
Haoran inclined his head slightly, a polite mask in place. "Thanks." He didn't protest, though he rarely allowed strangers to touch his belongings. If Alexei insisted, Haoran would allow it—but only because it played into Bora's role.
As he followed Alexei through the crowd, Haoran's thoughts moved in precise threads. First contact established. Beta, corporate employee. Too cheerful, but harmless on the surface. Yet this is Russia—nothing here is harmless. For now, play the part. Smile if needed. But never forget: every escort is also a leash.
The Mercedes purred softly as it slid through Moscow's crowded streets, headlights weaving between endless red brake lights. From the backseat, Haoran sat poised, his posture composed and elegant—legs crossed, coat draped neatly, one hand resting lightly against his thigh. On the surface, he was Kim Bora, the refined Korean delegate. Inside, however, the sharpness of Agent Haoran Yue Darius never dulled.
Up front, Alexei wouldn't stop talking. His voice filled the car like static—rambling about architecture, restaurants, even bits of Russian history that sounded rehearsed, like a tour guide who'd memorized his script years ago.
"…and over there, that's the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. Beautiful, isn't it? Moscow at night has a glow unlike any other city…"
Haoran tilted his head slightly, feigning polite interest, but his eyes drifted back to the passing blur of neon signs and stone facades. He didn't reply.
He talks too much, Haoran thought, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. Does he ever breathe? Or is this his way of gauging me? Talking nonstop to see what I'll give away?
"So how was your seat, Miss Kim?" Alexei asked suddenly, turning slightly as if expecting a warm response.
Haoran's gaze didn't even flicker. He kept his eyes fixed on the window, chin propped on his hand in quiet dismissal.
The silence stretched until Alexei laughed awkwardly. "Hahaha, you remind me of one incident—similar to yours. Once, I had to wait at the airport forever because of a troublesome passenger. Can you imagine? The chaos people cause…"
The car slowed abruptly. Honking blared outside. A sea of headlights clogged the boulevard, horns blaring like a symphony of frustration.
"Damn it, is it rush hour?" Haoran's thoughts clicked with annoyance, his jaw tightening. This wouldn't have happened if the plane had arrived on time. I should've beaten that drunkard half to death. Now I'm sitting here, trapped in Moscow traffic, listening to this idiot prattle on.
Alexei twisted back with a genial smile. "Um, Miss Kim? It seems we'll be stuck in traffic for quite a while at this rate. Why don't we take a shortcut instead? Our driver knows all the roads in Moscow inside and out. I'm sure you'd like to get your rest after such a long flight."
Haoran gave him a single nod. "Please do." His voice was calm, clipped, controlled. As soon as I get to the hotel, I'm going straight to bed. No sightseeing. No chatter. Just quiet.
The driver pulled away from the congested main road, slipping into narrower streets. The car wound through dimly lit alleyways lined with crumbling brick buildings and shadowy corners. Haoran leaned slightly toward the window, eyes sweeping left and right. Every detail registered—rusted dumpsters, graffiti smeared across cracked plaster, shadows cast by old laundry strung between windows.
I'll give him this—the driver really does know these streets. Navigating alleys this narrow takes practice. But…
His eyes narrowed. Something clicked in his memory.
Hold on… didn't I see that dumpster earlier?
The same crooked lid, half-hanging. The same dark stains streaking down its side. The same chipped window above, with gray fabric swaying faintly on a laundry line.
"I think we're lost," Haoran said flatly, his voice breaking the quiet hum of the car.
Alexei didn't flinch. "How so, Miss Kim? We're going the right path."
"Are you sure?" Haoran turned his head fully now, his gaze cold, cutting. "Because we've been here before. That dumpster on the left—stains, lid half-closed. The building behind it too. Same cracks. Same brick color. Even the same laundry. Don't tell me I'm mistaken."
For the first time, silence pressed into the car. The driver kept his eyes forward.
Then—chuckle. Low, drawn-out, deliberate.
Alexei laughed. "You have a very good eye, Miss Kim. I didn't expect that."
Haoran's hand moved before the laugh even died. Smooth, precise—his pistol was drawn, barrel glinting faintly under the passing streetlight. He leveled it at Alexei, his arm steady, his expression blank.
"Who are you?" Haoran asked, his voice quiet but sharp, the kind that cut deeper than a shout.
Alexei's eyes flicked to the weapon, his grin widening. "That's quite a dangerous toy you've got there, Miss Kim."
"I said—who are you?" Haoran's tone didn't waver. His finger hovered just shy of the trigger.
"I told you already. Alexei Popov, here to escort you." His smile didn't falter, but there was no warmth in it now. It was the smile of a man testing how long he could play the game.
Haoran's eyes narrowed. "But this Alexei doesn't have ties to Rosneft, does he?"
The car jerked slightly as the driver brought it to a halt in the shadow of an unmarked alley.
"Well…" Alexei tilted his head, smirk sharpening. "Kind of."
Before Haoran could react, the rear door beside him yanked open. A rush of cold Moscow air swept inside, carrying the faint scent of oil and iron. A heavy figure climbed in fast—a broad-shouldered man in black, movements precise.
Haoran's gun hand rose instantly, but the stranger was faster, slamming into him with brutal force, pinning his arm down against the leather seat.
"It would be best if you cooperate with us, Miss Kim," Alexei said smoothly from the front, watching the struggle with amusement. His grin widened, predatory now. "We wouldn't want this trip to end before it's even begun."