Pinned beneath the weight of the man, Haoran's eyes burned—not with fear, but with cold fury. His mind worked faster than his pulse. So this is how Russia greets me. Fine. Let's see who bleeds first.
The air inside the car thickened with tension. Haoran's jaw clenched as the man in black pressed him harder into the seat, Alexei's smug grin lingering like a stain in the front mirror.
These punks… are they trying to kidnap Kim Bora? But who the hell are they really? Criminal thugs? Foreign operatives? Doesn't matter. If they know this much, it means they've done their homework. They're not amateurs. Still, they think I'll just sit quietly like some helpless woman…
His eyes glinted with cold contempt. Fools.
Alexei's voice dripped with mockery. "Don't try anything, Miss Kim. One move, and I'll blow your head off."
Who does this fool think I am? Some weak doll to be threatened into obedience? They really don't know who they're dealing with.
Haoran's hand shot up in a flash, grabbing the thug pinning him and slamming his face viciously into the car window. Glass cracked with a sickening thud, blood smearing the surface. The man groaned, dazed.
But before Haoran could finish him, gunfire exploded outside.
"RATATATATATATA!" Bullets peppered the car, sparks flying, windows shattering into shards.
"Shit," Haoran muttered, ducking low as glass rained down on him. The roar of gunfire echoed off the buildings, relentless, deafening.
The driver panicked, swerving violently to avoid incoming fire. Haoran's mind remained sharp, cutting through the chaos. With one fluid motion, he pulled the slender dagger hidden in the heel of his shoe and pressed the cold steel to the trembling driver's throat.
"Turn the headlights off and get us to the main road. Now." His voice was low, commanding, dangerous. "Do as I say if you don't want to end up like him."
The driver's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, but he obeyed, veering sharply. The engine roared as the car shot forward into darker streets.
Haoran leaned back, dagger still pressed against the man's neck, eyes scanning every shadow outside the shattered windows. For a fleeting second, something caught his attention above—on the rooftops. A shadow, massive, shifting unnaturally fast.
What the hell was that? Too big for a dog. Too big for any animal. Someone's watching. Tracking. But from up there?
Before he could analyze, headlights flared from ahead. A car came screaming around the bend, barreling straight toward them.
"Look out!" the driver shouted, but it was too late.
The two vehicles collided with a violent screech of metal, glass exploding outward as steel crumpled. The world spun in a storm of sound and pain. Haoran's head slammed into the doorframe—his vision blurred, warm blood trickling down his forehead.
"Ugh—" he coughed, tasting iron on his tongue. Dazed, he shoved the door open with his shoulder and stumbled out into the night. His legs shook, but his resolve didn't.
"Wow…" he muttered bitterly, wiping blood from his brow. "First impression of Russia—and this is how they welcome foreigners?"
Around him, chaos lingered. Smoke hissed from the wrecked cars. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. But Haoran's focus cut through it all like a blade.
I have no idea what's going on here. But judging by how they knew my background, how they knew exactly when I'd arrive… this isn't random. They're not street thugs. No ordinary gang would pull this off. Could they be planning to hold Kim Bora hostage? Use her to pressure Russia—or Rosneft? Whoever they are, they've prepared well. And they won't stop now. I need to disappear before I become a trophy on someone's chessboard.
He staggered toward the boot of the wrecked car, reaching for his bag—his weapons, his documents, his lifeline.
But fate had other plans.
"Don't move," a familiar voice snapped coldly.
Haoran froze, a pistol barrel pressing against the back of his head. His bloodied lips curled slightly in irritation.
Oh my god. Why is this asshole still alive?
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, before rolling his eyes.
"Turn around," Alexei ordered.
Haoran raised his hands, turning deliberately, his expression blank, unreadable.
"Don't try anything stupid or I'll shoot," Alexei warned, stepping closer. He patted down Haoran's sides roughly, searching for weapons. His hands moved to strip off Haoran's coat.
That was his mistake.
In an instant, Haoran moved—flipping the coat into Alexei's face and twisting it around his neck. The fabric tightened like a noose as Haoran pulled hard, choking him. Alexei thrashed, eyes bulging, trying to bring the gun up—too late.
Then—another barrage of bullets. Ratatatatatatat! Bullets sliced through the night, smashing into cars, spraying sparks. Haoran dragged Alexei's body in front of him, using him as a human shield. Bullets tore into Alexei's back, his screams muffled as Haoran maneuvered with clinical precision.
When the gunfire paused, Haoran shoved Alexei's dying body aside and bolted.
The sound of his heels clattered sharply on the wet pavement as he sprinted down the street. His lungs burned, blood still dripping down his face, but his speed never faltered. Every corner he turned, bullets followed, smashing against walls and scattering debris around him.
Do they really want me dead this desperately? Just how many people have they deployed? This isn't pursuit—this is a hunt.
He didn't see the car until it hit him.
BAM!
The impact sent him flying, body crashing onto the asphalt with bone-jarring force. His breath left him in a violent cough, blood splattering from his lips.
"Ugh!!" Haoran groaned, forcing himself to roll onto his side, coughing up crimson.
From behind, voices rang out.
"Found him! He's here!" the driver from earlier shouted, waving frantically to others spilling from nearby vehicles.
Haoran's vision swam, his body screaming in pain. He planted a trembling hand against the ground and pushed himself upright.
I take down one scumbag, another one appears. How long must I repeat this crap?
His eyes narrowed, his breath sharp, his stance firm despite the blood soaking his clothes.
But giving up? That word doesn't exist in my vocabulary. Not now. Not ever.
And with that thought, Haoran staggered forward again, forcing his battered body into a run—vanishing into Moscow's shadows like a ghost refusing to die.
The abandoned building smelled of dust, mildew, and old smoke. Haoran pressed his back against the cracked wall, chest heaving quietly, blood dripping from a cut near his temple and sliding down to his jawline. His ears tuned to every sound—the faint hiss of wind slipping through broken windows, the distant shouts outside, and the crunch of boots on gravel below.
He lowered his head, peering through the jagged hole in the wall. Four shadows moved cautiously in the alley, rifles raised, voices sharp in Russian.
Four of them left now? Haoran thought, narrowing his eyes. But I could've sworn there were five just a moment ago. One's missing.
Then he heard it. A creak from the stairs, slow but deliberate. Heavy boots pressing wood. The missing man.
So… the last one is coming upstairs. Hunting me. Tsk. Figures. Haoran's gaze flicked to his rifle—empty. He cursed under his breath. Damn it, out of rounds… and no time to reload. Options are narrowing fast.
He slipped the belt from around his waist, the leather sliding silently through the loops. His fingers tightened around the buckle, breathing steadying.
Just a little more. Wait for him to step closer. Just a little more…
The man's shadow lengthened on the wall before him, the faint metallic click of his rifle's safety echoing in the corridor. Haoran's pulse slowed. He crouched low, coiled like a spring.
The instant the soldier swung into view, Haoran lunged. The belt lashed forward, hooking around the barrel of the rifle. With a brutal yank, he twisted the weapon from the man's hands and sent it clattering across the dusty floorboards.
"Chyort!" the soldier barked, reaching out.
Haoran didn't hesitate. He looped the belt around the man's throat, pulling it back with merciless precision.
The man thrashed, boots kicking against the floor. "Keeuuk—!" His strangled cries echoed off the peeling walls. Haoran leaned into the choke, muscles taut, jaw clenched.
Struggle all you want. It won't change the outcome. Hesitation gets you killed. Regret comes later. For now, it's survival.
The fight drained out of the man in violent shudders. His arms weakened, fingers twitching helplessly at the leather strap digging into his windpipe. Then silence. His body sagged, lifeless, and Haoran released the tension, shoving the corpse onto the floor with a dull thud.
Haoran crouched down, his hands swift and unflinching. He rifled through the dead man's pockets, finding a handful of ammunition clips. He slipped them into his coat, his expression cold and unreadable. His hand reached for the discarded rifle, checking its weight, chambering a round with a sharp clack.
He exhaled once through his nose, calm returning to his bloodied face.
"Alright…" he muttered under his breath, voice low, steady. "Ready to move."
He slung the rifle over his shoulder, belt back around his waist, then adjusted his disguise—wig slightly crooked, glasses smeared with sweat. To anyone else, he might look like a disheveled woman running from a mugging. But in his eyes burned the precision of a predator now armed and cornered.
The old wooden beams above his head groaned with the weight of footsteps. The mercenaries moved cautiously, sweeping their rifles from side to side as they searched the second floor.
"I heard gunshots up there!" one of them barked in Russian.
They came up in pairs, spreading out. Their flashlights cut across the cracked walls and piles of rubble. Dust hung in the air, stirred by their boots, a fog that blurred vision just enough to give shadows teeth.
But then—silence. No sign of Haoran. No breathing. No movement. Just the unsettling creak of the building itself.
One of the men muttered something under his breath, nervous, and then—
POW.
A single suppressed shot tore through the quiet. The first man dropped instantly, a neat hole between his eyes, his body collapsing like a sack of meat.
The second man spun, panic flashing in his eyes. He opened his mouth to shout—
Only to find himself staring down the barrel of a rifle.
"Boo," Haoran said coldly, his voice little more than a whisper. He pulled the trigger, and the man's scream was cut short, his skull snapping back with the force of the bullet.
Blood sprayed against the crumbling wall. His body twitched once, then stilled.
Haoran exhaled through his nose, lowering the weapon. His expression was calm, clinical, but his eyes burned with that cold fire. "Two gone," he muttered, counting under his breath like he was ticking names off a list.
Then he looked at the rifle in his hands. The chamber clicked hollow when he tried the bolt. His jaw tightened.
Shit… I'm out of bullets.
He dropped the weapon quietly, listening for movement. That was when he caught it—a flicker, a silhouette darting across the rooftop of the building opposite. Too fast, too precise.
Haoran's eyes narrowed.
There was definitely someone on that rooftop just now. I thought maybe I was seeing things before, but this time I'm sure. But there's no way someone could hide themselves that quickly… unless they were trained. Military, or worse.
His muscles coiled tight, instincts flaring. He wasn't the only predator here.
And then—gunfire erupted.
Rounds tore into the walls, splintering wood and shattering brick. The deafening RATATATATA rattled the air, dust and plaster raining down over him. Haoran hit the floor, rolling behind a collapsed beam as shards exploded around him.
Oh my gosh… just leave me the hell alone! he thought bitterly, teeth clenched. The fuck is this circus? First kidnappers, now rooftop ghosts shooting like they're at a goddamn carnival. Is everyone in Moscow gunning for me tonight?
Bullets shredded through where he'd been seconds earlier, punching holes through the moldy wallpaper. He hugged the floor, calculating distances.
Stay low. Conserve strength. Don't panic. Think, Haoran. Think.
He could almost hear Chief Bo's voice in his head: An agent isn't allowed to lose his head under fire. If you're breathing, you're still in the fight.
Haoran's lip curled slightly, bitter amusement flickering across his face even as more bullets raked the hallway.
Well, Chief… breathing's about all I've got right now.
His hand tightened on the strap of his belt, his other hand searching for the clips he'd looted earlier. He slid one into the sidearm holstered at his hip—click, ready.
His eyes lifted once more toward the rooftop.
Whoever that shooter is, they're skilled. Too skilled to be some random thug. Which means… they're not here for Kim Bora. They're here for me too.