Haoran leaned heavily against the cold metal rail of the balcony, chest rising and falling with sharp, controlled breaths. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, though the Moscow night air was biting cold. He lowered his gaze toward the ground several stories below, catching sight of two shadows slinking closer to the stairwell entrance.
"Shit… there are two more," he thought, his brows furrowing. "They're coming upstairs fast. And I don't have a weapon left on me…"
His hand instinctively went to his side—empty. No gun. No knife. Nothing but his wits. His jaw clenched.
Then—
Bang! Bang!
The abrupt burst of gunfire echoed from inside the building, followed by a muffled scream that sliced the air in half. Haoran froze, his head snapping toward the sound. His pulse kicked up, not from fear, but from raw calculation.
"What the hell was that? Who fired? Don't tell me another party is involved…" he thought, pressing his back against the wall.
For a long second, silence. Too much silence.
"They should've reached this floor by now. Why is it so quiet…?"
His eyes narrowed as he slid his fingers to his earlobe. With a practiced motion, he plucked off the small black stud—an earring most would mistake as decoration. He turned it in his palm, the faint red light inside winking back at him.
A mini bomb. His insurance. His last resort.
"Guess there's only one way to end this," Haoran thought grimly, lips pressed into a hard line. "I'll wait for the right chance and blow them to pieces…"
His grip tightened around the tiny device.
And then—
RIIIIIPPPP!
The sudden, sickening sound of flesh tearing made his stomach tighten. Right at his side, a man's face was ripped open, blood spraying in a grotesque arc against the wall. Haoran's eyes widened. He hadn't even heard footsteps. The victim staggered once, before a massive boot struck his chest, sending him plummeting off the balcony. His scream was cut short as his body crashed against the ground far below.
Haoran's eyes darted upward.
"It's him," he realized instantly. His instincts screamed louder than his ears. "The unsettling gaze I kept feeling on me… I'm not imagining it. He's real."
The shadow detached itself from the corridor's darkness and stepped forward. The figure loomed—towering—a height well over 200cm. The moonlight spilled across him, revealing broad shoulders and a body that moved with unnatural briskness for its size.
Haoran's throat tightened.
"I can't believe a guy that big can move that quietly… that quickly. He's not human. Not normal. But even a murderous beast won't survive a bomb shoved down his throat."
His eyes narrowed, a predator ready to strike. "I'll shove it in his mouth and finish this—"
But he didn't get the chance.
The figure surged forward, impossibly fast. A single motion—Haoran was smashed against the ground, the balcony floor vibrating with the impact. His mini bomb slipped from his grip, clattering upward before exploding midair, the shockwave rattling the balcony rails. Sparks rained down, painting the scene in a fiery orange glow.
"Ugh—!!" Haoran let out, his voice breaking into a grunt as the figure pinned his wrists harshly behind his back.
The pressure was overwhelming. His lungs struggled to draw air. His chest heaved, but the weight and the pheromones pouring off the man felt suffocating. His vision blurred at the edges.
"Fuck… how did I get pinned down so easily? His pheromones… they're suffocating me. It's like being chained by poison gas…"
The man leaned down, his breath grazing Haoran's ear as a strange murmur in Russian spilled forth.
"У тебя на рубашке что-то есть… Давай я сниму это для тебя, хм.?"
(There's something on your shirt… let me take it off for you, hmm?)
Haoran's jaw tightened, veins throbbing along his temple.
"Get your shit together, Haoran," he barked at himself inwardly. "Focus. Think!"
His senses sharpened despite the suffocating presence. Every detail registered.
"His voice… it isn't too deep or husky. Young. Early twenties, maybe. And those shoes… crocodile leather, hand-stitched. I saw the exact pair in a luxury magazine—around 4,000 dollars. What kind of assassin wears shoes like that? Who is this guy?"
The stranger tugged at Haoran's shirt, fabric tearing slightly as if to mock his helplessness. But then, instead of finishing him, the man chuckled low in his throat.
A faint smell reached Haoran's nose. Not nicotine. Not ordinary tobacco. Something sharper, darker, laced with an earthy undertone. He frowned, trying to place it, even as the man dropped the half-burned cigar at his side.
The figure released him without warning.
Haoran's body jerked as he felt the metal bite against his wrist. His hand had been cuffed to the balcony rail. His instincts screamed for him to break free, but the man had already turned his back.
"Is he just going to walk away?" Haoran thought furiously, sweat dripping down his temple. "That's reckless. He's leaving behind evidence without a care. Or maybe… he doesn't care if I find him again."
The shadowed man hummed softly as he walked off—an eerie, almost childish lullaby echoing in the night air. The sound gnawed at Haoran's nerves more than the fight itself.
And then—silence.
Haoran slumped against the railing, his cuffed wrist straining against the cold steel. His chest heaved, mind racing.
"What the fuck just happened…?"
The city sprawled below him, indifferent. The night wind stung his skin, but Haoran barely felt it. He was trapped, humiliated, yet alive. And he hated that more than anything.
11:50 p.m. — Moscow Police Station
The sterile hum of fluorescent lights filled the quiet room, the kind of buzz that sank into your bones after a while. The smell of cold coffee, disinfectant, and worn paper lingered faintly in the air.
There sat Haoran—or rather, Kim Bora, as the world currently knew him—wrapped in a wool blanket that smelled faintly of dust and old fabric softener. His hair was slightly disheveled, one wrist wrapped in a temporary splint. A single desk lamp cast a harsh cone of light over the table, making his face look paler than usual.
He stared at his bandaged wrist in silence for a moment before letting out a quiet, humorless exhale.
"I can't believe I dislocated my wrist in the short time I got pinned down," he thought bitterly, tilting his head back against the chair. "That guy's strength was inhuman. I barely lasted ten seconds before he had me flat on the ground."
His jaw tensed. The words he wasn't saying filled the space around him.
"What a ridiculous situation. Kidnapped, almost killed, and then 'rescued' by some stranger who vanishes into thin air after stripping me and leaving me cuffed to a balcony railing. Is that what people call a rescue now?"
He adjusted the blanket over his shoulders, the movement slow and deliberate. His wrist throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"If the police had arrived even a few minutes later, I'd have been a corpse instead of sitting here freezing my ass off in a blanket like some fragile civilian. Tch."
Across from him, a middle-aged officer with a thick mustache flipped through a stack of reports. His nameplate read Sergeant Mikhailov, and his weary face showed more concern than suspicion. When he finally looked up, his eyes were sympathetic in that official, trained way.
"Miss Kim," Mikhailov began in accented English, choosing his words carefully, "we believe this incident was caused by a group unhappy with the recent oil contract your company signed. It's a very large project—many people, both inside and outside, would be… envious of such a deal."
He set the papers down and leaned slightly forward.
"But please… do not let this event affect how you feel about Russia. This country… we are not all like those criminals. I promise, we will find out who was behind this. No matter what it takes."
Haoran blinked slowly, expression unreadable. The kind of stillness that made people uncomfortable.
"Too late for that," he thought flatly. "I'm already forming some pretty strong opinions."
He didn't bother voicing it, though. No point. He'd had enough diplomacy for one night.
He nodded faintly, just enough to appear cooperative. "I understand. Thank you for your concern," he said aloud, voice smooth and calm, betraying none of the irritation swirling under the surface.
Inside, though, his mind was already somewhere else.
"I just want to go to the hotel, take a scalding shower, and pass out for twelve hours. My bones ache, my wrist's a mess, and my pride's even worse."
The door creaked open with a low metallic squeal. Another officer poked his head in, his tone hesitant.
"She's still here, sir," the younger man said to Mikhailov, then turned to Haoran. "Madam, we checked your belongings again—no tracking devices, no hidden transmitters. Everything appears clean."
He paused, his eyes flickering awkwardly toward Haoran's face before quickly darting away. "Uh… for your safety, perhaps you'd allow me to drop you off at your hotel personally?"
Haoran looked up, expression impassive, though internally his brow arched.
"He's blushing. Seriously?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. He was too tired to react properly, so he simply gave a faint nod.
"That would be appreciated," he said evenly.
"Whatever. A free ride's a free ride," he mused. "At least one thing's going right tonight."
The young officer practically beamed at the chance, clearly flustered by the opportunity to escort the so-called "Miss Kim." He stammered something about the car being ready and hurried out again, leaving Haoran alone with his thoughts and the soft ticking of the station clock.
He glanced at his reflection in the small, grimy mirror across the room. His disguise was still intact—the subtle contouring that softened his features, the long coat that masked his build, the delicate earrings that hid weapons. No one here saw the real him.
"This persona's holding up well," he thought, adjusting the collar. "Though if I have to keep pretending to be this demure 'Miss Kim' any longer, I might actually lose my mind."
He rose from the chair, blanket slipping from his shoulders. For a moment, his shadow stretched long across the tiled floor.
The sound of laughter echoed faintly from the hallway—officers chatting, probably about the "foreign beauty" who survived an ambush. He ignored it.
As he walked toward the door, his mind replayed the fight on the balcony, the stranger's voice, the scent of that strange smoke.
"Who the hell was that man…?" he thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. "His movements weren't random. He was trained. Military? Mercenary? No… something different."
The hum of the lights flickered once as he stepped into the corridor, the blanket now folded neatly over his arm.
"I'll find him," he decided quietly. "No one humiliates me and walks away."
Outside, the snow was starting to fall again—soft, slow flakes drifting through the streetlights. Haoran pulled his coat tighter around him as the police escort opened the car door with a shy smile.
He gave a curt nod and slid inside, his mind already turning over everything that had happened.
For most, tonight would be a nightmare. For Haoran, it was just the beginning of another mission.
"After you, Miss Kim," he said, his tone just a little too friendly.
Haoran gave him a polite nod, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen loose from his bun before lowering himself into the front seat. But as soon as he sat down, he felt something soft beneath him—a delicate fabric crushed under his coat.
He reached under and pulled it out slowly. It was a silk scarf, faintly perfumed with some woman's floral scent.
"...Great," Haoran thought flatly, holding the scarf by two fingers as if it were radioactive. "Someone's perfume and germs. Just what I needed tonight."
The officer chuckled when he saw the expression on Haoran's face. "Ah—sorry about that!" he said with an awkward laugh, quickly snatching the scarf from Haoran's hand and tossing it into the back seat. "My wife left that in here earlier. Hahaha, women, you know how they are—always forgetting something!"
Haoran turned his head slightly, offering a faint, polite smile.
"If I were your wife, I'd forget you somewhere too," he thought coolly, then looked back out the window.
The car pulled out of the station parking lot and onto the dimly lit road. Streetlights passed in slow rhythm, their reflections stretching across the windshield like fading gold lines. For a moment, silence filled the car—just the hum of the engine and the muted rumble of tires against wet asphalt.
Then, predictably, the officer decided to talk.
"So… Miss Kim," he began, his tone trying for casual curiosity, "you mentioned earlier that there was someone else at the scene. A man, right? Wearing… what was it? Expensive leather shoes?"
Haoran inhaled quietly through his nose.
"I just told him this at the station," he thought, suppressing a sigh. "Does he have memory issues, or is he fishing for a different answer?"
He leaned his head slightly against the seat and spoke evenly, his voice carrying that calm, controlled precision of someone used to being obeyed.
"It was crocodile leather," Haoran corrected without looking at him. "Not cowhide. Though it's possible it was cowhide embossed to look like crocodile skin… but no, I'm certain it was genuine. Dark brown, U.S. size thirteen or fourteen. Practically brand new."
He paused, his mind replaying the brief flashes of that encounter—the glint of polished leather, the smell that lingered after.
"The pair would cost at least 250,000 rubles," he continued. "And he wasn't the type to wear replicas. Which means he was either very wealthy… or wanted to appear that way."
The officer gave a short, low whistle. "Two hundred fifty thousand rubles? That's quite a bit for a pair of shoes," he said, chuckling. "Alright, alright, let's just say it was crocodile leather then."
Haoran didn't respond. He just exhaled through his nose, gaze still fixed outside. The snow had started falling heavier now, each flake catching in the amber streetlight before melting against the glass.
"This man laughs at everything," he thought wearily. "Doesn't he get tired of hearing his own voice?"
For a few minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic squeak of the windshield wipers. Then, once again, the silence shattered.
"So, Miss Kim," the officer began, his grin returning as he glanced sideways at Haoran. "Which Asian are you, if you don't mind me asking?"
Haoran blinked once, slow. "...Korean," he said after a pause.
The officer nodded enthusiastically, tapping the steering wheel with his thick fingers. "Ah, Korean! I've heard Korean women are very beautiful. Just like you, Miss Kim."
Haoran's eyes flickered sideways, his face unreadable.
"He's actually flirting. Incredible. I'm sitting here with a sprained wrist and dried blood on my coat, and he thinks this is a date."
He smiled faintly—polite, distant. "Thank you," he said softly.
The officer grinned even wider. "So… are you single?"
That earned a blink from Haoran. A pause. Then, smoothly, he turned his gaze to the windshield.
"Where the hell is this conversation going," he thought dryly. "Is he trying to get himself fired?"
"No," Haoran said finally, tone even. "I'm married."
The officer raised his eyebrows. "Oh wow, your husband—or wife, maybe?—must be a very lucky person," he said, still fishing.
Haoran didn't look away from the passing lights. "They are," he said shortly.
There was another moment of silence. The officer chuckled nervously, clearly not getting the hint.
"But tell me, Miss Kim," he said suddenly, "is it true what they say about Asian women? That they're… you know… very submissive?"
That was the last straw.
Haoran exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. He turned his head, just enough for his cold, dark eyes to meet the man's. The faint smile was gone now—only calm, cutting seriousness remained.
"Just drive the car," he said, voice quiet but firm, carrying that weight that made the officer's hand freeze on the wheel. "You talk too much. Fucking nosey"
The man blinked, startled, then gave an awkward laugh that didn't sound genuine anymore. "R-right… sorry, Miss Kim. Long day, I guess."
Haoran leaned back in his seat again, crossing his legs and letting the silence reclaim the car.
"Finally," he thought, closing his eyes for a moment. "Peace and quiet."
11:57 p.m. — The Hotel Lounge
The night air outside was cold enough to bite through fabric, and by the time Haoran stepped out of the police car, the tips of his fingers were numb. The luxurious hotel before him shimmered under golden lights — the kind of place where diplomats and oligarchs brushed shoulders with movie stars. His breath fogged faintly as he adjusted the blanket draped around him, then straightened his posture, ignoring the dull ache still pulsing in his wrist.
The driver, the same overly chatty police officer, tried to open the door for him.
"Careful, Miss Kim. The steps are slippery."
"I'm not porcelain," Haoran muttered under his breath, stepping out and brushing past him. The lobby doors parted automatically, releasing a wave of warmth and faintly perfumed air. Expensive cologne, polished marble, and the faint hum of a string quartet playing somewhere near the bar. Moscow — ruthless, extravagant, and utterly indifferent.
He walked to the front desk, unbothered by the curious eyes that followed. His dark hair, still slightly tousled from the earlier chaos, cast soft shadows over his sharp eyes. There was no trace of panic on his face now — only precision, calm, and quiet irritation.
"Добрый вечер, madam. How can we help you?" The receptionist asked, smiling with that professional hospitality reserved for guests in fur coats and diamonds.
"Hello," Haoran said, voice low but clear. "Are there any shops around here that sell handmade cigars?"
The receptionist blinked, surprised. "Handmade cigars? Ah, yes, actually—there's one right here in the hotel. You'll see it if you go around the back of the lobby. The sign says La Flamme Russe."
Haoran nodded once. "Thank you."
The Cigar Lounge
The room was warm, softly lit, and filled with the scent of cedar and tobacco. Behind the counter stood an elderly man with a neatly trimmed beard, his silver hair tied loosely behind his neck. Every shelf gleamed with boxes — Cuban, Dominican, Nicaraguan — each arranged like treasures behind glass.
"Welcome, madam," the man greeted with a polite smile. "What can I get you tonight?"
Haoran's eyes scanned the rows of cigars before meeting his gaze. "There's one I came across once," he said slowly. "I remember its scent, but not its brand."
"Ah," the old man said, eyes glinting with interest. "You must have a sharp nose. Most of the cigars here are from the Dominican Republic. Dominican cigars are considered among the best — smooth, rich, with a clean finish. The one you're holding right now," he gestured, "is quite popular in the U.S. — famous for its gentle flavor."
Haoran examined the cigar between his fingers, the texture dry and light. "How much?"
"Seven dollars per cigar. Quite affordable, for its quality."
"Mm." Haoran frowned faintly, setting it down. "No, that's not it."
The man tilted his head. "In that case… could you tell me more about the one you're looking for?"
Haoran leaned slightly against the counter. "The man who smoked it was wearing four-thousand-dollar shoes."
That earned a low whistle from the shopkeeper. "Then he must've been very rich — and very particular. People like that don't smoke average cigars. They chase perfection. Perhaps…" He gestured toward a polished wooden box. "These have a dry yet complex scent — spicy, earthy, with hints of leather and dark chocolate. Would you say the aroma was something like that?"
Haoran thought for a moment, brows furrowed. "It was earthy, yes. But not soil, exactly… not leather either. And it had a sweetness — faint, distant. Not like honey."
"Did it smell like burning wood?"
"Yes."
"Spicy?"
"No."
"Hmm. What did it look like?"
Haoran's voice dropped lower, focused. "It had already been smoked down. Only the thick, blunt end was left. But the scent — it lingered. Deep, velvety, refined."
The old man's expression shifted — recognition sparking. "Ah… perhaps this."
He carefully opened a humidor, retrieving a box of darker cigars wrapped in fine gold foil. The air thickened instantly with an aroma so strong it was almost tactile. "These are heavier, with a sweet, velvety scent. The notes are balanced — smooth, not overwhelming. Would you like to try one?"
Haoran took one, brought it to his lips, and puffed slowly. Smoke curled upward like silk ribbons. He analyzed the texture, the burn, the aftertaste.
This burns slower than leaves... the ash holds its shape well. Not flaking. Good craftsmanship.
But after a few seconds, he exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "It's similar, but not quite. The scent I remember was richer. Heavier. And this doesn't have that earthy undertone."
The old man's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Wait here." He poured a glass of pale golden alcohol — Medovukha, honey-based, faintly sweet. Then he lightly dipped the cigar's tip into it.
"That damp texture you're remembering was likely achieved by dipping the cigar tip in aged whiskey," he explained. "Whiskey brings out the deeper notes — leather, oak, smoke. Try it now."
Haoran took another puff. The difference was immediate — rounder, deeper. Still, his brow creased. "Closer, but still not it. It's missing something. A layer."
"Hmm…" The man chuckled softly. "If the scent is even richer than this, then I can think of only one brand. A limited collection, released years ago. The tobacco was hand-selected and aged through double fermentation — stored under precise conditions. Warm, steady, humid. Every leaf was inspected by hand. Only two thousand boxes were made, and they sold out almost instantly in Europe."
He paused, letting the story breathe. "Each cigar cost over five hundred dollars. Worth it, for those who knew what they were tasting."
Haoran's gaze darkened slightly. Four-thousand-dollar shoes. Five-hundred-dollar cigars. Whoever he is… he's used to consuming luxury. And that kind of man doesn't just kill — he collects destruction like art.
"So," Haoran asked, "you have any here?"
The old man chuckled, almost wistful. "If I did, I'd probably just keep one to admire it. They're impossible to find now."
Haoran didn't reply. He reached into his coat pocket and placed a few bills on the counter.
"No need, madam," the man protested lightly. "You didn't even find what you were looking for."
Haoran picked two cigars from the shelf anyway. "Don't worry. I've already gotten my answer." He turned to leave, his tone calm, final. "Thank you."
As the door chimed softly behind him, the old man exhaled a slow puff from his own cigar, watching the mysterious "Miss Kim" disappear into the corridor.
Meanwhile, Haoran's expression hardened once more as he stepped into the cool hallway air.
He wears four-thousand-dollar shoes… smokes five-hundred-dollar cigars…
He slipped his hands into his coat pockets, the scent of tobacco still lingering in the fabric.
He's got the taste of a king and the conscience of a corpse.