Steam curled up into the air, gathering in a foggy haze around the bathroom mirror. The muffled hum of the city outside barely reached the quiet marble walls of Haoran's suite. The warm water streamed steadily over his shoulders, tracing the faint bruises blooming across his skin — silent proof of what had happened.
He tilted his head back under the shower, eyes half closed, letting the heat numb the tight ache in his muscles. Droplets slid down his face and along his jawline before disappearing down the drain. His breathing was even, measured — but his thoughts were anything but calm.
The police's explanation for the kidnapping was highly plausible, he thought bitterly. Some business rivals, upset about the contract, hired thugs. Typical. Predictable. It all fits neatly in the report.
A faint scoff left his lips. But that doesn't explain him.
His mind replayed the encounter in flashes — not images, but sensations.
The cold air of the warehouse.
The echo of footsteps behind him.
And that voice — low, calm, composed.
Crocodile leather shoes... he remembered. A burning cigar. A calm tone that didn't belong in a scene like that.
He pressed a hand to the tiled wall, water streaming down his forearm, over the bruise that ringed his wrist. That man wasn't like the others. There was something about him — something deliberate. The way he moved, the way he didn't hesitate, not for a second.
Haoran's jaw tightened. No hesitation, no mercy.
His body remembered what his mind wanted to forget — the weight of that hand pressing him down, the cold surface against his back, the raw helplessness that flooded through him.
Just his presence alone had suffocated him. It wasn't fear in the ordinary sense — not panic, but an animal instinct, primal and undeniable. Like prey recognizing the predator in the dark.
It felt like being thrown into the wild naked and defenseless, he thought. I couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe properly. My body just... knew. If I twitched wrong, if I even tried to resist, I'd be torn apart.
The water grew hotter, almost burning now, but he didn't move away. His reflection in the glass door was blurred by steam — a ghostly figure half hidden behind mist.
Haoran let out a long exhale. "Tch." The sound was sharp, cutting through the silence. This is ridiculous, he told himself. I've been through worse. Torture, ambushes, near-death missions… so why does this one man linger in my head like smoke that won't fade?
He reached up and peeled the synthetic mask from his face — the soft prosthetic skin that shaped "Kim Bora's" features. Underneath, the real Haoran emerged: his sharp jawline, his slightly slanted eyes, and the exhaustion clouding his expression. He placed the mask on the counter with deliberate care, watching it lie there like a stranger's face.
"...He gives me chills," he murmured to himself. His voice echoed faintly off the marble walls. "No one's ever pinned me down that easily before."
He looked down at his wrist, now purplish-blue from the earlier struggle. He touched it gently, tracing the bruise with a detached sort of fascination. His grip wasn't just strong — it was absolute. Controlled. Like he knew exactly how much force to use to make it hurt, but not break.
The thought sent an involuntary shiver crawling down his spine. He clenched his jaw, forcing his mind back into discipline. Enough.
He turned off the shower. The hiss of water faded, replaced by the ticking of the clock outside the bathroom — slow, steady, unnerving.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, Haoran stepped out into the dimly lit suite. The curtains were half open, revealing the glittering skyline of Moscow. City lights blinked in the distance like stars drowning in fog.
He poured himself a glass of water, watching the condensation bead on the side. The police think it was simple retaliation. Maybe it was. But then who was that man?
He ran a hand through his wet hair, leaning his weight on the counter. No records. No name. No trace. Just that cigar — that scent. And those shoes.
He let out a long sigh, the kind that carried both irritation and fatigue. "It's best to let go of bad memories as soon as possible," he said quietly, as if saying it aloud could make it true.
But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn't. He couldn't.
That stranger's shadow had already burned itself into the back of his mind.
The sharp knock at the door cut cleanly through Haoran's thoughts. He blinked, drawn back from the fog of memory.
"Oh right… I ordered room service," he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair as he walked toward the door.
The corridor light spilled faintly into the room when he opened it. A hotel staff member stood there, pushing a silver tray draped in white linen, the faint aroma of steak and coffee rising from the covered dishes.
"Thank you," Haoran said curtly, taking the tray and shutting the door quietly behind him. He wheeled it toward the sitting area, his movements precise, controlled — the reflexive discipline of someone who didn't waste motion, even when he was bone-tired.
He exhaled sharply, and looked over at his luggage. Good thing none of my stuff was destroyed, he thought, crouching to unzip his briefcase. Losing that would have been worse than getting shot.
He took out the sleek black laptop and flipped it open. The boot-up tone had barely finished when a call request flashed across the screen — Incoming call: Chief Bo.
Haoran rubbed his temple. "Perfect timing," he muttered.
The moment he answered, a familiar voice cut through the static.
"你迟到了 (You're late)," Chief Bo said flatly.
Haoran rolled his eyes, sinking into the chair. "为什么你不能为我挑选一个更安全的人来秘密行动?(Why can't you pick someone safer for undercover missions?)"
The Chief gave a short, dry laugh. "If you're going to meet high-profile people, you ought to be disguised as someone important enough to be kidnapped."
Haoran's lips twitched — not in amusement. "You sound like you knew this would happen, Chief Bo."
"废话 (Nonsense)," Bo replied, taking a sip of coffee from somewhere off-screen. "I simply believed you'd make it back alive no matter what dangers you faced… since you're such an excellent agent."
Haoran's brows furrowed. "What happened anyway? You said someone from Rosneft would come to escort me."
"Yes, I did," Chief Bo said, his voice slightly distorted through the weak connection.
"Are you sure the person who contacted was actually from Rosneft?" Haoran asked, his tone cool, almost too calm.
There was a pause — just long enough to confirm his suspicion.
"You weren't showing up no matter how long the guy waited," Bo said finally. "So he tried contacting Pyongyang — we just barely managed to block the call. You said your plane was delayed because of a disturbance, right? That must've been why you and the Rosneft employee missed each other. Apparently, another Asian who arrived before you claimed to be Kim Bora. They only found out he wasn't later on. Meanwhile, you got kidnapped by the fake one."
Haoran went still. His eyes narrowed slightly, reflecting the cold blue light of the laptop screen. Right. Everything started going wrong from the moment I got on that plane.
He remembered the disturbance — the drunk man, the commotion, the security shuffle. Too convenient. How did he know? Because they were all in on the scheme together. I should've known the setup was too neat.
A faint scowl crossed his face. And I let that bastard die too quickly. Should've squeezed something out of him before putting a bullet in his head.
His eyes dropped to his wrist — the bruise darkening to an ugly violet. His fingers flexed around the tender spot, tracing it absently. And now, there's him.
He looked back at the screen. "Right now, let's focus on the guy who almost broke my wrist," he said. "I encountered a ruthless killer today. On my terms though — do you have any hunch who he could be? I'd like to know who he was, and why he was there."
Chief Bo leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Did you see his face?"
Haoran paused. "…Uhh, nope."
"Then how the hell do you expect me to know who it is, Agent Haoran?" the chief snapped. "I can't say. It's impossible to confirm anything if you didn't even see his face. And you said they made four thousand of those cigars. That means, at most, four thousand people bought them. It'll take forever to track them all down. On top of that, those crocodile shoes weren't even limited edition."
Haoran leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. The soft hum of the minibar filled the silence. He's right, he admitted internally. Even if I narrow it down by location, purchase record, import trace... I'd still be chasing smoke.
He drummed his fingers on the armrest. But men like that leave traces — not fingerprints, but habits. Expensive shoes, rare cigars, and a taste for chaos. People who live like that aren't invisible for long.
The bruise on his wrist pulsed faintly with each heartbeat. He stared at it for a long moment. That kind of strength… that precision. Whoever he was, he's trained — military, maybe, or black-ops. But not amateur mercenary work. His control was too deliberate, his presence too calculated.
He glanced at his reflection on the darkened laptop screen — his own expression hard, eyes cold and analytical, the faintest shadow of exhaustion behind them.
"我会找到你… (I'll find you…)," he murmured under his breath, almost like a vow.
The Chief was still talking, his voice echoing through the laptop's speakers — steady, unhurried, that same maddening calm that always came before he dropped more unwanted news.
"Hey, Haoran… you listening?"
Haoran blinked, dragging himself out of his own thoughts. His focus had drifted somewhere between the bruises on his wrist and the now-cold food sitting untouched on the table.
"What?" he said flatly, rubbing his temple.
"I said," Chief Bo repeated, with exaggerated patience, "I know you prefer to work alone. But I can't help worrying about you — seeing you get into this much trouble right off the bat. And that's why…" He paused, just long enough for Haoran to dread what was coming next. "…I already found someone who's going to help you. He's very familiar with the geography, and he knows the way money and power flow in that country."
Haoran's expression didn't change, but his stare hardened slightly, that subtle shift that only those who knew him would recognize as annoyance. "You never mentioned this before, Chief Bo," he said, unimpressed, his tone clipped and cool.
Bo gave a little shrug, as if the details were irrelevant. "Well, I'm mentioning it now, kid. He's going to come to you first — in about two days. I'll send over his picture when the time comes, so make sure you get a good look at it."
Haoran leaned back in his chair, dragging a slow hand down his face. "Ughh," he exhaled, the sound closer to a groan than a word.
Bo ignored it completely. "Oh, and you're to meet the officials starting tomorrow. So study as much about the oil refinery's construction as you can."
Haoran's eyes widened slightly, mouth opening — "Wait, wha—"
But before he could finish, the line went dead.
"Byeeee," Chief Bo's voice echoed faintly in his memory, followed by the soft electronic beep of a disconnected call.
Haoran stared at the blank screen for a few seconds, the reflection of his own face dim in the dark glass. His fingers twitched slightly before he muttered under his breath, "That snake."
A second later — ding!
His phone vibrated on the table beside the untouched tray of food. He picked it up and saw the name flashing across the screen: Chief Bo. Again.
Except this time, it was just a message. An attachment.
He tapped it open. His eyes narrowed at the sight of a single file name: 'BRIEFING_MATERIALS_—_READ_AND_MEMORIZE.pdf'
He opened it.
His jaw slackened slightly.
"Six hundred pages…" he muttered aloud.
His thumb flicked through the endless scroll of technical data — refinery schematics, geopolitical analysis, trade route logistics, economic forecasts, coded diagrams, names of every minister attending the event. Page after page of dense text and images.
Who does he think I am… a machine? Haoran thought grimly, the corners of his mouth twitching in disbelief.
He exhaled, slowly, setting the phone down beside the laptop. The glow from the screens painted his face in a cold light, accentuating the faint bruises on his jaw and the quiet exhaustion in his eyes.
For a long moment, he just sat there — silent, motionless — before his gaze slid toward the untouched plate of food on the tray, and then to the bed, soft and perfectly made.
They're so close, he thought, eyes flicking between the two, but so far.
He slumped back in the chair, finally allowing the stiffness in his shoulders to ease. The tension that had kept him upright since the plane, since the kidnapping, since the briefing, finally began to slip away — just a fraction.
The corners of his lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but close. "Feels like I'm back in high school," he muttered, his tone dry and quiet.
He reached over and picked up the fork, absently spearing a piece of cold food as the glow of the laptop flickered across his face.
His mind, however, refused to rest. Two days until the new contact arrives. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to blend with government officials and international investors. And tonight, six hundred pages to memorize.
He sighed again, closing his eyes briefly. At least I'm still alive. For now.
The conference building's interior was polished marble and gold trim — ostentatious in that distinctly Russian way, where even the light felt expensive. Haoran, dressed neatly in Kim Bora's tailored suit skirt and cream blouse, looked like the picture of composure. Beneath that calm, however, every muscle in his body ached from exhaustion. The events of the past two nights — the kidnapping, the police interrogation, the bruised wrist — still throbbed faintly at the edge of his awareness, like ghosts that refused to leave.
"Miss Kim, are you feeling alright? I heard you got into some trouble the day you arrived here," one of the program coordinators asked, his tone overly polite — the kind that hinted at curiosity rather than concern.
Haoran forced a small smile, adjusting his glasses with deliberate grace. "I'm fine, really. Sorry for making you worry," he said softly, the faint trace of an accent adding authenticity to his disguise.
The man nodded, relieved. Another participant leaned in, his expression full of sympathy. "Please, I feel awful that you had to go through something like that in my country. My deepest apologies, Miss Kim."
Haoran bowed his head slightly, offering the kind of polite reassurance he'd perfected over years of undercover work. "No, you don't need to apologize. I should've been more careful myself." His tone was perfectly balanced — gentle, diplomatic, harmless.
Inside, though, his mind was moving like clockwork.
Almost 12:30…
He flicked his wrist to check the time.
The program was supposed to start at noon. Thirty minutes late, and still no appearance from Rosneft's CEO. Suspicious.
The air in the conference lounge had grown thick — a mixture of stale perfume, coffee, and nervous chatter. The diplomats around him were starting to look restless, their polite smiles faltering as the delay dragged on. Haoran had already spent twenty minutes nodding through small talk about trade policies and construction logistics — all topics he had flawlessly memorized from the 600-page file Chief Bo had dumped on him last night.
But now, he'd had enough.
"Excuse me for a moment," he said, rising gracefully and straightening the short suit skirt. The movement was smooth, elegant — but internally, he was gritting his teeth.
I can't listen to another word of this empty chatter. They're all too comfortable playing politics while I sit here pretending to be a fragile Korean investor.
As he walked out into the hallway, the hum of conversation faded behind him. The corridor was quieter — the click of his heels echoing softly against the marble. Then, a voice, low and furious, broke the silence.
"Where the hell is even the CEO? What do you mean you're bringing in a substitute? It's almost 1 p.m.!"
Haoran slowed, glancing subtly from the corner of his eye. The man on the phone looked agitated — tall, sharp-suited, clearly not just another junior staff member. His tone dripped with restrained anger.
Rosneft employee, Haoran thought immediately. Middle management, maybe logistics or PR. Knows more than he should.
He made a mental note of the man's face, then turned left, scanning the corridor. Two journalists at the far end. A janitor rolling a mop bucket. Good. No one close.
He slipped quickly into the men's restroom. It was risky, but he needed privacy — real privacy.
Inside, the space was cool and sterile, the sound of dripping water echoing faintly. Haoran exhaled, locking the door behind him. The act of lowering his mask — the literal one on his face and the metaphorical one of Kim Bora — was almost instinctual. He leaned over the sink, splashing cold water across his cheeks, watching droplets run down his pale reflection.
"I memorized every damn line of that file," he muttered under his breath. "Spent the whole night learning about pipeline construction and export percentages… and now the CEO doesn't even show up." He dried his hands roughly. "It's like all that effort's just gone straight down the drain."
He was reaching for a paper towel when the faint, deliberate click of footsteps echoed down the tiled hallway.
Slow. Heavy. Confident.
Haoran froze, his entire body tensing instinctively.
Those steps… deliberate. Not hesitant like most employees. Someone who knows they belong everywhere they go.
The door creaked open. A low, calm voice followed — smooth and dangerous, like silk brushing over a knife's edge.
"Нет, я пришёл, потому что мне было скучно, но оказалось, что это место ещё хуже, чем я себе представлял. Настолько скучно, что это убивает меня," the man said, chuckling softly. (No, I came because I was bored, but it turns out this place is even worse than I imagined. So boring that it's killing me)
Haoran's heart skipped a beat.
That voice…
The man's tone was the same one he'd heard two nights ago — that quiet, unhurried rhythm, every syllable dripping with authority.
"Если вы поручите мне уборку, то я думал, что того, что я сделал в прошлый раз, было достаточно." (If you entrust me with cleaning, then I thought that what I did last time was enough.)
Haoran's pulse spiked.
Then came the scent.
It hit him like a memory crashing through a locked door — that smell.
That distinctive, intoxicating mix of smoky wood, charred tobacco, and dark rum, with a faint trace of warmth underneath, like the embers of a dying fire.
Even without a cigar between his lips, the man carried the aroma like it belonged to him.
The scent… the same one from the alley. The same man who pinned me down like I was nothing. Calm. Merciless. Completely in control.
Haoran's breath caught in his throat. His palms grew damp; heat crawled up his neck. He didn't even realize he'd stopped breathing for a full three seconds.
It's him…
The air in the restroom felt suddenly smaller, denser. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him — wide-eyed, tense, the polished mask of Kim Bora threatening to crack.
What is he doing here? Why here, of all places?