As the plane continued to cruise through the sky, Beom-ki glanced at the small screen in front of him, which displayed the flight's progress. Over nine hours left. He could use the time to rest, but sleep wouldn't come easy with the storm of thoughts swirling in his head.
Instead, he leaned back again, adjusting his seat slightly, and looked around the cabin. Most of the passengers were settling in for the long flight, a few already drifting off to sleep with blankets wrapped around them. A quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of drink glasses filled the air as the flight attendants moved down the aisle, offering refreshments.
Beom-ki turned back to the window. The sky outside was dark, but peaceful, a contrast to the turbulence of his thoughts. The mission ahead was clear, but the dangers were many. Yet, in this moment, in the cocooned quiet of the plane, with the steady beat of music in his ears, he allowed himself a small, temporary escape.
He closed his eyes again, letting the steady rhythm of the phonk track carry him through the night, as the plane soared higher, leaving the familiar world behind and hurtling toward the unknown.
Beom-ki was jolted awake as the plane shook violently, the sound of the landing gear touching down with a jarring thud. For a moment, he thought something was wrong, but the soft announcement from the flight attendants assured him that they had landed safely in Moscow. He blinked groggily, the sudden transition from sleep to wakefulness disorienting him. The cabin lights were brighter now, and around him, passengers were already gathering their things, preparing to disembark.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Beom-ki glanced out of the small window to see the sprawling lights of the Moscow airport. The evening sky was dark, tinged with the glow of city lights reflecting off low-hanging clouds. It was a completely different world compared to where he had been just hours before. The cold, sharp reality of his mission started to creep back into his mind, replacing the haze of sleep.
He sighed as he stood up, feeling the stiffness in his legs and back from the long flight. "Ugh... my ass hurts from all the sitting," he muttered, stretching his arms above his head before reaching into the overhead compartment to retrieve his suitcase. His muscles groaned in protest, reminding him of just how many hours he'd been cramped into the narrow airplane seat.
Stepping off the plane, the cold Moscow air hit him as soon as he exited the terminal. Even though the airport was indoors, there was a distinct chill in the air, as if the city's cold had seeped into every corner of the building. Beom-ki rolled his neck, letting out another sigh as he stretched his stiff limbs, his body still adjusting to the change in temperature. His breath fogged in front of him as he made his way through the terminal, joining the crowd of passengers moving toward baggage claim.
As he walked, he suddenly noticed two men standing near the exit, waving at him with exaggerated motions. Beom-ki's eyes narrowed as he observed them. They were big, broad-shouldered men, both wearing long, heavy coats and thick scarves wrapped around their necks. Their faces were pale, and there was something intimidating about their presence. The taller one had a thick, dark beard, while the other was clean-shaven, but both had that unmistakable air of Russian authority.
Beom-ki immediately remembered Nakwon's words. "Some people will be waiting for you when you arrive." These must be the men.
He squared his shoulders and approached them, dragging his suitcase behind him with a steady pace. As he got closer, the taller man greeted him with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, welcome, welcome," the man said in a thick Russian accent, his voice deep and gruff. The words felt forced, as if he wasn't used to offering pleasantries.
Beom-ki merely nodded in acknowledgment, keeping his expression neutral. He didn't trust these men, but for now, they were his contacts, and he had to play along. The clean-shaven man stepped forward, gesturing toward the exit. "Follow us, agent," he said, his accent just as heavy. Without a word, Beom-ki followed them out of the terminal.
As they exited the airport, the freezing Moscow evening hit Beom-ki like a wall. The air was biting, the kind that seemed to cut straight through his coat and into his bones. He zipped his jacket up higher, trying to fend off the chill as he followed the two men toward a black car parked near the curb. The streets around the airport were busy, cars honking and people moving in and out of the terminal with hurried footsteps. But there was a strange stillness to the city that Beom-ki couldn't quite put his finger on.
The taller man opened the back door of the car for Beom-ki, and he slid inside, pulling his suitcase in with him. The car's interior was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold outside, and Beom-ki immediately relaxed a little as the warmth seeped into his body. The clean-shaven man got into the passenger seat while the taller one took the wheel.
As soon as they started driving, the man in the passenger seat turned around, offering Beom-ki a thin smile. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, agent," he said, his accent making the words sound almost sinister.
Beom-ki didn't respond, simply giving a curt nod. His eyes flickered to the driver, who was now looking at him through the rearview mirror. The man's eyes were cold and calculating, and the smile that stretched across his lips was more of a leer, something unsettling in the way it lingered.
"Russia is... how you say... very different from Korea, no?" the driver said, his voice thick with amusement as he glanced back at Beom-ki again through the mirror. "Cold. Dark. Dangerous."
Beom-ki felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. There was something off about this man. His tone was too casual, too confident, like he knew something Beom-ki didn't. Beom-ki stayed silent, not giving the man the satisfaction of a reaction.
The driver continued, his voice slow and deliberate. "Moscow is not a place for the faint of heart. You have to be careful here, agent. Very careful." His eyes flicked back to Beom-ki again in the mirror, that same unsettling smile still tugging at his lips.
The man in the passenger seat chuckled softly, the sound low and humorless. "Yes, our city... it eats the weak alive. But you... you are not weak, yes?" He looked back at Beom-ki, his eyes gleaming with something unspoken.
Beom-ki met the man's gaze, his expression unreadable. "I'm here to do a job," he said simply, his tone cold. "That's all."
The driver let out a short, sharp laugh, but said nothing more as they continued to drive through the dark Moscow streets. Beom-ki stared out the window, watching as the city passed by. The buildings were tall and imposing, their dark silhouettes casting long shadows over the streets. There was a certain heaviness to the air, an oppressive weight that seemed to settle over everything.
As Beom-ki sat in the back seat, he noticed the car's direction shift. The bustling streets of Moscow began to fade behind them, replaced by narrower, darker roads. The buildings on either side grew more decrepit, the streetlights fewer and farther between. A chill ran down his spine as the car veered into a narrow, shadowy alleyway, the kind of place where danger lurked in every corner. His instincts, honed through years of experience, screamed at him that something was wrong. Very wrong.
He subtly reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of the small knife he always carried with him. His heart began to race, but his face remained impassive. He had to act fast, but he needed more information. "Uh... is this where I'm supposed to stay for the night?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.
The response was silence at first, thick and unsettling. The only sound was the soft hum of the car engine, and then, all of a sudden, a sinister laugh echoed from the front seat. The laugh sent a cold shiver down Beom-ki's spine. It wasn't the kind of laugh you heard after a joke, but something darker—something that dripped with malice.
The driver's eyes met his through the rearview mirror, filled with something twisted and cruel. "Oh, agent... you aren't supposed to be here, you know that, right?" the man said, his thick Russian accent making the words sound more menacing. He exchanged a glance with the man in the passenger seat, who reached into his jacket and slowly pulled out a sleek, black silenced pistol.
Beom-ki's eyes widened. "No one can defeat Yaroslav," the passenger muttered coldly as he loaded the pistol. The name Yaroslav sent a jolt of recognition through Beom-ki. That name was whispered in the darkest circles—a name tied to assassinations, black-market dealings, and a notorious criminal syndicate in Moscow. If Yaroslav had sent these men, then they were never planning on letting him live through the night.
The air grew thick with tension. Beom-ki's muscles coiled like a spring, ready to explode into action. The man in the passenger seat raised the pistol, aiming it directly at Beom-ki's chest. There was no time to think, only to act. With one swift, practiced motion, Beom-ki lunged forward, pulling the knife from his pocket. In one fluid move, he sliced it across the driver's throat. The blade glinted in the dim light, cutting through flesh as if it were paper.
The driver's eyes went wide in shock, his hands instinctively flying to his neck as blood gushed from the wound. He let out a gurgled cry, his grip on the steering wheel weakening. Blood sprayed onto the dashboard, splattering the windshield as the car swerved violently.