After what felt like an eternity of navigating through bustling lobbies and weaving past groups of elegantly dressed guests, Beom finally arrived at the entrance to Nebula Tower, his disguise slipping him easily into the crowd. To those around him, he was just another face, part of the "intel team"—a mere observer among the elites. The staff barely glanced his way, their attention fixed on more prominent guests, allowing him to pass by with a quiet sense of relief. His suitcase had already been whisked off by room service, and he was escorted to his room with seamless efficiency.
When the elevator doors opened, he found himself facing an opulent hallway lined with dark wood paneling and soft, ambient lighting that hinted at luxury. He followed a staff member down the plush carpet, each step silent on the thick fabric, until they reached his suite. As they opened the door for him, he was greeted by a space unlike anything he had imagined—spacious, yet filled with understated elegance. The scent of fresh linens mingled with a hint of lavender, the kind of subtle luxury only the finest hotels could afford.
The staff member placed his suitcase by the bed, nodded politely, and quietly exited, leaving Beom in the serenity of the luxurious suite. He took a moment to take it all in, running his hand over the surface of the smooth leather armchair by the window, glancing at the city skyline that spread out before him in all its glittering glory. But, as tempting as the view was, all he wanted in that moment was to collapse onto the plush, inviting bed in the center of the room.
He kicked off his shoes, let out a long, satisfied sigh, and flopped down, sinking into the comfort of the mattress, feeling as though it was molding to his every curve. "Aaaahhh... so comfy…" he murmured, allowing himself to revel in the rare luxury for just a second. Every fiber of the bed seemed to cradle him, inviting him to unwind, to forget the mission, just for a brief moment.
But the peacefulness didn't last long. As he settled further into the mattress, a sudden growl escaped from his stomach, the hollow reminder that he hadn't eaten since his flight. He placed a hand on his stomach, feeling the pang of hunger intensify, and he couldn't help but sigh in mild frustration. Knowing he'd need energy for the tasks ahead, he reached over to the room's phone and dialed for room service.
A polite voice answered, and he quickly requested a meal—a hearty one, something substantial enough to tide him over until who-knew-when. The hotel promised a prompt delivery, and sure enough, within minutes, there was a knock at the door. He opened it to find a silver cart adorned with a meal fit for royalty: a plate of seared steak, accompanied by roasted vegetables, a side of truffle mashed potatoes, and a small bowl of creamy soup.
As he closed the door and wheeled the cart to the center of the room, he took a moment to appreciate the feast before him. The aroma was mouthwatering, filling the air with rich, savory scents. He settled himself into the chair, eagerly grabbing a fork and taking his first bite. The flavors were exquisite, the steak perfectly tender, melting in his mouth with just the right hint of seasoning.
Bite after bite, he savored the meal, momentarily forgetting the complexities of his mission. Each taste was a luxury in itself, and for that brief span, the looming threat of Yaroslav, the secrets surrounding Elena, and the uncertainty of his partner faded away. Here, in the quiet luxury of his suite, he could almost pretend that this was just a peaceful morning, a rare moment of normalcy in an otherwise turbulent life.
Beom set down his silverware and leaned back into the plush chair, letting out a quiet sigh of satisfaction as he savored the last traces of flavor from the meal. The rich, seasoned steak and delicately roasted vegetables had been just the refreshment he needed; he felt reinvigorated, a sense of calm washing over him that he hadn't experienced since he'd arrived. His mind, now clear and sharp, was already calculating his next moves, piecing together the little information he had into a rough outline of his strategy.
With a quiet determination, Beom reached for the sleek black file lying on the table beside him. He flipped it open, reviewing his briefing on Elena—a former agent with too many skeletons in her closet. There were only a few details, cryptic notes and sparse photographs, but each line hinted at a dangerous figure tangled deeply in the underworld. "This woman… she's no stranger to risky alliances," he thought, narrowing his eyes at her profile picture. "If she's involved with Yaroslav, I'll have to tread carefully."
He closed the file with a soft click and stood, pulling on his tailored jacket and adjusting the lapel just so. His reflection in the mirror showed someone impeccably disguised, down to the convincing wig and subtle, well-crafted silicone mask. "They'd never guess," he thought with a trace of satisfaction, tugging on his cuffs. "But I still have to stay vigilant. One wrong move, and this could go sideways fast."
With a final glance around the room to ensure he hadn't left anything out of place, he slipped the file into his jacket and headed toward the door. As it closed behind him, he immediately adopted a new persona—his steps measured and purposeful, his expression calm yet detached. Walking through the lavishly adorned hallway, he took in the grandeur of the Nebula Tower's decor. Polished marble floors, subtle chandeliers casting a warm glow, and walls adorned with contemporary art—all part of the upscale ambiance. But Beom's attention was elsewhere, his gaze sharp and searching as he walked down the long, winding corridor.
"This place is too perfect, almost sterile," he thought. "An illusion of security." Each turn brought him closer to Elena's office, and with each step, his senses heightened. The staff passed by with polite nods, not sparing him more than a glance—a fact he appreciated, as it kept him inconspicuous. He approached an intersection in the hallway and glanced at the small, gold-etched sign posted discreetly on the wall, which directed him toward the offices.
As he continued, he mentally rehearsed his approach. "Elena won't be easy to read. I need to keep her talking without revealing too much. She's sharp, and the last thing I want is to give her any advantage." His thoughts churned as he considered the possibilities: her involvement with Yaroslav, her loyalties, and the real reason she might be willing to meet with him in the first place.
Rounding another corner, he saw a sleek black door at the end of the corridor—no visible sign, just an aura of exclusivity. "That has to be her office," he concluded, steeling himself. Adjusting his expression, he took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and grounding himself.
"Let's see what she has to say," he thought, his fingers grazing the cold metal of the file in his jacket.
Beom's hand hovered just a moment before he rapped on the sleek, dark door. The knock was firm yet measured—a sound that spoke of confidence without arrogance. After a brief pause, he pushed the door open and stepped into Elena's office, his posture and expression already transformed. In this moment, he was no longer Beom-ki; he was Mr. Petrov, a seasoned intelligence officer here on official business. His body language, the slight tilt of his head, even the calm flicker of his eyes—all carefully rehearsed to embody the aura of a man not easily rattled.
The room was dimly lit, with sunlight filtering in through narrow blinds, casting long, shadowy lines across the floor. The walls were lined with heavy bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, old-world charm mixed with traces of modern elegance. A sleek glass desk stood at the center, meticulously organized, with nothing out of place. Behind the desk sat Elena herself, watching him with a steady, calculating gaze that held an unsettling sense of curiosity. Her striking features—sharp cheekbones, piercing grey eyes, and an air of effortless authority—made it clear that this was a woman who commanded respect.
Beom's gaze swept over her, assessing without lingering. "She's as intense as they say," he thought, noting the subtle hints of power in her demeanor. But outwardly, he maintained a neutral expression, approaching her with calm professionalism.
"Elena," he said, nodding in greeting. His voice carried a smooth, steady confidence, every syllable carefully modulated to leave no hint of his true thoughts.
"Mr. Petrov," she replied, her voice rich and slightly accented, as her eyes moved to inspect him. There was a slight smirk at the corner of her lips, suggesting she wasn't easily impressed, yet something about him piqued her interest.
He allowed a small smile, acknowledging her scrutiny without reacting to it. "Let her try," he thought. "She'll get nothing from me that I don't intend to show."
Elena gestured to the chair across from her, a silent invitation. "Please, sit." She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands elegantly on her desk as she continued to study him with that unsettling intensity.
Beom took his seat with a measured movement, setting his briefcase by his side and folding his hands in his lap, his gaze steady. "I appreciate you making time for this meeting," he began in fluent Russian, each word precise and formal.
Elena's brow arched ever so slightly, an almost imperceptible reaction to his command of her language. "Time is a luxury I reserve only for those who can make it worthwhile, Mr. Petrov," she replied, her voice cool, but her eyes watching for any hint of reaction.
Beom smiled faintly, acknowledging her subtle challenge. "She's testing me. Good. I'll let her."
"Well," he replied smoothly, "I assure you, I intend to make every moment count." He leaned forward slightly, letting his gaze meet hers without wavering. "I hear you've worked with some of the most… influential people in recent years."
She inclined her head. "That's true. But it seems you know more about me than I do about you, Mr. Petrov."
Beom allowed a soft chuckle, masking his inner wariness. "I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest, Elena. But we're both here for the same reason. Yaroslav has been… a nuisance to both our circles."
She tilted her head, her gaze narrowing. "And you think I have insight into his plans?"
He met her gaze without flinching, letting a faint hint of a smile play at his lips. "Careful," he reminded himself, "don't let her bait you."
"Not just insight," he replied, his tone hinting at more. "I believe you may have connections that could prove valuable… if you're willing to share."
For a brief moment, she was silent, her eyes tracing his face as if searching for a flaw in his disguise. "She's good," he thought. "But I'm better."
Finally, she leaned back, exhaling a soft breath as if conceding. "I've worked with Yaroslav. But trust is a two-way street, Mr. Petrov. If you expect me to share, you'll need to prove your intentions."
Beom's gaze didn't waver, his mind already analyzing every word. "So she's open, but cautious. I'll have to tread lightly."
With a slight nod, he responded, "I believe we can help each other, Elena. But as you said, trust is earned. Let's start there."
For the next few moments, silence filled the room as their gazes remained locked, each assessing the other with quiet intensity. The game had only just begun.
Beom adjusted himself in the chair, trying to settle into his role, but Elena's presence was like a weight pressing down on the room. She leaned back with her arms loosely crossed, a faint smirk playing at the corners of her lips as her keen eyes studied him, calculating every detail. The silence stretched, but she let it hang, her gaze unwavering and sharp. Then, finally, she broke it.
"So, Mr. Petrov," she began, her tone deceptively light, "how exactly did you become involved in this... delicate affair?" She spoke the last words with a hint of amusement, as though testing him.
Beom kept his expression neutral, though his mind raced. "She's fishing for weaknesses, for slips," he realized. "As an intelligence officer, I come across sensitive information," he replied smoothly. "In this line of work, some names simply... resurface."
She tilted her head, clearly unimpressed with the vague answer. "Hmm," she murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "And of all those names, Yaroslav's was the one you found most intriguing?" Her question was pointed, each word carrying a hint of challenge.
Beom felt a prickle of suspicion rising. "She's onto something," he thought. "This isn't just curiosity." "Yaroslav's activities cross certain boundaries," he said, his voice calm. "Boundaries I'm tasked with monitoring."
"Ah, so it's simply business, is it?" she asked, her eyebrow lifting as though in mock surprise. "Tell me, Mr. Petrov, does your agency often get involved with the Russian mafia? Or is it just this one 'nuisance' that has caught your particular attention?"
Beom gave a polite smile, carefully concealing any hint of irritation. "I'm sure you're aware, Elena," he replied, "that the Russian mafia has many hands, and Yaroslav's... reach is extensive. Our agency prefers to keep tabs on potential threats."
Elena leaned forward, a glint of something predatory in her eyes as she locked onto his gaze. "Is that what you think Yaroslav is, then? A 'potential threat'?" she asked, as though daring him to give the wrong answer. Her tone was casual, yet her eyes suggested she already knew far more than she was letting on.
"She's testing my knowledge of him, almost as if she knows what I know—or more." Beom felt the stirrings of unease, but kept his tone steady. "I'd consider anyone with his resources and... influence to be of interest, wouldn't you agree?"
"Oh, I don't need convincing," she replied smoothly. "But I wonder, Mr. Petrov, do you even realize what you're dealing with?" She tilted her head slightly, her gaze assessing. "I have to wonder—has Yaroslav crossed your path before?"
Beom hesitated briefly, only the slightest pause. "So she knows something," he realized, his mind working quickly. "Once or twice," he answered, keeping his tone neutral. "Enough to recognize that he's not a man to take lightly."
Elena's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Indeed. And I wonder, Mr. Petrov... how familiar are you with his methods? Because he has a reputation for leaving... messages," she added, her voice dropping to a murmur, a flicker of amusement passing through her eyes. "Strange, isn't it, how he sometimes leaves clues behind?"
Beom's heart beat faster. She was hinting at the tobacco he'd found, and it was no accident. "She knows," he thought. "She's probing to see if I'll bring it up myself."
"Yaroslav's methods are... unpredictable," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "I've heard rumors of his tactics, yes."
"Rumors," Elena echoed with a soft chuckle. "Yes, they do tend to get around. But you seem well-informed, Mr. Petrov." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, silky murmur. "Tell me, do you know what he does to those who cross him? Or are you one of the fortunate ones yet to find out?"
Beom kept his expression steady, though his thoughts raced. "She's laying it on thick—trying to see if I'll reveal what I know." He let a hint of a smirk play on his lips, responding with calm confidence. "Let's just say I've done my homework, Elena. I wouldn't be here otherwise."
Her eyes sparkled with a cold amusement. "Homework, hmm?" She leaned back, folding her arms and watching him with that cunning, all-seeing gaze. "Well, Mr. Petrov, if you're truly prepared, then you'll understand why Yaroslav isn't the type to leave clues by mistake. If he's left you something, it's not a warning—it's an invitation."
She let her words linger, the weight of them hanging between them. Beom felt a shiver run through him, understanding the unspoken threat. "An invitation. She's confirming it."
He forced himself to remain calm. "Noted," he replied, inclining his head. "But if Yaroslav's expecting me to play his game, he might be in for a surprise."
Elena's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with approval, but there was still a hint of mockery in her gaze. "Careful, Mr. Petrov," she murmured, almost as though amused by his confidence. "Yaroslav is not the sort to lose... and he never forgets his enemies."
"I think I'll end our meeting here, Mr. Petrov," she said with a cool, composed tone. "As you can see, I was pretty busy when you came in." She was direct, not allowing room for further conversation.
Mr. Petrov accepted her handshake, his own demeanor respectful, though a shadow of suspicion crossed his face for the briefest moment. "It's been a pleasure, Elena. Thank you for your time," he replied. With a nod of parting, he made his way out of the room, the soft thud of the closing door leaving Elena alone in silence.
As Beom exited Elena's office and walked down the grand hallway of the Nebula Tower, his mind raced. The dim lighting from sleek, modern fixtures cast soft shadows along the polished marble walls, and his footsteps echoed as he moved, his pace steady but deliberate. He could still feel the slight chill from her handshake lingering in his palm, as if her touch had somehow embedded itself, leaving an imprint of her cold, calculated nature. Her words replayed in his mind, each sentence dissected and analyzed in a mental loop that only heightened his suspicions.
"So this is the infamous Elena..." he mused internally, keeping his gaze forward but his mind deeply focused. "She played her part well. Too well. But if she thinks I didn't catch her loyalty to Yaroslav, she's sorely mistaken."