Beom tightened his grip on the trash can, his thoughts a mix of determination and doubt. Okay, Beom. Time to act. You've knocked out people before, you can do it again. Just keep it clean and quiet. No one can know I was here.
He stepped into the guard's line of sight, adopting the same casual, subservient demeanor as before. "Hey, ahjussi," Beom called out, giving the man a friendly wave. The guard turned to look at him, clearly irritated. "Boss sent me out to clean the area, said the VIPs might step out for some fresh air later. Just need to grab a quick look around."
The guard raised an eyebrow, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. "This area's off-limits for staff," he said curtly, his tone sharp.
Beom feigned a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his head. "Ah, I know, I know. It's just, you know how the boss is, right? Always yelling about how nothing's clean enough. If I don't check, it'll be my head." He motioned toward the trash can again, as if it were some sacred tool of his trade.
The guard didn't budge, his eyes narrowing. "Just make it quick," he finally said, gesturing with his cigarette hand. Beom gave a quick bow, stepping closer. Closer, just a little closer, he thought, his heart pounding in his chest.
As soon as he was within arm's reach, Beom moved. His hands shot forward, grabbing the guard's wrist and twisting it sharply to disarm him. Before the man could react, Beom delivered a swift chop to the side of his neck, knocking him out cold. The cigarette fell from the guard's lips as he crumpled to the ground.
Beom exhaled shakily, quickly dragging the unconscious man into a shadowed corner. "Sorry about that," he muttered under his breath, straightening his waiter's uniform. One problem down. Now onto the next.
With the guard out of the way, Beom stepped outside, the cool night air hitting his face. He glanced up at the building, his eyes tracing the windows above. Alright, time to climb. No one's going to suspect a waiter scaling a wall, right? He smirked faintly at the thought, his confidence returning as he prepared for the next step in his plan.
Beom's feet hit the ground with a soft thud, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as he straightened himself. He'd barely recovered when he heard the low murmur of voices coming from somewhere down the hallway. Great. Just what I needed, he thought, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. Without wasting a second, he ducked behind the door, pressing himself against the wall as he strained to listen.
"I just heard a sound. Do you know where it came from?" one guard's voice floated down the corridor, casual but laced with suspicion.
Beom's heart thumped heavily, but he kept his breathing steady, calculating his next move. As the footsteps drew closer, he waited until the guard was in his line of sight before slipping out and delivering a quick, decisive blow to the back of the man's neck. The guard crumpled instantly, a dull thud echoing in the empty hallway. But Beom's reprieve was short-lived. Another guard, just a few paces behind, noticed his partner's fall and was already reaching for his radio.
No time for hesitation, Beom thought, pulling out his gun in one swift motion. A single, silent shot, and the second guard fell to the floor, his eyes wide with shock before they dulled. Beom's fingers were steady, his mind clear. He couldn't afford to second-guess himself; every action had to be precise.
Stepping over the guards, he quickly slipped into the room and bolted the door, grabbing a few nearby chairs and stacking them up against it for good measure. The pounding on the other side started almost immediately, muffled voices shouting for him to open up. Beom ignored it, knowing he had only minutes—maybe less—to find what he was looking for.
Think, Beom. Think. He scanned the room, eyes darting from one detail to another. Ornate furniture, expensive-looking decorations, shelves lined with leather-bound books, and a thick layer of opulence hinted that this was more than just any room. But what kind of room is this? he wondered, stepping further inside and running a hand over the polished surface of a desk.
His gaze fell on the walls, lined with various framed photos. Beom approached, his curiosity piqued. One photo in particular caught his attention, not because it looked old and weathered but because it seemed relatively recent, glossy and fresh. He picked it up, inspecting it closely. To his surprise, Yaroslav wasn't in the image, though familiar faces like Maksim and Vanya were present. Surrounding them were several other men Beom didn't immediately recognize—sharp-dressed, imposing figures who practically radiated power.
These must be the heads of the mafia families, Beom thought, a chill running down his spine. But something was off. Half of the picture was missing, torn away cleanly as if someone had deliberately removed part of it. Beom's eyes narrowed, his gaze locking onto the empty space where two hands rested, crossed casually as if their owner was confident enough to stand among such men without fear. Who is that? he wondered, feeling an odd thrill mixed with unease.
The voices outside grew louder, and the pounding on the door intensified. But Beom's mind was somewhere else entirely. The figure missing from the photo seemed significant, even ominous. Why would someone rip that person out? Were they too dangerous to be revealed even in a simple photograph? Beom's fingers traced over the faint outline left behind by the torn edge. Whoever it was, they hadn't just been erased—they'd been deliberately hidden.
He tucked the photo into his shirt, his thoughts swirling. Whoever this mystery person is, they're someone important, he thought, feeling a shiver run down his spine. They weren't just some peripheral figure; they held a power that even Maksim and Vanya seemed to acknowledge. Beom's mind raced with possibilities, each one darker than the last. Could they be the one pulling the strings behind Mikhail? The real puppeteer in all of this?
The deafening sound of gunfire erupted, shaking the very air around Beom. He instinctively ducked, narrowly avoiding a bullet that whizzed past his face, close enough to make the skin on his cheek sting from its heat. Damn it! They're not messing around, Beom thought, his pulse hammering like a drumbeat in his ears. He crouched low, his mind scrambling for a solution. His gun was useless now—empty and little more than a dead weight in his hand.
The pounding on the door had stopped, replaced by a much more terrifying sound: the heavy thuds of boots and the splintering of wood as bullets tore through the door. Pieces of shattered wood flew around like shrapnel, and Beom knew he had seconds to figure something out before they burst through entirely.
He pressed himself against the wall, his breaths shallow and rapid. In his panic, his hand brushed against a small, almost invisible button set into the wall's ornate paneling. Before he realized what had happened, part of the wall shifted with a soft mechanical whirr, revealing a hidden doorway.
What the hell? Beom thought, his mind too frantic to process the unexpected escape route. A secret passage? In this room? He didn't have time to question it. Grateful for the stroke of luck, he ducked inside without hesitation, pressing his back against the cool stone walls as the door closed behind him. The muffled shouts and gunfire outside faded slightly, replaced by the eerie quiet of the passageway.
But just as he began to steady his breathing, a familiar scent hit him—a subtle, intoxicating mix of musk and something floral. His body tensed. That smell… I know it. Where—
Before he could finish the thought, a hand shot out from the shadows, gripping his arm with surprising strength. Another hand clamped over his mouth before he could make a sound.
"Mmf!" Beom's muffled grunt echoed faintly in the narrow passage, his instincts screaming at him to fight.
"Shhh," a familiar voice whispered in his ear, low and calm, but with an edge of urgency. "Be quiet."
Beom's eyes widened in recognition. Sasha?! When the hell did he get here?
The dim light of the passageway illuminated Sasha's sharp features, his smirk softer than usual but still infuriatingly confident. He pressed a finger to his lips, motioning for Beom to stay silent. Beom could only stare, his thoughts spiraling. How did he find me? Was he following me this whole time? Or did he just happen to stumble in here?
Sasha released his hold, stepping back slightly to give Beom room to breathe. Beom glared at him, whispering harshly, "What are you doing here?"
Sasha tilted his head, that maddening smirk playing at his lips. "Saving your ass, obviously. You're welcome."
Beom's jaw clenched. Of course he'd show up like this, acting like some smug knight in shining armor. But deep down, he couldn't deny the relief washing over him. For all his unpredictability, Sasha had a way of showing up when it mattered.
Sasha leaned against the wall, his tone casual despite the chaos outside. "You have a knack for getting yourself into trouble, you know that? What were you planning to do in here? Face off against an entire squad with an empty gun?"
Beom glared, his frustration bubbling over. "I didn't exactly have a choice, okay? They started shooting, and—wait, how did you even get in here?"
Sasha shrugged, his expression infuriatingly unreadable. "Let's just say I have my ways." He glanced toward the door they had come through, his expression briefly darkening. "But we don't have much time. They'll figure out this passage eventually."
Beom's mind raced, still trying to piece everything together. I don't trust this guy. He's always one step ahead, always knows more than he lets on. But right now… I don't have another option.
"Fine," he muttered, forcing the words out. "But don't think I owe you for this."
Sasha chuckled softly, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."
Despite his irritation, Beom felt a strange sense of security with Sasha there. Unpredictable as he is, he's not the type to abandon someone in the middle of a fight. At least, I don't think he is…
Taking a deep breath, Beom nodded toward the dark tunnel ahead. "Let's get moving. If they find this place, we're both screwed."
Sasha's smirk widened. "Now you're talking."
The passageway seemed endless, the air growing colder and heavier as Beom followed Sasha's lead. The faint glow from Sasha's small flashlight illuminated the path ahead, casting eerie shadows along the damp walls. The tension between them was almost tangible—Beom's distrust of Sasha lingering, even as he grudgingly admitted the man's efficiency in navigating this maze-like tunnel.
Finally, they reached a narrow staircase spiraling upward. Beom glanced at Sasha, whose usual smug expression had been replaced with sharp focus. His movements were calculated, precise. How does he know exactly where to go? Beom wondered, biting back his questions. This wasn't the time for answers. Survival came first.
Sasha crouched low at the top of the staircase, pressing his ear against what appeared to be a concealed trapdoor. He carefully lifted the panel, just enough to peek through. The dim light of the room above outlined the shadow of a pair of boots pacing near the trapdoor. Sasha quickly lowered it and turned to Beom, placing a finger to his lips in a clear signal: Be silent.
Beom nodded, his heart hammering in his chest. This is it. If we're caught now, we're dead.
Without warning, Sasha shoved the door open in a single swift motion, startling the man above.
"What the heck?!" the man shouted, raising his weapon with trembling hands. "Don't come near me!" His voice wavered, betraying his fear.
But Sasha didn't hesitate. Like a coiled snake striking its prey, he lunged forward and grabbed the man's face with one hand, his grip vice-like. The man's screams were muffled as Sasha's other hand wrenched his jaw open with an almost inhuman strength.
Beom froze, horrified, as Sasha began applying pressure to the man's face. The sound was sickening—a grotesque crunch of cartilage and bone as Sasha methodically popped out the man's jaw with a grim efficiency. The man's cries turned to incoherent gurgles, blood pooling down his neck.
Beom's stomach churned. What the hell am I witnessing? He'd seen violence before, but this… this was something else. Sasha's expression was unnervingly calm, almost detached, as if this act of brutality was nothing more than routine.
The man was still alive, his eyes wide with terror and agony, when Sasha finished with him. Without a word, Sasha grabbed the man by his collar and dragged him toward the nearby window.
"Wait—what are you doing?!" Beom hissed in a frantic whisper, but Sasha ignored him. With a sharp kick to the man's back, Sasha sent him hurtling out the window.
The man's body twisted mid-air before hitting the pavement below with a sickening crunch. Beom winced, the grotesque sound echoing in his ears. He moved cautiously toward the window, peering down to see the aftermath.
A car had run over the man's already broken body, his skull crushed to the point where his brains spilled out like a grotesque mosaic on the asphalt. Beom recoiled, his hand instinctively covering his mouth.
"Jesus Christ…" he muttered under his breath, bile rising in his throat. The scene was stomach-turning—the mangled remains of what had once been a human being now reduced to little more than unrecognizable gore.
Sasha leaned casually against the wall, wiping his bloodstained hands on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. "Messy, but effective," he said with a shrug, his voice cool and composed.