Beom turned to him, his expression a mix of anger and revulsion. "You… you didn't have to do that. He was already down!"
Sasha raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "And risk him alerting the others? I don't take chances." He stepped closer, his gaze sharp. "Besides, don't act so righteous. You knew what you were signing up for the moment you stepped into this mess."
Beom clenched his fists, biting back his retort. I didn't sign up for this. There's a difference between fighting to survive and… whatever this is. But deep down, he knew Sasha was right. If they hesitated, they wouldn't last a minute against their enemies.
Still, he couldn't shake the image of the man's broken body from his mind. His hands felt clammy, his heart pounding as he tried to focus. I can't let this get to me. Not now. There's too much at stake.
The moment Sasha uttered those words—"Now, get ready"—Beom felt a chill run down his spine. His instincts screamed at him that whatever came next would be reckless, insane, and completely Sasha-like.
"Get ready for what?!" Beom snapped, his voice tinged with both frustration and apprehension. But before he could get an answer, Sasha grabbed him by the collar with a vice-like grip.
"To jump," Sasha said casually, as if they were about to leap into a pile of pillows and not the chaos outside.
"What—" Beom didn't even have time to finish his sentence before Sasha hauled him forward, and suddenly they were airborne.
The world seemed to tilt as the ground rushed up to meet them. Beom barely had time to process what was happening before he landed hard on the roof of a moving car. Pain exploded in his ankle as he twisted it on impact. He groaned, his fingers clutching at the metal surface for dear life as the vehicle sped beneath him.
"Goddammit!" he hissed, biting down the pain. His ankle throbbed mercilessly, and for a moment, he was sure Sasha had dislocated something. "What the hell is wrong with this guy?! Who jumps out of a building like that?!"
He craned his neck to see Sasha, who had somehow managed to land gracefully on the ground. Of course he's fine, Beom thought bitterly. He watched in disbelief as Sasha shattered the car window with his elbow and dragged the driver out with one swift motion, tossing him onto the pavement like a ragdoll.
Sasha slipped into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, the engine revving aggressively. Beom scrambled to catch up, ignoring the sharp pain in his ankle as he slid off the roof of the car and staggered toward the passenger seat.
"Shit, has he forgotten he has a partner?!" Beom cursed in his head, panting as he yanked open the door and climbed inside. His chest heaved from exertion, sweat trickling down his forehead. Sasha didn't even glance at him, his focus solely on the road ahead.
"Sasha, what the hell—"
Before Beom could finish, a series of gunshots rang out, sharp and deafening. Bullets tore into the car's frame, shattering the rear window. Beom instinctively ducked, his heart racing as shards of glass sprayed around them.
"Sasha!" Beom yelled, his voice trembling as he peeked over the dashboard. "Do you even realize we're being shot at?!"
Sasha didn't respond. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his expression calm and unbothered as he maneuvered the car with precision. The vehicle swerved and accelerated, weaving through the narrow streets with reckless abandon.
Beom, on the other hand, was a mess of nerves. He clutched the edge of the seat, ducking every time another round of bullets whizzed past them. His heart felt like it was about to leap out of his chest.
What the hell is wrong with him?! Does he think he's invincible?! Beom thought, glancing at Sasha, whose demeanor hadn't shifted in the slightest.
As the car sped toward the gates of the compound, Beom's stomach dropped. The heavy iron gates loomed ahead, locked and clearly impenetrable. But Sasha wasn't slowing down.
"No, no, no—Sasha, stop! Are you insane?!" Beom shouted, his voice rising in panic.
Sasha's only response was to tighten his grip on the wheel and press harder on the accelerator.
"SASHA!" Beom screamed, bracing himself for impact.
The car slammed through the gates with a deafening crash, metal bending and screeching as the vehicle burst through. Beom's head slammed against the back of the seat, his breath knocked out of him. His hands were trembling uncontrollably as he looked back to see the shattered remains of the gate fading in the distance.
Sasha drove on as if nothing had happened, his expression cold and unyielding.
Beom was trembling, panting, and gripping the door handle like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity. "Is he trying to get us killed?!" he thought, his mind reeling from the chaos of the last few minutes. His ankle still throbbed, his heart was racing, and his nerves were shot.
But somehow, they were out.
Beom exhaled shakily, leaning back against the seat and letting out a long, ragged sigh. "Luckily, we were able to get out," he muttered under his breath, though relief didn't fully settle in. His gaze flicked toward Sasha, who was still focused on the road, his expression unreadable.
Beom's thoughts churned as he tried to make sense of everything. How does he stay so calm? He didn't even flinch back there. Does this lunatic not care if we live or die? Or is this just normal for him?
Sasha glanced at him briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest smirk. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he said dryly.
Beom glared at him, still catching his breath. "You're insane, you know that?"
Sasha chuckled softly but said nothing, his smirk widening as he drove deeper into the night.
The dim motel room reeked of cheap air freshener and faint mildew, its yellowed wallpaper peeling at the corners. A clock on the bedside table glared 3:35 a.m. in red digits, the faint hum of its mechanism the only sound in the quiet room. Beom sat hunched over in one of the creaky wooden chairs, his shirt half-untucked and wrinkled, the exhaustion of the night weighing heavily on his shoulders.
"This is the last bottle," he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse from a mixture of frustration and weariness. His hand trembled slightly as he poured the remainder of a cheap liquor bottle into a bowl of ice cubes he'd hastily scavenged earlier. The cold condensation dripped onto his hand, but he barely noticed, his focus entirely on the task at hand.
He kicked off his shoe with a grunt, the scuffed leather tumbling to the floor with a hollow thud. Rolling up the leg of his pants, he carefully lowered his swollen ankle into the bowl.
"Ugh! Fucking hell, this freaking hurts," Beom hissed through clenched teeth, his head snapping back slightly as the icy sting shot up his leg. He gripped the edge of the chair tightly, his knuckles turning white as he tried to adjust to the pain. The swollen joint throbbed angrily, a stark reminder of the chaotic leap from earlier and the reckless man responsible for it.
Beom leaned back in the chair, his head tilting against the wall as he exhaled a shaky breath. His mind, however, refused to rest. That asshole... Was he trying to murder me back there? The thought replayed like a broken record, a mixture of anger and disbelief churning in his chest. Sasha's wild antics had nearly gotten him killed, again.
"Jeez," he muttered, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. "I don't know why the agency paired me with such a lunatic..." His voice trailed off, his thoughts picking up where his words left off. Of all the people they could've sent, why him? What kind of agent jumps out of a building without warning, drives like he's in a demolition derby, and still manages to look like it's just another Tuesday?
But then, a different thought crept into his mind, uninvited and unwelcome. Still... I can't deny that he's helped me. More than once. Beom frowned, glaring down at his swollen ankle as though it were Sasha's fault directly. It was, technically, but that wasn't the point.
How the hell did he know the layout of that mansion so well? Beom's brows furrowed as he replayed the events of the night. Sasha had navigated the labyrinthine halls and hidden passages with the ease of someone who'd lived there. Was it intuition? A lucky guess? No way. He moved like he already knew every turn, every blind spot, every guard's position...
And the ball... Beom's frown deepened. How did he even get an invite? That wasn't the kind of event someone could just stroll into. The guest list had been exclusive, elite—every person there either a key figure in the underworld or someone powerful enough to keep up appearances. Sasha didn't exactly scream "high society."
Beom leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly as he stared into the bowl of ice, his reflection distorted and fractured in the surface of the liquor. What does this guy know? He chewed on the inside of his cheek, his mind racing with suspicion. He's hiding something He has to be.
His thoughts spiraled further, piecing together every detail that didn't add up. Sasha's cryptic smirks, his casual demeanor in the face of danger, the way he'd brushed off bullets and carnage like it was just part of the job. Beom's jaw tightened. Is he even really with the agency? Or does he have his own agenda?
Sasha stood motionless under the cascade of water pouring from the showerhead, his head tilted forward as droplets streamed down his face and traced the sharp contours of his jawline. Steam enveloped the small bathroom, blurring the edges of his tall, muscular frame like an ethereal haze. The water clung to his skin, emphasizing every ridge of muscle, the faint scars scattered across his torso telling silent tales of battles fought and survived. His tattoo, a masterpiece of ink and symbolism, became even more pronounced as the water ran over it.
Two intricately detailed dragons sprawled across his chest, their powerful bodies curling around his shoulders. The dragons, fierce and serpentine, were coiled in a way that suggested both tension and balance, as though locked in eternal opposition yet perfectly harmonized. Their scales shimmered faintly under the light, giving the ink a life of its own. Between the beasts, etched over his heart, was a single bold letter: the Russian alphabet В, the initial of his surname, Vyshnevsky. The letter was sharp and commanding, a symbol of identity and pride that stood unwavering amid the chaos of the dragons. The dragons' tails extended beyond his shoulders, wrapping around his upper back, as though they guarded him from behind, their claws barely brushing the edge of his shoulder blades.
The heat from the shower painted his pale skin a soft flush, and for a moment, Sasha closed his eyes, letting the warmth seep into his bones. He exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling with a measured breath, though there was an unmistakable tension in his posture—a tautness that belied his outward calm. His hands hung loosely at his sides, but his fingers occasionally twitched, as if restless energy had no place to go.
Then, unexpectedly, a light chuckle broke the silence. It was low and almost bitter, a fleeting sound that carried a weight far heavier than its tone suggested. "What a mess," Sasha muttered under his breath, his voice rough from disuse, blending into the steady rhythm of the water. The words hung in the air like an admission, though to whom he spoke was unclear—perhaps to himself, perhaps to the ghosts of his past that seemed to linger just outside his reach.
His eyes opened again, sharp and calculating, like storm clouds brewing behind icy gray irises. He tilted his head back, letting the water cascade down his face, erasing the visible frustration that momentarily crossed it. The faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips was laced with irony, a reflection of the chaos he seemed to navigate so effortlessly yet carried within him.
Beom shifted uncomfortably, stifling a wince as he glanced toward Sasha, who had just emerged from the bathroom, now fully dressed. A faint glisten of water clung to the edges of Sasha's collar and sleeves, evidence of the shower he had just taken, yet he was buttoned up and composed, as if every inch of skin had to be carefully shielded. The sight struck Beom as slightly odd, almost… reserved. Beom couldn't help but narrow his eyes, wondering to himself, Fully clothed already? Is he… shy or something?