"Ah, you're back," Beom started, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. His gaze swept over Sasha, assessing the man who, despite their recent chaos, sat down with the same air of unruffled calm, as if he hadn't just leaped from a moving car or evaded gunfire only hours ago. The quiet in the room contrasted with the frenzy of their recent escape, and Beom felt a dozen questions tugging at his thoughts. "I've been meaning to ask you a few things," he continued, his voice casual yet laced with the tension of unasked questions.
Sasha leaned back in the chair opposite Beom, arms crossing over his chest, his mouth curving up in a faint smirk. "What now? Is this some interrogation or something?" he quipped, an amused gleam in his eye that only made Beom's curiosity grow stronger.
Beom simply shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant despite the quiet frustration simmering underneath. "Maybe," he replied coolly, though his eyes flickered with suspicion. "There are things I need to understand here." He wasn't even sure Sasha would give him anything remotely truthful, but he felt compelled to try.
Sasha raised an eyebrow, then slowly sat down across from Beom, his gaze steady, unblinking. The smirk still lingered, but it softened slightly as he gestured with a casual flick of his hand. "Alright," he said, leaning forward. "I'm seated. Let's get on with your so-called interrogation."
Beom's eyes held Sasha's, trying to read the layers hidden beneath that guarded expression. Sasha's demeanor was a maddening puzzle of restraint and provocation, and his reluctance to share anything personal only fueled Beom's drive to pry deeper. He was caught between fascination and irritation, sensing there was so much Sasha kept buried under that composed exterior. Yet, the more Sasha held back, the more Beom wanted to know.
Beom's mind raced as he sifted through his thoughts, carefully choosing where to begin. "Alright then," he started, his voice soft yet edged with firmness, "How did you know all the paths, all the corners in that mansion? I mean, you walked through it like it was the back of your hand."
Sasha's eyes glinted, but he said nothing at first, the silence stretching between them, almost as if he was deciding just how much to reveal—or how little. He leaned back, his lips curving slightly, clearly amused by Beom's persistence but giving no indication of his thoughts. This guy, Beom mused, always keeping things close to his chest, like he's playing a game no one else understands.
Sasha eventually broke the silence with a low chuckle, the sound of it unsettlingly calm. "Knowing the layout of a place doesn't mean much, Beom," he replied, his voice almost teasing. "Sometimes, you just pay attention to what's useful."
The cryptic answer only frustrated Beom further. Sasha's eyes were inscrutable, and it was hard to tell if he was merely humoring him or deliberately throwing him off. Beom's hand clenched, but he forced himself to relax, inhaling deeply to steady his nerves. Of course, he'd evade the question, Beom thought, but I won't let him dodge forever.
"So," Beom continued, narrowing his gaze, "and what about the invitation? How did you get into the ball in the first place? I can't see you being the kind of guy to casually know these people… unless there's more to it."
Sasha shrugged, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Connections," he replied lightly, with an air of finality, as if that single word should explain everything. "I have my ways."
Beom clenched his jaw, frustrated at Sasha's deliberate vagueness. Every answer felt like a dance, as if Sasha enjoyed watching Beom squirm with curiosity. But as Beom observed Sasha—his calm, unflinching posture, his almost irritating composure—he began to realize that the layers Sasha kept hidden weren't just secrecy; they were his armor.
Beom sighed, resigning himself to the possibility that he might not get answers tonight. But he couldn't help wondering, Who are you, really, Sasha? And why does it feel like every answer you give is just another way of hiding yourself?
Beom narrowed his eyes at Sasha, who sat opposite him, calm as ever, arms crossed and legs stretched out casually, like he had all the time in the world. His smug smirk hadn't faded, and that only fueled Beom's determination. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze sharp and unyielding.
"Alright, let's try this again," Beom began, his tone firm. "How did you know about that secret passage? You didn't just stumble on it—you knew exactly where to go. So, how?"
Sasha chuckled lightly, the sound soft but laced with mockery. He tilted his head, looking at Beom as if he were an overeager child pestering him with trivialities. "You're really hung up on that, aren't you?" he mused, his voice smooth and unbothered.
Beom clenched his fists, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. This guy… he's way too smug for someone who just jumped out of a moving car, he thought. But he wouldn't let Sasha's nonchalant attitude deter him.
"Of course, I'm hung up on it," Beom shot back. "You walked through that mansion like you owned the place. You knew the layout, the exits, the hidden passages. That's not normal. So, are you going to explain, or are we going to sit here all night playing games?"
Sasha's smirk widened slightly as he leaned back in his chair, his posture radiating confidence. "I'm afraid if I explained everything to you, it'd ruin the mystique," he said with a teasing lilt.
Beom leaned closer, refusing to let him dodge the question. "Mystique? Cut the crap, Sasha. You don't just happen to know how to infiltrate a place like that. Did you work for them? Spy on them? What's your connection to that mansion?"
Sasha's eyes flickered with something unreadable—amusement, perhaps, or maybe irritation—but he didn't falter. He rested his chin on his hand, his gaze steady and unbothered. "I have my sources," he replied smoothly, "and I'm good at what I do. That's all you need to know."
Beom wasn't having it. "Sources? You call that an answer? Come on, Sasha, you've got to give me more than that. What's the deal with you? Who are you really working for?"
Sasha's chuckle was deeper this time, the corners of his mouth curling in faint amusement. "You're persistent," he remarked. "I'll give you that. But persistence doesn't always get you answers, Beom."
Beom scowled, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "I don't trust you," he said bluntly, his voice hard. "And if I don't trust you, how the hell am I supposed to rely on you?"
For a brief moment, Sasha's smirk faded, replaced by something more serious. He leaned forward slightly, meeting Beom's glare with a calm intensity. "Trust isn't a requirement," he said simply. "You don't need to trust me to benefit from what I know or what I can do. You just need to follow my lead."
Beom's jaw tightened, his frustration mounting. He's so damn slippery, he thought, glaring at Sasha. He twists every question like it's a game. But he wasn't about to give up.
"Fine," Beom said through gritted teeth. "Let's try something else. That invitation to the ball—how'd you get it? Did you steal it? Fake it? Or were you actually invited?"
Sasha's lips curled into a smirk again, but his answer was maddeningly vague. "Let's just say… I have friends in interesting places."
Beom groaned, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Could you be any more cryptic?" he snapped.
Sasha shrugged, his expression completely unfazed. "I could," he said with a faint chuckle.
Beom glared at him, his patience wearing thin. "You think this is funny? Do you enjoy watching me try to piece together whatever puzzle you've set up?"
Sasha's smirk softened into something almost fond, though his eyes retained their sharp, calculating glint. "A little," he admitted, his tone light. "But mostly, I admire your determination."
Beom slapped the photograph onto the table with a sharp thud, his frustration palpable. "Okay, then," he said, his tone tight with suspicion. "Who is this? Why is half of this picture missing? Is he the mastermind?" His gaze bore into Sasha, but the other man remained composed, as if Beom's urgency was little more than background noise.
Sasha's eyes flicked to the photo, his expression hardening as he picked it up. For a moment, he didn't speak, just stared at the picture with a focus so sharp it could cut glass. Beom, sitting across from him, watched every subtle movement, his mind racing. He knows something, Beom thought. That reaction wasn't random.
Finally, Sasha leaned back, holding the photo loosely between his fingers, his eyes distant. He studied the partially visible figure in the torn section of the image—just hands and a faint shadow where a face should have been. "This," Sasha began slowly, his voice low, almost as if he were speaking to himself, "is Konstantin Markov."