So this is how it ends? The thought came quietly at first, creeping into his mind like a whisper, but it soon roared louder, drowning out everything else. A wave of resignation washed over him, followed by guilt. I just… die like this? Without even fighting back? His jaw clenched as memories flooded his mind: his mother's face, smiling softly as she waved him off; the laughter of the friends he hadn't seen in years; the life he had yet to live. I promised I'd come back home. I promised… Maa, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but they never fell. His vision blurred, the world around him slipping into shadows as if he were being submerged in deep, cold water. The sensation was suffocating, his limbs floating but unresponsive, his body betraying him at every turn. It was as though he were trapped in a waking nightmare. This is it. I'm slipping away.
And then he heard it.
"Beom-ki."
The voice was distant, faint, and unfamiliar, cutting through the suffocating haze. His mind latched onto it like a lifeline. Who…? Who's calling me? he wondered, his thoughts sluggish and disjointed.
"Beom-ki, wake up."
The voice came again, stronger this time, commanding yet filled with a strange sense of urgency. It stirred something within him—a flicker of light in the darkness. He felt his heart lurch, a faint pulse of life against the creeping void.
Suddenly, his eyes shot open, and he gasped, his lungs desperate for air as though he'd been underwater for hours. Beom's vision swam, but he could make out the sterile white walls surrounding him, the faint beeping of monitors nearby grounding him in reality. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he took in his surroundings, piecing together the fragments of his shattered consciousness.
Where… am I? The question hung in his mind as he glanced around, his gaze landing on the IV drip connected to his arm. Machines beeped steadily, their rhythms almost soothing compared to the chaos he had just escaped. His body ached, every muscle screaming in protest, but the pain was a cruel reminder that he was alive.
"I'm… alive?" he murmured, his voice raspy and barely audible. His fingers twitched as he tested his mobility, relief flooding him when he found he could move, albeit weakly. How? How did I survive that? The memory of Sasha's smirk, the needle, and the sickening heat of the drug sent a shiver down his spine.
Beom's thoughts raced, torn between relief and disbelief. Did someone save me? Or… was it sheer luck? No, it couldn't be luck. Not after that. His mind replayed Sasha's words, the mockery, the promise of death. A cold fury bubbled within him, mixing with the lingering fear. That bastard thought he'd won. He thought he could kill me.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry and raw. But I'm still here. His fists clenched weakly against the sheets. I don't know how, but I'm still alive. And as long as I'm breathing, this isn't over.
Beom-ki lay still, staring at the ceiling as his mind wrestled with the question looping through his thoughts. Why am I still alive? The idea gnawed at him, a persistent itch he couldn't ignore. Sasha had every chance to end it, to finish him off and walk away without a second thought. Beom-ki could feel his heart pounding in his chest, each beat carrying the weight of his confusion and unease. It doesn't make sense, he thought, his gaze drifting to the heart monitor beside him, each beep a surreal reminder of his survival.
He had me in the palm of his hand... Beom-ki clenched his jaw, feeling a surge of frustration. Sasha's cruelty, his precision in delivering pain, his twisted enjoyment—he'd been so close to victory, so close to making Beom-ki nothing more than a memory. And yet, he'd left him here, breathing, alive. It felt like a cruel game, one that Beom-ki didn't understand, a puzzle where all the pieces refused to fit together.
What could he possibly gain by letting me live? The thought twisted his stomach, his hands clenching the hospital sheets. Was it a message? A sick way of showing that he could keep him alive just as easily as he could kill him? Beom-ki's skin crawled at the thought, the realization settling over him that he was at the mercy of someone who thrived on control, on wielding life and death like it was nothing more than a game.
Was it pity? Or maybe a warning... or worse, something he's still planning. Beom-ki shivered, a chill running down his spine as he considered the dark possibilities. Sasha was methodical, precise, and nothing about his actions had ever suggested mercy. If anything, this felt like the calm before a storm he couldn't see coming.
Did he want me to live with the fear? The idea made Beom-ki's chest tighten, a suffocating sense of dread pooling within him. If that was Sasha's intention, it was working. Every breath he took felt tainted by the knowledge that he was still under that man's shadow, still vulnerable to whatever twisted plans he might have next. Sasha had left him alive, but it didn't feel like a victory—it felt like another trap, an extension of his control that kept Beom-ki on edge, questioning every moment, wondering if he was safe, or simply waiting for the next blow.
But I don't understand... Beom-ki's mind cycled back to that question, the confusion festering. It was maddening, the not knowing, the lack of answers that gnawed at him. He felt trapped in a web of Sasha's making, unable to shake the feeling that his survival was just another piece of the torment, a psychological prison that kept him tethered to fear.
Why leave me alive?
As the door swung open, Beom-ki's eyes fixed on the man entering with a slow, confident stride, leaning slightly on a polished walking stick. He looked both familiar and foreign, his presence commanding yet cloaked in subtle menace. The man's gaze fell on Beom, his lips curling into a faint smile as he took a seat near the hospital bed.
"Oh, you're awake," the man said, his voice smooth but laced with an unspoken weight. "I thought you'd never come to."
Beom-ki shifted, instinctively trying to sit up, ignoring the heavy ache that pulsed through his muscles. His mind raced, grappling with memories that felt like fragments, pieces of a twisted puzzle that wouldn't quite fit together. He studied the man, his face lined with something between relief and bitterness.
"Who... who are you?" Beom-ki managed, his voice hoarse and thick with confusion.
The man let out a small, humorless laugh. "Your partner," he said, his tone almost mocking. "The one you nearly killed in your eagerness."
And then it hit him. Flashes of betrayal, confusion, the hotel explosion, Sasha's deception—all of it rushed back like a brutal tide. His hands clenched the edge of the bed, trying to ground himself in the moment as memories resurfaced. It was like watching a horror story unravel, only this time it was his own.
"If you were my partner," Beom-ki spat out, struggling to keep the tremor out of his voice, "why didn't you reveal yourself? Why leave me in the dark?"
Volkov leaned back, eyes cold and calculating. "How did you expect me to do that while Yaroslav was right by your side?" he replied, his tone almost scolding. "He took my name, manipulated everyone, including you. Sasha Volkov. It was his mask, and he wore it well."
Beom-ki's fists clenched at the mention of Sasha—Yaroslav, the man who had twisted his trust into something sick and vile, leaving him to bleed and suffer. The realization cut deep, the betrayal stinging anew. How could I have been so blind? His mind reeled, flooded with the knowledge that every move had been orchestrated, every whisper of trust nothing more than manipulation.
Volkov's voice pulled him back, a bitter edge lacing his words. "I wanted to approach you after the hotel incident. When you were finally alone, vulnerable enough to listen. But you wouldn't allow it. You were stubborn. You never gave me the chance to intervene."
Beom-ki felt a sharp pang of frustration mingled with guilt. He'd been so driven, so focused on eliminating the enemy, that he'd charged headlong without questioning the details. "I tried to take down his helicopter, end his plans once and for all," Volkov continued, his voice low with barely concealed anger. "But what did you do, Beom-ki? You cost me my shot. My last clean opportunity to stop him."
Beom-ki let out a shaky sigh, rubbing his temples as the full weight of his choices bore down on him. He used me. Twisted everything to make me think Volkov was the enemy. The picture... he showed me that picture as Yaroslav. He made it seem so real. Every piece of the deception fell into place, and Beom's frustration with himself flared even hotter. He'd been a pawn, led on a leash by someone who knew exactly how to play his emotions.
Volkov observed him, a faint, almost sympathetic glint in his eyes. "Very understandable," he said. "He's cunning—manipulative beyond reason. That's how he gets into people's heads, twists everything. It's his art."
Beom-ki gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath, "That asshole."
The bitterness lingered, a quiet fury settling into his chest as he finally met Volkov's gaze, struggling to reconcile the man before him with the image Sasha had painted in his mind. This was my partner, he thought, and I almost threw it all away for a lie.
He took a steadying breath, trying to regain some composure. "So... where did you find me?" he asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.
Volkov sighed, his expression softening as he replied, "Some fishermen found you on the riverbank. They got you here just in time. A few minutes later, and you would have been gone."
Beom-ki swallowed, the weight of those words sinking in. His fingers trembled as he processed the close brush with death, the razor-thin line that had separated him from the abyss. I should be dead. He wanted me dead. And yet, here he was, alive by the barest of margins.
The reality was almost suffocating. He closed his eyes, the silence pressing down on him as he wrestled with his thoughts. Sasha—no, Yaroslav—had crafted his pain, woven it into a trap, and left him to bleed out. And yet, he'd survived, beaten and broken, but still here.
But why? Why did he leave me alive? The question echoed in his mind, a chilling reminder that this nightmare wasn't over.
Beom rubbed his temples as Volkov's words sunk deeper into his mind, each one a stone added to the weight already pressing down on his chest. The drug, the organization, Sasha—everything swirled in his thoughts like a storm he couldn't escape. His survival felt less like a miracle and more like a curse, the strings of his life tangled in a web spun by someone else.