He made his way to the corner, away from the bustling main section, and settled down in front of a computer terminal. His fingers hovered briefly over the keys before he typed his first query: Vyshnevsky family mansion. Page after page popped up, and as he combed through them, he felt pieces of a dark mosaic beginning to assemble in his mind. He found articles about their wealth, their power, their influence—but it was the security details and rumors about the estate that caught his attention. The Vyshnevsky mansion wasn't just a residence; it was a fortress, built to house secrets that most people couldn't even begin to fathom.
As he read, a memory bubbled up. A ball, two weeks ago. He'd attended it with Sasha, back when he still believed Sasha was his partner, back when things between them felt real. He remembered Sasha's face in the dim ballroom lighting, looking calm, maybe even affectionate. But behind that gaze had been something else—something cold, calculating, as if Sasha had already planned how everything would play out.
At one point that night, Sasha had leaned close and whispered, "Go upstairs. You might find something interesting." His tone had been teasing, almost playful, but Beom now understood it for what it was: a calculated directive, a baited lure to see what he'd do.
Beom had followed those instructions without question, slipping past the revelers and moving up the grand staircase. When he reached the top, he found a door guarded by two men—guards who seemed well-trained and alert. They were reluctant to let him pass, but Beom's persistence had turned into a bloody confrontation. He remembered the fight, the sharp sounds of fists colliding, the rapid breaths as he moved with deadly precision. He'd killed them, feeling a strange thrill mixed with dread, and finally stepped into the room they'd been protecting.
But then… nothing. Just an office, quiet and unremarkable, with bookshelves, a few pieces of understated but luxurious decor, and a large mahogany desk. He'd searched it quickly, frustration bubbling up as he found nothing of interest. At the time, he'd thought he'd been mistaken, that Sasha had sent him on a pointless errand. But now, with everything he was reading, he was beginning to wonder.
He sat back, his mind racing. That room—it couldn't have just been an office. The secrecy, the guards, Sasha's cryptic instructions… it had to be hiding something. And with all the speculation surrounding the Vyshnevsky family, it wasn't hard to imagine that room being more than it appeared.
What if that office was the heart of their operations? he thought, the realization hitting him hard. What if everything he was searching for, the Seraphim Code itself, was hidden within that seemingly mundane room?
He drummed his fingers against the table, thinking back to every detail of the space. The placement of the furniture, the way the books seemed a bit too perfectly aligned, the feel of the carpet beneath his feet. What if he'd missed a hidden compartment or a concealed door? The Vyshnevsky family was known for deception and secrets, for hiding their darkest truths behind polished facades.
"They don't just protect an office," he thought bitterly. "They protect what's hidden beneath it."
He quickly jotted down everything he remembered from the room—the dimensions, the layout, the guarded entry. It was starting to make sense. If the Seraphim Code was as powerful as the whispers suggested, then it would need to be hidden in a place where only the elite could access it. That office, tucked away behind layers of security, might indeed be the key to it all.
His heart was pounding as he finished his notes. Sasha had used him, played him like a pawn. But now, he had a lead—a real lead. He clenched his fists, feeling a surge of determination. Sasha, Yaroslav, whoever he wanted to call himself, had underestimated him.
"I'll find it," Beom thought fiercely, a fire igniting within him. "And when I do, I'll bring it all crashing down."
He stood, gathering his notes and closing the computer session. The library was silent as he moved to leave, but in his mind, it was anything but quiet. The pieces were finally coming together, and he knew that the next time he stood in that office, he wouldn't leave empty-handed.
The nurse quietly adjusted the last of Volkov's bandages, her soft murmur signaling she'd finished checking his injuries. As she moved away, Beom's figure came into view in the doorway, standing with a roll of cardboard held firmly in his hand. His gaze was intense, his shoulders squared, carrying an unmistakable aura of determination.
Volkov raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a slight smirk. "Well, look at that. Seems like you're already back on your feet, Beom-ki," he said, his tone both approving and subtly taunting.
Beom stepped into the room, the steady rhythm of his footsteps echoing through the space. He held his chin high, his eyes sharp and unyielding. "Yes, I'm back," he replied, voice low but resolute. "And right now, it's time for business."
Volkov leaned back against the bedframe, a faint sigh escaping him. His gaze met Beom's, studying him intently as if gauging the depth of his resolve. "Beom," he began, his tone a rare mixture of gravity and warning, "if I were you, I'd go back to my homeland. Fighting Yaroslav is a war most men don't survive. He's more ruthless, more relentless than you could imagine."
Beom's jaw tightened, his expression hardening. He took a step forward, the defiance in his eyes blazing. "So, that's it?" he asked, voice brimming with intensity. "You're just going to walk away? Just let Yaroslav and his family continue unchecked, while those agents who died… their deaths meant nothing?"
The weight of his words hung in the air, thick and raw. He took a breath, his hands clenching around the roll of cardboard. "No. I'm not going back to my homeland—not until he's destroyed," he vowed, the words spoken with a fierceness that left no room for doubt. Without breaking eye contact, he tossed the rolled-up blueprint toward Volkov, who caught it with a frown.
"What's this?" Volkov asked, unrolling the cardboard with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
Beom's voice was low, almost a whisper, but filled with a determination that made Volkov pause. "The blueprint of the Vyshnevsky mansion," he replied, his gaze steady and unyielding.
Volkov looked down at the intricate lines and markings, the sprawling layout of one of the most guarded locations in Eastern Europe laid out before him. Rooms and corridors, hidden passageways, and security checkpoints were all mapped in meticulous detail. His eyes flickered up to meet Beom's, surprise glinting in his gaze.
Beom continued, voice unwavering, "I spent hours tracing it all, gathering intel from every lead I could find. Every inch of that place is designed to keep secrets locked away—but now we have the key." He gestured to the map. "This mansion isn't just some rich family's estate. It's a fortress. And in the heart of it, hidden behind all this opulence, lies everything they're protecting: the Seraphim Code, their operations, their secrets."
Volkov's eyes darkened, his fingers tightening around the blueprint as he processed the significance of what Beom had just handed him. He knew the Vyshnevsky mansion was a stronghold, but seeing the blueprints in front of him, he realized just how formidable it truly was.
"Beom," Volkov murmured, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in, "you're aware of what you're up against, aren't you? Once you step into that place, there's no going back. Yaroslav… he won't forgive a breach this deep into his territory."
Beom's eyes flashed, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "I know," he replied, his voice carrying an undercurrent of pain and determination. "But Yaroslav already crossed a line. He's made it personal." He paused, gathering his thoughts, the fire in his gaze refusing to die down. "He used me, manipulated me, treated me like a pawn. Now, I'm going to tear apart his kingdom piece by piece, starting with his precious mansion."
A silence filled the room, thick with understanding and tension. Volkov finally exhaled, his expression shifting from skepticism to respect. He could see the resolve in Beom, the unwavering commitment that burned in his soul.
Beom's gaze lingered on Volkov as he awaited a response, his jaw set and his eyes unwavering. "So," he said firmly, "are you in or what?"
Volkov let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his temples before nodding reluctantly. "Fine," he muttered, his voice carrying the weight of his reluctance. "But Beom, when you're done with all this, go back to your country. Get as far away from this mess as possible. You've already risked more than enough."
Beom nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He appreciated the concern, but he knew in his heart that running wasn't an option. Not anymore. "But first," he said, shifting his focus back to the task at hand, "we need gadgets. We can't go in empty-handed."
Volkov raised an eyebrow, his expression half-curious, half-wary. "And where exactly do you plan to get these gadgets?"
Beom's eyes darkened slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I know where we can get them," he replied, his tone flat but determined.
It didn't take long for them to arrive at the hideout—a secluded building on the outskirts of the city, nondescript and eerily quiet. Beom's chest tightened as memories of the place surfaced. This was where Sasha—no, Yaroslav—had first brought him, the very place where his world had begun to unravel. He stepped out of the car, his fists clenched at his sides as he surveyed the structure, each step forward feeling heavier than the last.
As they entered the hideout, the air felt thick with tension. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of electricity from the equipment scattered around. Beom led Volkov through the dimly lit corridors, his footsteps echoing against the cold, hard floors. His eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, searching for anything out of place. Finally, they reached the room where Yaroslav kept his arsenal.
The sight of the gadgets brought a flicker of satisfaction to Beom's eyes. This was what they needed—tools to level the playing field, to tip the odds in their favor. Without hesitation, he moved to the nearest shelf and grabbed a sniper rifle, tossing it to Volkov, who caught it effortlessly.
Volkov inspected the weapon briefly before setting it aside, his focus shifting to the other gadgets. "We'll take only what's necessary," he muttered, his tone pragmatic. "No point in overloading ourselves."
Beom nodded, though his attention was already elsewhere. He scanned the room, taking note of the various devices: thermal goggles, encrypted communicators, advanced hacking tools. They had everything they could possibly need—and more. But as he moved to grab another piece of equipment, something caught his eye.
A camera.
Beom froze, his heart skipping a beat. It was mounted high on the wall, its lens pointed directly at him. His mind raced as he stared at it, his thoughts a chaotic whirlwind. That wasn't there before. I know this room. I've been here. That camera wasn't here.
His grip on the weapon tightened, his jaw clenching as unease settled over him. Was Yaroslav watching them now? Did he already know they were here? The thought sent a chill down Beom's spine, and his breath quickened as a wave of paranoia washed over him.
"Stay calm," he muttered under his breath, trying to steady his nerves. But his instincts screamed at him to act. He raised his gun, the metal cold and familiar in his hands, and aimed directly at the camera.
If he's watching, then let him know I'm not afraid.
With a sharp crack, the gun fired, and the camera shattered into pieces, the lens sparking before going dark. Beom lowered the gun, his breathing still heavy as adrenaline coursed through him.