Beom took one last look at the room, committing every detail to memory. He had found the Seraphim, and now it was time to bring it all crashing down.
Beom moved quickly, his hands steady as he planted the small, precise bombs across the hidden room. Each device was no bigger than a coin, but he knew their impact would be monumental. His breath came in short, focused bursts, his mind racing with a single goal: destroy everything. Destroy Yaroslav's secrets, destroy the Seraphim, and disrupt the Vyshnevsky empire.
The glow of the blueprints reflected in his eyes as he worked, but he refused to let himself get lost in their brilliance. The complexity of the Seraphim's design didn't intimidate him—it fueled his resolve. These were Yaroslav's lifelines, his hidden power, the source of his influence. And now, Beom was going to reduce them to ash.
"Almost there," he muttered under his breath, his fingers moving deftly to secure the final explosive. The faint click of the adhesive locking into place was like music to his ears. He stood back for a moment, surveying his work, his chest rising and falling as he steadied himself. This is it. No turning back now.
As he pressed the activation switch, a soft beep echoed through the room. The countdown had begun.
Without wasting a second, Beom turned and bolted out of the room, his boots pounding against the floor. His heart thundered in his chest, but his mind was razor-sharp. He knew the layout, knew every twist and turn of the mansion. His only thought was escape—until a guard's shout shattered the silence.
"Hey, you!"
Beom barely glanced over his shoulder, his body moving on instinct. He ducked as the guard lunged, narrowly avoiding a tackle. He twisted his body, landing a solid kick to the man's stomach, sending him sprawling to the ground. But there was no time to fight. More guards would be coming.
"Volkov! Start the explosives and get out!" Beom barked into his earpiece, his voice urgent but steady.
The reply was instantaneous, a calm acknowledgment from Volkov. The man had already begun setting off his charges in the tunnels beneath the mansion. A series of low rumbles shook the floor, and Beom could feel the vibrations under his feet as the destruction began to unfold.
The mansion's alarm blared, shrill and chaotic, as the first explosion ripped through the lower levels. Beom sprinted through the corridors, his eyes darting for an exit. The halls were in disarray now—guards running, smoke filling the air, and the faint flicker of flames licking at the edges of the building.
He slowed just enough to grab a discarded uniform from a fallen guard. Pulling it over his head, he adjusted the cap low on his face. His heart was pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he slipped into his new disguise. Blend in. Act natural. He straightened his posture and walked confidently toward the main entrance, his head down but his stride purposeful.
As Beom stepped outside, the chaos hit him like a wave. Ambulances and fire trucks swarmed the grounds, their flashing lights casting an eerie glow against the night sky. Guards and staff were shouting, scrambling to contain the damage. Beom kept his face neutral, his movements measured as he strode past the chaos, blending seamlessly into the crowd.
Don't run. Don't look suspicious, he repeated to himself, forcing his body to move at a controlled pace. He felt eyes on him, but he didn't dare turn to check. Every step away from the mansion felt like a small victory.
He reached the edge of the property and spotted the bike parked where he had left it. Beom swung a leg over, revving the engine as he glanced back one last time. The mansion was a mess—flames, smoke, debris. It was the image of destruction, and Beom felt a grim satisfaction settle in his chest. He had done it. He had struck a blow against Yaroslav, against everything the Vyshnevsky family stood for.
But just as he was about to pull away, he caught sight of a figure standing in the distance, watching. The person was still, their silhouette barely visible against the flickering flames. Beom's blood ran cold for a moment, his fingers tightening on the handlebars.
Was it him?
His instincts screamed to look closer, to confirm who it was, but he forced himself to shake the thought. No distractions. Not now. Gritting his teeth, Beom ignored the figure and throttled the bike forward, speeding away from the chaos. The wind whipped against his face as the city blurred past him, but his thoughts remained sharp and relentless.
Beom's heart pounded in his chest, the sound deafening in his ears as he stepped cautiously into the hideout. The place was eerily silent, an oppressive stillness hanging in the air. His stomach churned, his instincts screaming that something was wrong.
"Volkov?" he called, his voice echoing faintly in the dimly lit room. There was no response, only the sound of his own breathing. His eyes darted around, scanning for any sign of life, but instead, they landed on something that made his blood run cold.
There, slumped against the wall, was Volkov. His jaw hung unnaturally, dislocated, and his neck was twisted at a grotesque angle. The lifelessness in his open eyes sent a shiver down Beom's spine. His mind raced, disbelief and horror crashing over him like a tidal wave.
No. No, this can't be happening.
His fingers tightened around the gun he held, his knuckles whitening. His breath came in shallow, shaky gasps as his thoughts spiraled. Volkov had been a constant, his ally in this fight. And now he was gone. Murdered. And Beom didn't need to guess who was responsible.
A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the room, snapping Beom out of his daze. The sound was mocking, cruel, and it was followed by a low chuckle that made his skin crawl. He turned sharply, his grip on the gun tightening as his eyes locked onto the source of the sound.
Yaroslav.
He stood in the doorway, his posture relaxed, an infuriatingly smug grin on his face. The dim light cast shadows across his features, making him look even more menacing.
"Well done, Beom. Truly, well done," Yaroslav said, his tone dripping with mockery.
Beom's entire body tensed, rage and fear battling for dominance in his mind. He raised his gun, pointing it directly at Yaroslav. His hands were trembling, but he refused to lower the weapon.
"You bastard," Beom hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't... don't come any closer."
Yaroslav's grin widened, and he took a deliberate step forward, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
"If you c-come any closer, I'll shoot," Beom stammered, his voice unsteady. He hated how weak he sounded, how Yaroslav's mere presence was unraveling him.
But Yaroslav wasn't fazed. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. He tilted his head slightly, watching Beom with a predatory gaze.
"Look at you," Yaroslav said, his voice soft but laced with derision. "Trembling like a leaf. How would you kill me, hmm? Tell me, Beom, how does a frightened little mouse like you plan to take down a lion?"
Beom's mind was a chaotic storm. His thoughts screamed at him to pull the trigger, to end this nightmare here and now. But his body betrayed him, his hand shaking as he struggled to steady his aim.
He killed Volkov. He used me. He's toying with me like I'm nothing. But I can't... I can't...
His chest heaved with each labored breath, his vision blurring slightly as tears threatened to fall. Memories of everything Yaroslav had done—the manipulation, the deaths, the pain—flooded his mind, fueling his rage. But alongside the rage was fear, a primal terror that froze him in place.
"You won't do it," Yaroslav said, taking another step closer. His voice was calm, almost soothing, but it only made Beom's panic worse. "Because deep down, you're not like me. You don't have it in you, Beom. You're too soft, too weak."
"Shut up!" Beom shouted, his voice cracking. His finger twitched on the trigger, but he still couldn't bring himself to pull it.
Yaroslav stopped just a few steps away, his grin fading into a more serious expression. He tilted his head again, studying Beom like a predator sizing up its prey.
"You want to kill me," Yaroslav said, his voice a whisper now. "I can see it in your eyes. But wanting and doing are two very different things, Beom."
Beom's breathing quickened, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He wanted to prove Yaroslav wrong, to show him that he wasn't weak. But as he stared into Yaroslav's cold, calculating eyes, he felt like a child again—helpless, powerless, out of his depth.
He's right. I'm nothing compared to him. He's always three steps ahead.
But even as doubt consumed him, a flicker of defiance burned in his chest. He refused to give Yaroslav the satisfaction of breaking him completely. Summoning every ounce of courage he had left, Beom tightened his grip on the gun, his trembling slowing just slightly.
Yaroslav moved closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the fear of its prey. His grin widened with each step, and Beom's hand shook uncontrollably as he raised the gun again, his heart pounding like a drum.
"I SAID IF YOU COME ANY CLOSER, I'LL SHOOT YOU, BASTARD!" Beom shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.
His finger squeezed the trigger, but his aim faltered. The shot rang out, loud and sharp, but the bullet embedded itself into the wall behind Yaroslav.
"Shit," Beom muttered under his breath, panic tightening his chest.
Yaroslav didn't even flinch. He continued moving forward, the grin on his face growing wider, more menacing. Beom took a step back, desperation coursing through him. He fired again, and again he missed.
Why can't I hit him? Why is my body betraying me now? Beom's thoughts spiraled as he backed away, his every step met with Yaroslav's slow advance. He raised the gun once more, his hand trembling so violently it felt like the weapon would slip from his grip.
The next shot echoed through the room, but Yaroslav didn't stop. The grin remained, almost as if he was enjoying this pitiful display.
This can't be happening. I'm going to die. I'm going to die here like this.
Beom's pulse raced, his mind frantically searching for options as he pulled the trigger again, only to hear the dreaded click. His heart sank. The gun was empty.
"Shit," he hissed, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. His breaths came in short, frantic gasps. I need to get out of here. I can't stay. If I stay, I'll die.
He turned to run, but before he could even take a step, Yaroslav lunged at him, slamming him into the wall with a force that knocked the wind out of him.
"Ugh!" Beom let out a strangled cry as his body hit the hard surface. Pain shot through him, and he collapsed to the floor, his legs barely responding as he tried to crawl away. His hands scraped against the cold ground, trembling as he dragged himself inch by inch, his body screaming in protest.
I have to move. I can't stop. If I stop, I'm dead.
Behind him, Yaroslav clicked his tongue, a sound so casual it sent chills down Beom's spine. The deliberate slowness of Yaroslav's approach was worse than any sudden attack. It was mocking, calculated, and it filled Beom with dread.
"I let you live, Beom," Yaroslav said, his voice calm but dripping with malice. "I gave you the chance to go back to your country, to live a quiet, meaningless life. But no, you decided to stay. You thought you could take me down?"
Yaroslav's footsteps grew louder, closer, each one echoing in Beom's ears like the toll of a death knell. Beom's breathing was erratic, his chest rising and falling as he fought back the panic threatening to consume him.
Why did I stay? Why didn't I run when I had the chance? I should have known this was suicide.
Yaroslav crouched down, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Tell me, Beom, why do you sometimes behave like a fool? Do you truly believe anyone can take me down? You should've known better."
Before Beom could react, he felt Yaroslav's hand clamp down on his ankle. The grip was like iron, unyielding and cold. Yaroslav yanked him backward effortlessly, dragging him closer.
"No!" Beom cried out, his nails scraping against the floor as he tried in vain to find purchase. His mind screamed at him to fight, to resist, but his body felt weak, trembling under the weight of his fear and exhaustion.