Eun-jae stepped out of the car, his body tense as he stretched his legs, feeling the tightness in his muscles from the intense chase. The night air of Moscow bit at his skin, but it barely registered against the storm brewing in his mind. The hotel's towering glass exterior shimmered under the cold Moscow skyline, the city lights reflecting off the surface like thousands of tiny stars scattered across the dark sky. A modern monolith that stood in sharp contrast to the chaos of the evening, the building loomed above him, its sleek design a reminder that he was no longer in familiar territory. His eyes flickered upward, but they couldn't quite focus. Everything felt fuzzy, like his body and mind were on different wavelengths.
He gripped the door handle of the car one last time before slamming it shut behind him. His shoes clicked on the smooth pavement, a stark reminder that he wasn't in a rush anymore. There was no sense in running. Not now. Not when the evening had already dragged him through hell. His thoughts were a whirlwind, questions about the strange figure that had attacked him, the bomb, the rare tobacco—the threads of it all twisted together in his head. What the hell had just happened? Who was that man?
His boots echoed in the empty space as he made his way toward the hotel's entrance. Every step felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. It wasn't just exhaustion. It was the kind of fatigue that came from the edge of danger, that razor-thin line where you could almost taste death on the tip of your tongue, where every muscle in your body screamed for release but your mind refused to let go. Eun-jae had been in tight spots before—he'd fought, bled, and survived his fair share of scrapes. But this? This felt different. Something wasn't adding up, and it gnawed at him like a persistent itch he couldn't scratch.
The hotel lobby was a stark contrast to the outside world. Brightly lit with polished marble floors and elegant chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings, it was everything Moscow was supposed to be—luxurious, sophisticated, and a little cold. Eun-jae paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the pristine lobby. He could almost feel the weight of the glass and steel pressing down on him as he made his way to the reception desk.
The receptionist, a woman in her mid-20s, glanced up from her screen. Her expression was cool, professional, the kind of look that came with years of experience in a high-end hotel, but her eyes flickered with a trace of curiosity as she assessed Eun-jae's appearance. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd had on when he'd been chased, his jacket torn and smeared with dirt, his face lined with exhaustion. She took in his tired, bruised features, but said nothing. The silence between them stretched for just a moment too long.
"Hello," Eun-jae said, his voice rough, a little hoarse, but polite. He had perfected the art of appearing calm even when everything inside him screamed otherwise.
"Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?" The receptionist's voice was smooth, welcoming, with just a hint of a smile on her lips.
Eun-jae didn't waste time. His mind was still racing, and the feeling of being on edge hadn't left him. "Please, is there a cigarette shop nearby?" He was craving the familiar taste of tobacco to settle his mind, to dull the sharp edges of his thoughts. His usual calm demeanor, the kind of stoic resolve he was known for, had started to slip away after the chaotic events of the night. The hunger for something to dull the pain was overwhelming.
The receptionist gave a polite nod, her finger gesturing to the street outside. "There's a cigarette shop a few blocks down. Not far at all, sir." She didn't seem to ask why he needed it, why a man like him, covered in grime and looking like he'd just survived a near-death experience, would be asking for cigarettes at such an hour. Maybe she thought it was none of her business. Maybe she knew there was more to him than he let on, but chose not to ask questions. Either way, her calm professionalism only heightened his unease.
"Thanks," Eun-jae muttered, his words almost inaudible as he turned and walked away. He could feel her eyes on his back as he made his way toward the door, but he didn't look back. He didn't need to. The only thing that mattered now was getting to that cigarette shop.
He needed to focus. He needed to think. And as his boots clicked against the cold pavement outside, the world seemed to quiet down, the noise of the city fading into a dull hum. But inside his head, everything was far from quiet. He needed to get answers—answers that would lead him to the man who had attacked him. The man who had dropped that strange, hand-made tobacco. There was something about that moment, the way the figure had so effortlessly overpowered him, that gnawed at him. The fear, the overwhelming sense that he was up against someone who wasn't just dangerous but different.
Eun-jae's thoughts turned dark as he walked down the street, the streetlights casting long shadows on the ground. Who was he? The thought circled in his mind, repeating over and over. The attack had been too clean, too precise. The man knew exactly what he was doing. The bomb, the way he twisted Eun-jae's arm, and the strength in that one kick—nothing about it felt ordinary. This guy has to be rich. He could feel it in his bones. People with that kind of skill, that kind of power, didn't come from the streets. They were part of something bigger.
Eun-jae reached the cigarette shop, a small, unassuming store nestled between two larger buildings. The neon sign flickered slightly above the door, casting a dull glow onto the pavement. He pushed the door open, a soft bell chiming as he stepped inside. The air was thick with the musky scent of tobacco and the faint, bitter tang of coffee. Shelves lined the walls, filled with all kinds of cigars, cigarette packs, and smoking paraphernalia. The dim lighting made everything look a little blurry, but it was just what Eun-jae needed—a brief distraction, a momentary escape from the storm brewing in his mind.
Behind the counter stood an older man, his hair graying at the temples, his eyes sharp despite his age. He glanced up at Eun-jae as he entered, his face unreadable, but the flicker of recognition in his gaze didn't go unnoticed. Maybe he had seen enough people like Eun-jae—people who were just a little too disheveled, a little too worn down, to make him pause. The man's eyes lingered on Eun-jae for a second longer than necessary, but then he went back to his work, polishing the counter with a cloth, his movements methodical.
Eun-jae walked up to the counter, pulling out his wallet and glancing at the rows of cigarettes. "Do you have any premium brands?" he asked, his voice hoarse, his fingers tapping lightly on the counter.
The older man gave a slow nod, his hands pausing for a beat before he gestured toward a glass case behind him. "Got a few," he said, his accent thick but understandable. "Imported. Expensive. Exclusive."
Eun-jae's interest piqued. "Let me see," he said, leaning forward just slightly. He wasn't here just for cigarettes. No, he had something else on his mind—the tobacco he had seen earlier. The one dropped by the man who had nearly killed him. It was no ordinary brand. There was something about it that had struck him, something too deliberate for a simple coincidence.
The older man unlocked the glass case with a small key, pulling out a sleek black box. He opened it with a soft click, revealing rows of pristine, hand-rolled cigarettes, each one wrapped in a fine, gold-leaf paper. The tobacco inside smelled rich, almost intoxicating, a far cry from the typical mass-produced brands lining the other shelves. The man slid the box toward Eun-jae.
Eun-jae studied it, taking a moment to run his fingers over the smooth surface of the box, feeling the craftsmanship in his fingertips. This wasn't just tobacco. This was something else entirely. He had seen a brand like this before, but only in high-profile circles, with the kind of people who could afford to burn money on something this exclusive.
He picked one of the cigarettes up carefully, inspecting it. "Where is this from?" he asked, his voice low, as if he were afraid the answer would make the situation worse.
The shopkeeper tilted his head slightly, watching Eun-jae carefully. "Not from around here," he said with a knowing look. "It's handmade, imported. Very expensive. Only a few places carry it."
Eun-jae frowned. "And who makes it?" he pressed, narrowing his eyes. He had a feeling he wasn't going to get an easy answer, but the sharp edge of suspicion in his chest was only growing. Whoever had attacked him wasn't just some random thug. This was someone with resources. Someone with wealth and connections.
The older man hesitated, glancing around the store as though making sure no one was listening. "It's from a private supplier in Kazakhstan," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not much known about them. But they supply to a few select people in Moscow. Very few. High-end clientele, you know?"
Eun-jae's mind raced. Kazakhstan. The name echoed in his head, but it didn't quite make sense. What connection could there be between a cigarette supplier in Kazakhstan and the attack on him? Who was behind all of this? The man who had nearly killed him hadn't been some random figure from the street. He was someone well-funded, well-connected. Someone who had access to things like this.
"So," Eun-jae continued, his thoughts spinning, "how do I get in touch with them? Where do they operate out of? Moscow? Or...?"
The older man shrugged, his face twisting into something close to a grimace. "I don't know, kid. They don't operate openly, not around here. The people who buy from them know how to get in contact. But me? I just sell the product. It's all I know."
Eun-jae leaned in closer, eyes burning with intensity. "Do you know who the suppliers are?" he asked, his voice soft, but heavy with the weight of his desperation. He had to know more. This couldn't just be a coincidence. The whole thing—the attack, the bomb, the shadowy figure—was all connected, and this tobacco was the thread he needed to pull.
The shopkeeper shook his head slowly, a sigh escaping his lips. "I don't know, kid. They're too careful. I only know the people who pay for it. Not who's behind it."
Eun-jae stared at him for a long moment, the frustration building in his chest. This was getting him nowhere. He didn't need the runaround. He needed answers. He wasn't just some tourist wandering through Moscow. He was caught up in something much bigger than he had ever imagined. Whoever was behind this—whether it was the shadowy figure or the people who controlled the cigarettes—he was getting closer.
As he paid for the cigarettes, the old man slid the pack across the counter, his eyes lingering on Eun-jae for a second longer. "You look like someone who's chasing ghosts," he said quietly. "Be careful. Moscow's a big city, but it's small when you make enemies."
Eun-jae took the pack, tucking it into his pocket. He nodded curtly, his mind already running through the next steps. He didn't have time to waste here. He needed to find out who was behind the attacks, and he was done playing games. "Thanks," he muttered, his voice colder now.
As he left the shop and stepped back into the cold Moscow night, he took a deep breath, feeling the smoke curl in his lungs as he lit a cigarette. It did little to calm the storm in his mind, but it gave him a moment of clarity. Whoever was after him wasn't just some isolated threat. They were part of something larger, something with international reach.