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.
Eun-jae's thoughts were clouded by a mixture of anger and resolve. He had to get answers. He had to figure out who was behind all of this before it was too late. "I'll find you," he muttered under his breath as he pulled his coat tighter around himself. "And when I do, you won't be able to run far enough to escape."
Eun-jae stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind him with a quiet click. The soft glow of the bathroom lights reflected off the pristine tiles, and the faint hum of the exhaust fan filled the space. He twisted the shower knob, and the sound of rushing water cascaded into the silence. Steam began to rise, enveloping the room in a warm haze.
Stripping off his clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the fogging mirror. His wrist was still red and swollen, an ugly reminder of the cuffs that had bit into his skin earlier. He flexed his fingers experimentally, wincing as a dull ache radiated through his arm. His nose, slightly swollen, looked worse than it felt. "Great," he thought sardonically, running a hand over his face. "I'm bruised, battered, and humiliated. What a stellar day."
Stepping into the shower, he let the warm water pour over him, soothing his aching muscles and washing away the grime of the day. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the stream hit the top of his head, the water running down his face like a small, fleeting comfort. But his mind refused to stay quiet.
That figure. The one who had attacked him. His movements, his strength—none of it made sense. Eun-jae couldn't stop replaying the encounter in his head.
"Unhuman strength," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the sound of the water. "That guy tossed me around like I weighed nothing. Who the hell is he?"
As he raised his head under the water, he let out a long sigh, his frustration bubbling up with each passing thought. He wasn't the type to get thrown off his game easily, but this... this was different. There was something unsettling about the man's presence. His polished shoes, the way he carried himself, even the way he mocked Eun-jae before walking away—it all screamed arrogance and power.
"Bes Ilay," Eun-jae thought, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "What kind of person names themselves 'demon'? Talk about dramatic. But honestly... it fits. The guy's a nightmare come to life."
He rubbed his wrist absentmindedly, his thoughts spinning. Bes Ilay. He was certain it was him. Eun-jae didn't have enemies like this—at least, not the kind that showed up out of nowhere and pinned him to the ground like he was a rookie.
"Why me?" he wondered, tilting his head back against the stream. "If he's got that kind of strength, that kind of presence... he's not just some thug. He's someone big, someone dangerous. But what does he want with me? I don't remember stepping on anyone's toes recently."
The steam in the room thickened, but his thoughts remained sharp and unrelenting. He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, his eyes narrowing.
"This job... it's going to be difficult. No, scratch that—it's going to be hell. Especially if this guy keeps popping up. But what's his game? Does he enjoy showing off? Intimidating people?" Eun-jae snorted softly, though there was no humor in it. "What a sadistic bastard. Bet he gets a kick out of seeing people squirm."
As the water continued to pour over him, Eun-jae's mind kept circling back to one question: Why? Why would someone like Bes Ilay even bother with him?
He straightened up, running a hand through his wet hair and letting the water drip off his fingertips. "I don't get it. Is this personal? Or am I just unlucky enough to be caught in his crosshairs?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Knowing my luck, it's probably both."
Eun-jae stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist. The cool air hit his skin, making him shiver slightly, but his thoughts burned on.
"Whatever it is, I'll figure it out. Bes Ilay might think he's some untouchable demon, but everyone has a weakness. Even him. And when I find it..." He smirked, though the mirror reflected the exhaustion in his eyes. "He'll regret ever crossing me."
As he dried himself off, his mind was already working, planning. The game had only just begun, and Eun-jae wasn't the type to fold easily—bruises, insults, and demons be damned.