April 18, 2021. 14:10. Burnaby.
"Eyes this way, Miss Kyung!"
Multiple cameras flash in my direction. I shift my weight, one hand resting against my hip, the other tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I hold the pose—soft, effortless, elegant.
Another click. Another flash.
The midday sun filters through the skylights of a private rooftop terrace, painting everything in a gauzy wash of light. Below, the city hums—glass towers, winding roads, distant mountains shimmering at the edges of the horizon.
A soft breeze flutters the hem of my midi slip dress. It's a new pre-season release from a high-end collaboration, a muted taupe-grey that whispers luxury. The fabric clings softly to my silhouette; satin and chiffon, sleek and sheer.
I look like a modern interpretation of a Grecian goddess—if she had a PR team and brand deals.
Everything else is curated to match. My hair, ironed straight and tucked behind gold hoops. Dewy skin, minimal makeup. Barely-there sandals that say I don't walk far, but I look incredible doing it.
The cameras love it.
So do I.
It's the kind of look that turns heads without trying—chic, understated, dangerously exclusive. Designer stores would sell out in minutes once this hit the shelves.
But it takes someone who knows how to wear it. Someone like me.
I move again, this time to the edge of a cement bench. Legs crossed, coffee cup in hand.
More flashes. More angles.
A stylist swoops in, fixes a strand of hair, and disappears just as fast. The director calls out a few cues, and my body follows on instinct.
Smile. Glance over your shoulder. Chin down. Wave. Hold it.
Now laugh.
Three days have passed since my meeting with Wissen. His question still echoes sometimes—especially since I still don't have an answer to it.
What's my game plan?
I've thought about it. Or at least, I've tried to. But clarity's hard to come by when you're ping-ponging between appointments, fittings, contracts. Nights don't help either; I end up staring at the ceiling, my shoulder throbbing like a reminder that rest is just another thing I schedule but never quite get.
At least the pain's fading. Recovery's steady. A few more days, a few more mobility drills, and I'll be fine again.
It's a process I know too well.
I cross my arms, leaning against the terrace railing for one last pose. The photographer signals we're clear for a short break. Crew members start shifting lights and equipment, a low hum of motion filling the rooftop.
Then, a buzz.
One of my phones.
I reach into my bag, thumb sliding over the screen.
Blake. Of course.
I'd been dreading this. Expecting it, too—just like Wissen said.
With a quiet sigh, I step back from the set. A small smile, a nod to the assistant director—enough for them to wave me off. They assume it's a quick personal break. I don't bother correcting them.
The maintenance door creaks open, and I slip inside. The service stairwell is dim, cold, smelling faintly of steel and concrete. Private enough.
I unlock the phone and read Blake's message.
"Hello, Miss Solo. I figured it was time we had a little chat. I'm cashing in on that owed favour."
My jaw tightens. Here we go.
I thumb a quick reply. "What do you need?"
Three dots. Another message.
"I'm sending you to a recently acquired bar. You're on guard duty tonight."
Guard duty? I frown, thumbs hovering. "What are the details?"
"Remember that lounge Mister was talking about? Yeah, that one. I'll send the address in a minute. Be there at 8 pm, sharp."
Seconds later the location pops up: Burnaby—near the border with East Vancouver.
I type, brow furrowed. "Expecting trouble?"
"The other gangs are getting bold. Our turf's shifting and Burnaby's the next battleground. The Dead Kings are claiming it but the others don't like that, so expect some 'chromed' people to show up."
Of course they don't. I let out a slow exhale. Regular humans aren't the worry—it's anyone with implants. Those encounters always make my stomach drop.
"Kk sounds like a plan. Can't wait to stand in the middle of a gang war."
"Haha. You signed up for this, don't forget. You're working off that pretty little Porsche you stole from us. Want to just pay it off instead?"
I chuckle, more bitter than amused. "Touché. I'll be there."
When the exchange ends I jot a note: bring specialized kit—stuff that can pierce armour plating—then tuck the phone back into my purse.
Gonna need the serious gear if borgs show up.
I don't like relying on that equipment. It's expensive to replace and a pain to maintain. Worse: implants come in so many configurations. I usually prefer time to study a target's augment layout before I move.
But I don't expect that luxury tonight.
I reach for the stairwell door to head back up when a voice calls from above.
"Miss Kyung?"
I glance up. One of the production assistants leans in through the doorway, clipboard in hand. "Sorry to interrupt, but… there's someone here to see you."
That's odd.
"I'm on break," I say carefully. "Did they say who it was?"
He nods. "She said she's your mother. She's waiting near the elevators. I can bring her over if you'd like."
Oh.
My expression softens immediately. "Yes, please. Thank you."
A couple of minutes later, I hear footsteps. The woman I got my beauty from appears—Mom, smiling gently as she rounds the corner, the assistant trailing behind her.
She spots me first. Her eyes light up. The assistant catches the cue and slips away, leaving us alone.
"Oh, there's my girl," she says, pulling me into a hug. Her arms wrap around me with a warmth no camera or role could ever replicate.
I hug her back, resting my chin on her shoulder. "Hey, Ma." She still smells faintly of coffee—a comforting scent from childhood that's never faded.
She pulls back and kisses my forehead, scanning my face like she always does—checking for stress, fatigue, bruises, anything I might've missed hiding.
"Have you been sleeping enough?" she asks, worry threading through her voice.
I give her a small, practised smile. "Trying to."
Of course, she knows about my modelling career and my attempts to break into the professional fitness world—she was a model herself before I was born.
More than that, she knows about the long hours, the trips, the relentless training, and the injuries that come with it. She's seen the bruises too.
I always pass them off as gym accidents, though they really come from my life as Artemis.
She buys it. Or pretends to.
I can't tell which.
And deep down, I know a day might come when she pieces it all together. That thought scares me more than half the people I've faced in the field.
"You've been working hard," she says, holding up a small container. "So I brought you something. Rice cakes and japchae. Eat it while it's still warm, okay? I made sure it's light."
I blink, then smile—really smile. "You're the best." I take the container and cradle it like something precious. "I promise I've been eating."
"I know," she teases, patting my hair. "But don't overwork yourself, alright? You've got enough on your plate."
I nod, swallowing down the lump in my throat.
"You didn't have to come all the way here," I murmur.
"I wanted to," she replies, and in her eyes, there's that same look—pride and worry, wrapped up in one.
We don't speak for a while. Just stand there in the quiet—mother and daughter—while the chaos beyond the stairwell holds its breath.
Then she leans in for one last hug. I hold her tighter this time.
"I'll let you get back to it," she says softly. "Don't forget to eat."
"Yeah. I won't. Promise."
I watch her walk toward the elevators, staying until the doors close.
A long breath leaves me.
I don't want to go back. Not yet. Not to all of it.
But I don't have a choice.
My phone buzzes again.
Damn it.
A sigh slips out as I check the screen. Weird.
Dante's number—but he's calling through the group chat with everyone he hired. I'm surprised Wissen still kept it active, though I guess he'd want it around in case any loose ends needed tying up.
For a moment, I hesitate. Then the call connects, and names start popping in one by one—everyone except Shock.
Just as I'm about to ask what's going on, Shock's voice comes through Dante's ID: low, urgent, nothing like her usual pop-girl chirp. No slang. No jokes. Just tension.
"Guys. We've got a problem." She sounds breathless.
"What happened?" I ask, already heading toward the rooftop equipment area.
"Dante's at YVR. Someone made a move—ambushed him near Terminal C. It's bad."
"You're with him?"
"Yeah. He's hurt—not down, but we need backup. Fast."
Before anyone can start planning, Remi cuts in, half-joke, half-serious. "What the fuck, a firefight? Say less. I'm in. Dibs on the loot though."
Mister's voice is the opposite, calm and steady. "Understood. I'll be there soon."
Azure chimes in, her tone laced with dry amusement. "Why do you need a mechanic for an airport ambush?"
"Because shit's going sideways," Shock snaps. "And I need someone who can improvise. Are you in or not?"
Azure lets out a dramatically loud sigh. "Fine. I'll come. Just don't expect me to fight."
And then Wissen cuts in, unbothered. "Of course. Artemis, you'd better start packing too."
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Yeah. I'm on it."
The call ends.
I glance down at myself.
Still in the damn dress. Fantastic.
I head back toward the crew and pull aside one of the senior staff.
"Hey, I'm really sorry," I start smoothly, still balancing the container of japchae in my hands. "I just got a last-minute emergency booking. Would it be okay if we wrap here and reschedule the remaining shots?"
They blink, surprised, then nod. "Actually, we were just talking about postponing. The weather's shifting, and the wind's picking up."
"Perfect." I smile, relieved. "Let me know when it's rescheduled."
I'm about to turn when the staffer stops me.
"Oh—by the way," they add with a grin, "the team says you can keep the dress. Honestly, it looked better on you than it did hanging on the rack."
I blink, caught off guard, then laugh softly. "Really?"
They nod. "Seriously. You made it look like a campaign piece. It'd be a waste to send it back."
A genuine smile slips through. "Thanks. That… actually helps a lot."
No time to change now anyway.
I gather my things, tuck the container safely into my bag like it's something fragile, and step into the elevator.
As the doors close, I exhale.
"So much for a break."
…
April 18, 2021. 14:47. Richmond.
My sedan eases up to the outer gate of YVR's private access zone.
Getting past security and the screaming civilians was a pain, but Wissen pulled enough strings that I arrived without major complications.
Tires hiss on hot pavement. I kill the engine and step out; a soft breeze teases the hem of my dress.
On impulse I shrug into a black jacket and swap my sandals for plain white low-profile sneakers.
Not exactly combat-ready. Still, it's something.
The trunk opens to reveal a reinforced silver case set beside a secondary box. Inside: a backup arsenal for moments like this—a Glock 19, a CZ Scorpion EVO 3 A1, an FN SCAR-L, and enough ammo to light up a parking garage. I set the rifle aside—too conspicuous—and take the Scorpion: matte black, compact, easy to move with. The Glock slides into a holster I wrap around my thigh.
Gunfire snaps in the distance. People scatter, yelling. Gotta hurry. I slam the trunk, double-check the locks, and go.
By the time I approach the rendezvous point, the rest of the party is already trickling in.
Wissen stands near a low wall, glancing at his watch while issuing instructions through a comm piece. Mister is beside him, quiet as usual, observing the layout.
Remi whistles a low tune when he sees me, audibly stunned. "DAMN! Choom, you got a date or somethin'?"
Azure smirks, taking me in. "You look hot. Like—stupid hot. Are we sure you're not the decoy?"
"Both of you, shut up." My voice is flat; there's no heat behind it. "You guys ready?"
Wissen doesn't comment on my appearance. He simply nods. "Tetra and Shock are inside. They're keeping Dante and the railgun safe, but multiple cars just pulled up on them. The original guards were taken out."
A buzz—Shock's text—lights the group chat.
"Terminal C. I can see y'all through cams. Hurry. 3 black sedans and a van pulling up."
Wissen and Mister snap into motion. They split off—Wissen calling airport personnel, Mister dialling favours to delay police and reroute civilians. Within minutes they carve a narrow corridor to Terminal C using dummy protocols.
Azure and Remi fall in beside me as we thread through the airport. Neither carries much more than standard sidearms; Remi will improvise, I know that. Both can handle themselves—by the book or by whatever else it takes.
Well. That's the hope, anyway.
One of Mister's contacts meets us beyond a service gate and guides us through a maze of restricted corridors. We move beneath the terminals, far from the flow of passengers. The air tastes of rubber and jet fuel. Fluorescent lights buzz weakly overhead as we jog up a ramp and slip through a secured door.
We come out into a dim baggage corridor, one hall over from Terminal C.
I peek around the corner—and stop.
Half a dozen men in matching black suits stand by the concourse windows, rifles in hand. Loosely grouped, all business. Professional, loud—no subtlety here. Their conversation fills the room and masks our presence.
Azure peers beside me, whispering, "Wow. Real creative. Black suits and rifles—what is this, a B-movie?"
Remi slides up behind us. "Shiiit… they're kinda drippy though. They got aura."
I scowl. "Dude, knock it off. You serious? If they spot us it's over."
"Yeah, Remi. You heard her—knock it off," Azure says, trying not to laugh. Then she looks at me. "Any ideas, Artemis?"
I roll my eyes and nod. "A few." I gesture; they fall in. We duck back into shadow while I sketch the plan.
"Azure, can you rig the sprinklers or hit the breakers on that side? We need a flashy distraction. Remi, take the far-right corridor—when the lights go, start shooting. Take down two or three. I'll breach centre when they scatter. We'll stay synced on the group chat."
"You're breaching in a dress?" Azure asks.
"Yes. I'm breaching in a dress," I say, flat.
She grins. "You're insane. I love it."
"Choom, this is gonna be absolute cinema," Remi says, eyes practically shining. "We're zeroing a bunch of mafia."
Within minutes Azure disappears down the maintenance stairwell, her hand reappearing with a mobile toolkit. Remi peels off into a second hallway that feeds the terminal from the north.
I breathe, double-check my mags, and scan the area once more. A quick tap into the group chat, tagging Remi and Azure. "Ready?"
Remi's reply is instant. "Yeh."
Azure's message comes right after. "Mhm, I found something I can use."
"Perfect. Start it when you're set." I pocket my phone and tuck the grip of the Scorpion into my palm.
Breath steady. Muscles loose. Focus narrows.
The recycled-air smell, the distant murmur of travellers, the sterile chill—everything falls away until the corridor is only target and movement.
Did I eat the snacks Mom left? Whatever. Later.
I wait for Azure's signal. And then, Terminal C goes black.
The suppression system kicks—no water, just a blast of powder and pressure that cracks a nearby window and fills half the concourse with acrid fog. Alarms don't even get going before Remi opens up from the flank.
Two go down instantly. A mafioso recoils, rifle up—then catches a round in the chest. Another turns, confused, right into my sights.
My turn.
Silent feet. Controlled breath. The Scorpion hums in short bursts as I move, clearing the corridor between luggage carts and support beams.
Tight angles. Quick transitions.
Headshot on the first. Chest shot on the second—surgical, final. I sweep past a vending machine and put one into the third; he collapses with a thud. The fourth charges, shouting in a language I don't catch. I drop low, slide behind a cart, pop out and send a short burst into his side.
Another appears from behind a kiosk, rifle levelled.
Surprise freezes him until I'm on him.
I grab his arm, twist, and slam his head into the kiosk corner. He staggers; I spin, press the muzzle to his ribs and squeeze—three tight bursts.
The body hits the floor.
Footsteps thunder ahead—more coming. I vault a low bench and shift left just in time to catch a suit turning the corner. He raises his weapon; I've already sidestepped. Two quick bursts mid-motion: one tears through his shoulder, the next drops him where he stands.
I slide into full cover behind a column—an instinct honed until it feels like choreography—then reload and listen.
Remi's shots echo from the far side. Azure's trap detonates again; a rolling luggage rack barrels through the mess, knocking two men off their feet. They don't get up.
Silence lingers for a few seconds. I break cover for a quick visual.
Clear.
Remi strolls in, breathing hard. "Think I got, like… three dudes."
Azure jogs up, hair tousled, a smear of dust across her cheek. "My trap snagged a few, too."
"I think I got the rest," I murmur. "We should move."
They both glance my way.
"Absolute cinema," Remi says, shaking his head with a grin. "Aight, let's go, boss." He stoops and yanks an assault rifle from one of the fallen suits.
Azure exhales. "Remind me never to bet against you."
"Noted," I say with a short laugh.
I pull out my phone and thumb a message. "Shock. We're clear. You good?"
The reply pings almost instantly. "Yepppp. Thanks for the assist, fashionista <3"
"Pshhh, this girl." I lower my weapon, then my phone. "Guess we're good. For now, anyway."
Relief washes over me. Sirens wail in the distance, mingling with the growing clatter of footsteps as responders close in. My shoulders sag as the tension finally drains away, and I wait for the rest of the team to regroup.
And to think—the day's only just begun.