Gimpo Private Jet Terminal, Seoul – Saturday, 3:00 PM
The skies, once tranquil, had begun to turn.
The thick heat of summer had passed, leaving behind the crisp stillness of early autumn.
But across the tarmac, the wind stirred restlessly, as if catching wind of the storm that loomed ahead.
Clouds hung low, cloaking the sky in a silver hush.
At the end of the runway, a sleek jet—Langley's insignia gleaming on its silvery frame—stood poised, ready for departure.
Beneath it, three men stood.
Their shadows stretched long and heavy, motionless yet pulsing with unspoken resolve.
Daniel powered off his phone and quietly closed his leather clutch.
The faint traces of a sleepless night clung beneath his eyes, but his expression remained—always—composed, restrained, and unreadable.
Behind him, like a silent shadow, Howard stepped forward and spoke in a low voice.
"…Shouldn't I come with you? There's risk involved."
Daniel shook his head—short, firm.
"No. Someone needs to hold the line in Seoul. I'll keep you updated regularly. Keep a close watch on the political threads. And if anything urgent comes up—call me. Immediately."
Howard glanced at each of the three men, one by one.
Jinwoo stood still, head bowed, his eyes a dark, sunken stillness.
Noah, cloaked in an oversized hoodie, was fidgeting with his fingers—locked in a quiet war against himself.
"…Understood. Please… bring her home safely. That place—is no place for the Miss Celeste."
Daniel gave a silent nod.
A breath of stillness passed.
And then—Jinwoo's voice broke the silence, low and certain.
"We're bringing her back. This time—no matter what."
One by one, the three men stepped aboard.
The jet's door closed behind them—slowly, carefully.
Howard stood alone beneath the widening sky, watching the aircraft begin to hum with life.
A moment later, he pulled out his phone and placed a call.
"…It's me. All three are in the air now."
A beat of silence.
Then, a deep, calm voice from the other end—seasoned and familiar.
"Good. They've made their choice—with courage. I've finished prepping the weapons. I'm on my way."
Howard closed his eyes, then opened them slowly.
"…Be careful, Mr. George."
"Don't worry. I won't leave my daughter in the hands of beasts."
The call ended.
Howard lowered the phone, silent once more.
His eyes held the heavy duty of one left behind—and a quiet prayer for those who had just departed, and the woman they vowed to return.
"Langley Estate, Southern France – 8:00 AM"
The morning light of southern France was calm, pristine.
Sunlight eased through the tall glass windows, casting golden reflections on the floor.
In the garden, olive trees swayed gently in the breeze.
But within the walls of the Langley estate, the atmosphere was far from serene.
It thrummed with the quiet, ancient tension of a battlefield waiting to stir.
Just after Howard's call, George wordlessly unlocked the parlor vault.
With a steady hand, he retrieved a case of firearms, checking the cartridges one by one.
Each movement was measured—familiar.
Like a soldier preparing for a war long foretold.
Marcel stood nearby, watching in silence—until finally, he spoke.
"…You're really going?"
George completed his final load and nodded, eyes cast downward.
"Yes."
"If you go back there… it could all come undone again. Everything you've tried so hard to bury—"
George finally lifted his gaze.
Outside the window, the faint silhouette of a helicopter touched down beyond the fields.
Its rotors began to stir—low, distant, like a warning whispered through the earth.
He looked to Marcel and, after a moment, gave a faint laugh.
"…I never thought I'd say this, but—"
He slid on his gloves, the leather creaking faintly.
"Don't worry. Half of me still carries the Belloni filth in my blood. Maybe it's time… I reminded them it's still alive."
Marcel looked into George's eyes.
There was still warmth there—but buried beneath it, layers of grief, fury, and a promise that had waited far too long.
"Don't die."
George gave a small nod.
"I won't. There are bastards who deserve it before I do."
He slung the gun case over his shoulder and stepped outside.
Beyond the terrace, the silver helicopter stood ready, its blades roaring to life.
George descended the steps slowly, and Marcel remained still, watching from the doorway.
Just before boarding, George turned one last time.
"I'm not leaving my daughter in that den of monsters. When this is over—we'll come back. Like spring."
Marcel didn't speak.
He only nodded, eyes shining with the silent prayer of a lover sending his heart into war.
The door shut.
The rotors shrieked.
And as the craft lifted into the morning sky above the Langley estate—the wind carried with it the weight of an old vow, the growl of a father who had finally remembered how to bare his fangs.