Yun woke up first—the light was just beginning to filter through the curtains; beside him, Do-jun slept, his face relaxed, his breathing even. He leaned over, adjusted the blanket, and briefly touched his forehead to Do-jun's—a short, almost prayerful gesture.
His phone vibrated on the bedside table. A message, one word: "Club." The second line—"Fire."
Yun didn't wake him. He simply got up, changed clothes, and left, leaving security posted at the door.
⋆⋆⋆
The club still smelled of last night's music—of alcohol, sweat, pheromones—but now everything was overwhelmed by the stench of smoke. The ventilation system was working overtime, humming as if trying to cough out the smoke itself.
— The system burned for three minutes — the Head of Security reported. — The server room is completely gone. Cameras—wiped.
Yun walked past him without answering. The tiles underfoot gleamed with moisture from the fire hoses; the fire hadn't reached the main hall, but the smell of melted plastic was deeply ingrained.
On the wall above the bar, the club's logo was charred black. Yun looked at it as if it were the face of an enemy.
— An accident? — he asked quietly.
— No — the guard lowered his gaze. — The short circuit was artificial. Someone deliberately cut the cable near the ceiling.
— Someone — Yun repeated. — Meaning, they were inside.
He walked into the back room. Where the servers once stood, now lay a pile of molten metal. The remains of hard drives. Evidence—in the ashes.
On the partially intact wall, someone had spray-painted: "You don't watch—we see."
Yun didn't touch the inscription. He slowly took out his phone and photographed it.
— They are no longer hiding — he said quietly. — They don't need to anymore.
⋆⋆⋆
An hour later—the glass boardroom, the city below the windows like a battlefield. The directors sat upright, but their eyes were tense, like people who understood: neither their position nor their connections would save them anymore.
— The club is partially destroyed — Kim said. — Video recordings from the last three months — deleted.
— That's exactly how long the internal audit lasted — Oh-hwa noted. — Coincidence?
— No — Yun replied. — This is a statement. They are showing they have access to our core.
He spoke calmly, never raising his voice.
— Now they aren't hiding. They want us to know. To see. This is an invitation to an open game.
— And what do you intend to do, Mr. Yun? — Kim asked.
— Accept the invitation — he said shortly. — And burn everything to the ground.
— But how? If there's no evidence — Oh-hwa asked quietly.
— You are mistaken — Yun opened a folder. — Evidence remains where it's least expected—in the show itself.
He turned on the screen. A video, found in the cloud, appeared on the projector: a night stream from the surveillance cameras in the hall. Music, lights, the crowd—everything looked normal, until suddenly a frame flashed, as if someone had connected another line. For a second, the screen was filled with an unknown figure—masked, facing the camera. On their chest—a familiar sign: the same scar as the man from the alley.
— He's no longer a shadow — Yun said. — He is showing himself.
The room grew cold.
— And what now? — Oh-hwa asked softly.
— Now we won't defend. We will observe. He wants a spectacle—he will get a reflection.
Yun turned off the screen.
— From this moment on—no more silence. Let them know that we see too.
⋆⋆⋆
By evening, Yun was back at the site. The club was cleaned up, the fire extinguished, but a different smell lingered in the air—fear and curiosity. The staff whispered: "Who started the fire? Why?" No one asked aloud.
He walked through the hall—bartenders wiped the counter, waiters rearranged dishes, trying to restore the semblance of life. New cameras flickered above the ceiling.
— Checked?
— Yes, Mr. Yun. All new, closed channels.
— Good. Let them work.
He looked up—the red recording lights blinked like dozens of eyes. And reflected in that gaze was the crowd. Every guest, every gesture—under surveillance. He understood: the enemy could be in the hall right now, watching from behind the counter, smiling, as if just a customer. But fear gave way to something else—the composure of a hunter who finally sees his prey.
Yun approached the stage, looked into one of the cameras.
— You want to play—play — he said quietly. — But now, we are both in the light.
The spotlights came on, casting sharp shadows. The club came alive again—but now it was no longer a place of leisure, but a battlefield, adorned with mirrors and reflections.
When he returned home, it was past midnight. Do-jun was sleeping, curled up under the blanket, quiet, peaceful. Yun stood by the bed for a long time, looking at him, and suddenly understood: there was no point in hiding anymore—neither from enemies nor from himself.
The game had begun. Openly. Without masks.