The knock never came.
That was the first mistake.
Joon-seo lay still on the motel bed, eyes open, breath slow. The footsteps outside had stopped—too precisely, right in front of his door. No voices. No shuffle. Just presence.
He slid his hand under the thin pillow and closed his fingers around the cold metal he'd found taped to the underside of the bedside table an hour earlier.
A pistol.
Loaded. Clean. Familiar.
That familiarity made his stomach twist.
The handle fit his palm like it belonged there.
This isn't mine, he told himself.
His pulse didn't agree.
The door handle turned without warning.
Joon-seo rolled off the bed as the lock snapped and the door burst inward. The first shot tore through the mattress, feathers exploding into the air like a sick parody of snow.
He came up low, fired once, felt the recoil snap into his wrist—controlled, exact. The bullet punched through the doorframe inches from a shadowed shoulder.
A woman's voice cut through the chaos
"Stop."
Not shouted.
Commanded.
Joon-seo froze.
The woman stepped into the room with the kind of calm that made fear irrelevant. She wore a dark jacket, hair pulled back tight, eyes unreadable. No visible weapon, though he knew better than to assume.
She took in the room in a glance—the gun in his hand, the torn mattress, the TV murmuring silently.
Then her gaze locked onto his.
Something passed between them.
Recognition—sharp and unwelcome.
"You're bleeding," she said.
He blinked. "You broke into my room."
"Yes."
She didn't apologize.
Joon-seo tightened his grip on the gun. "Who are you?"
She studied him like a problem she'd solved once before and didn't like the answer to.
"Someone who's trying to keep this contained," she replied.
"Contained?" His laugh came out brittle. "You shot at me."
"I shot near you," she corrected. "There's a difference."
She took one slow step closer.
Joon-seo raised the gun.
"Don't," she said.
The word landed with weight.
Against his will, his finger eased off the trigger.
That terrified him.
"How do you know me?" he asked.
Her eyes flickered—just once.
"I don't," she said. "Not anymore."
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance.
The woman glanced at the window. "We don't have much time."
"Funny," Joon-seo said. "I was thinking the same thing."
He bolted.
The window shattered as he dove through it, glass slicing his arms. He hit the gravel outside hard, rolled, came up running again—always running.
Behind him, the woman cursed softly.
Not in panic.
In calculation.
They chased each other through the city like mirrored ghosts.
Joon-seo cut through backstreets, over fences, into crowds—testing her, losing her, then feeling her presence snap back into place like a shadow that refused to be shaken.
She didn't rush him.
She paced him.
That was worse.
By the time he ducked into a crowded night market, his lungs burned and his head throbbed. Neon lights bled together. Music clashed. People laughed, shouted, lived—oblivious.
Joon-seo slowed, blending in, forcing his breathing steady.
Think.
He slipped the gun into his waistband and moved like he belonged there, letting the noise swallow him.
A hand brushed his elbow.
"Left," the woman murmured beside him, close enough that her shoulder almost touched his. "Two men watching the exits."
He flinched away. "You're insane."
She didn't look at him. "Keep walking."
Why are you helping me?"
"Because if they get you," she said quietly, "you won't die fast."
That stopped him cold.
She turned then, finally meeting his eyes again. Up close, he noticed things he hadn't before: the faint scar along her jaw, the exhaustion she hid behind discipline, the tension she carried like a second spine.
"You survived something you weren't supposed to," she continued. "Now everyone wants a piece of you."
"Who's everyone?"
She hesitated.
That hesitation told him more than any answer.
"Come with me," she said. "Or don't. Either way, this ends tonight."
Joon-seo scanned the crowd. Two men near a food stall—too alert. Another by the street corner, pretending to smoke.
Hunters.
His head buzzed again, pressure building. Images flashed—routes, angles, exits—mapping themselves without permission.
He exhaled sharply. "You planned this."
"Yes."
"You always do," he added without thinking.
Her eyes widened a fraction.
"What did you say?"
He shook his head, disoriented. "Nothing."
The men moved.
Joon-seo acted.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the flow of people, overturning a cart behind them. Metal clanged. Someone screamed.
The woman—Seo-yeon, he somehow knew her name now—twisted free and matched his pace instantly.
"You remember more than you're admitting," she said.
"I don't remember you," he snapped.
"Good," she replied. "That makes this easier."
Shots rang out.
Panic exploded through the market. People scattered. Joon-seo shoved Seo-yeon behind a stall as bullets punched through wood.
She drew her weapon then—a compact pistol, movements precise, almost gentle.
They moved together without speaking.
That scared him more than the gunfire.
They escaped through a service alley and into a waiting car. Seo-yeon slammed the door and peeled away as tires screamed against asphalt.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Joon-seo stared out the window, city lights streaking past like dying stars.
"You killed them at the docks," Seo-yeon said finally.
His jaw clenched. "I ran."
"No," she said. "You hunted."
He turned to her slowly. "I didn't kill anyone."
Her gaze softened—not with comfort, but with certainty.
"You will," she said. "Again."
They stopped beneath an overpass, concrete dripping with old rain. Seo-yeon cut the engine.
"This is as far as I take you," she said.
"Then why save me at all?"
She hesitated, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
"Because," she said, "I owe you."
"For what?"
"For turning you into something the world can't forgive."
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
Joon-seo laughed quietly. "You don't even know me."
Her voice dropped. "I know exactly who you are"
She handed him a phone. "If you want answers, follow what's on that."
He took it, hands trembling.
"And if I don't?" he asked.
Seo-yeon opened the door.
"Then run," she said. "Run until you remember why that never worked."
She stepped out into the night.
As she disappeared into the shadows, Joon-seo looked down at the phone.
The screen lit up.
A single file.
PROJECT SOUTHERN CROSS — SUBJECT 017
And beneath it—A photo of a younger version of himself, eyes empty, hands bloody.
Joon-seo swallowed hard.
The hunt wasn't over.
It had just begun.