San stepped forward, just enough to position herself at Haerin's right side, slightly behind her. The stance of an invisible bodyguard. Her heart didn't beat any faster. But her mind opened, calculated, anticipated, because she knew this gala wouldn't be a social meeting for her.
It was an opportunity.
A stage.
A privileged observation ground.
A place where alliances revealed themselves. Where enemies smiled too widely, where politicians occasionally let slip a name, a glance, a hint of tension. A place where Junghan might finally show the version of himself the cameras never filmed.
San placed her hand on the back door's button and opened it, giving Haerin space to step inside before closing it with a muted thud.
A perfect evening was beginning.
But not for the same reasons.
Not for the same people.
"Sit in the front," Junghan ordered.
She obeyed without a word, without an hesitation. With one single objective in mind:
Observe.
Record.
Understand.
Destroy.
The door shut behind San with a sharp click, like a lid being sealed. The car's interior did not smell of ostentatious luxury, but of a carefully controlled balance: maintained leather, a discreet fragrance, air conditioning set to the exact degree. A space without surprises.
Seo Junghan took his place beside his daughter, and San watched his reflection in the rearview mirror. He didn't look at anyone. He checked his phone, typed a message, then put the device away with a precision far too deliberate to be natural.
"Haerin," he said without turning toward her, "do you remember the order of the speakers?"
"Yes, Father."
"And the names of the people who will come speak to you first?"
"Yes, Father."
"Good. Don't let yourself get caught off guard. And… enunciate. Last time, people could barely understand the ends of some of your sentences."
Haerin nodded.
San followed the conversation without commenting. The car started moving. The city lights began sliding past them in the steady rhythm of the headlights.
From her angle in the front seat, San could see Haerin's left profile: the clean line of her jaw, the slight tension in her throat when she swallowed, the faintly too-frequent flutter of her lashes — a discreet, almost invisible sign of contained stress.
It took another ten minutes before Seo Junghan addressed San directly. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch her in the rearview mirror.
"You will remain in close proximity, Miss Kawada. Not… too close, so as not to draw all the attention, though that will be unavoidable. But close enough to intervene in under a second if necessary."
"Understood," she replied.
Her voice did not tremble. It held neither zeal nor indifference. Just the exact dose of professional efficiency he expected to hear.
"The guests tonight are… sensitive. Not everyone will appreciate the presence of a Japanese guard. But your file is solid, so I'll remind them that you were hired for your skills."
It wasn't a compliment.
It was a warning.
Haerin, for her part, darted a quick glance toward San. Brief, but heavy.
The car slowed as they approached the gala district. The streets grew brighter, louder, more polished. Silhouettes, men in suits, parked cars arranged in a perfectly choreographed pattern.
Seo Junghan inhaled, adjusted his tie.
"Don't forget to smile, Haerin."
She didn't answer. But she smiled. A perfectly studied, perfectly smoothed smile. A smile that looked like a scar.
San watched. She could almost feel a flicker of excitement run through her — if she had still been capable of something like that. She had endured days of monotony, of rigid routines, of dull predictability without any real information to seize. Tonight, she could finally do what she had been tolerating all this for.
She stepped out of the stopped car first and circled around to open the rear door. Junghan walked ahead, smiling broadly, hands extended toward the men he greeted along the way.
"You're never nervous?" Haerin asked suddenly, once she had stepped out of the vehicle and taken a moment to observe the scene from a distance.
The question surprised San. Not by its content — she heard that kind often — but by the tone. Not mocking. Not haughty. Curious.
"It's not useful."
Haerin gave a discreet smile, barely a crease at the corner of her lips.
"I wish I had that luxury."
She didn't continue. And San didn't answer either — not out of coldness, but because she intuitively understood it wasn't meant as an exchange. Just a thought that slipped out.
"Let's go," Haerin murmured at last.
She stepped onto the first stair of the red carpet spread before the entrance. Not an ostentatious carpet: a muted red, almost burgundy, the kind chosen to hide footprints and give off an impression of discreet elegance.
San positioned herself slightly to her right, in the background but close enough to intercept any instinctive movement coming from the crowd. Photographers weren't allowed tonight — it was a private charity gala — but the eyes, those were everywhere.
Men in suits too tight. Women in luminous dresses. Conversations whispered between bursts of artificial laughter. And, above all, that particular way wealthy people had of looking at someone: evaluating value first, usefulness second.
Haerin drew the expected looks: from influential people eager to assess the daughter of the country's most prominent politician.
San, however, drew different looks.
Longer.
More insistent.
A woman murmured to her husband, not caring whether anyone else could hear.
"Another foreigner. Is that all they hire now?"
"That."
The word hit the air like a drop of acid. Haerin heard it — San saw it in the sudden tightening at the back of her neck — but she showed no visible reaction. Only a blink, slightly too slow, as if she had swallowed something she couldn't spit back out.
San didn't flinch.
Contempt didn't reach her.
It was background noise — a decorative element in the world she would be infiltrating tonight.
The young heiress took another step toward the entrance, then slowed — almost imperceptibly — when her eyes met those of an obviously important man. He was surrounded by two advisors, a still-full glass in his hand, and a smile far too wide to be sincere.
"Miss Seo, what a delightful surprise!" he exclaimed with falsely warm enthusiasm.
Haerin bowed slightly, politely, though San noted the brief hesitation before the gesture.
"Good evening, Mr. Yoon."
Mr. Yoon. A name that appeared repeatedly in the internal reports San had reviewed the night before. Investments, political alliances… and an opportunistic friendship with Seo Junghan.
Haerin exchanged a few polite phrases with Mr. Yoon — polished small talk she likely knew by heart. San, meanwhile, observed. Always a step behind, slightly off to the side, standing at the perfect angle to read expressions, intentions, the trajectory of every glance.
And she saw it clearly:
Mr. Yoon wasn't looking at Haerin as a person. He looked at her as a long-term investment. A promising asset. The same kind of look San often received from gang leaders after completing a mission.
His stiff smile widened as they talked — too enthusiastic to be honest, too insistent to be innocent.
"Your father must be very proud, Miss Seo," he said with a perfectly crafted enthusiasm. "Such grace, such discipline… you are the very image of this nation's future."
Haerin replied with the expected politeness.
"You're too kind, Mr. Yoon."
"And tonight is all the more important… your father greatly needs your presence. Times are unstable, you know. People want faces that reassure them."
Faces. Not voices. Not choices. Displays. A flicker crossed Haerin's eyes. Not anger. Not rebellion. Something muted — like a shiver swallowed whole.
San noticed everything. She also noticed the way Mr. Yoon glanced at her — quick, almost nervous.
"And you are…?"
The sentence trailed off as San made no effort to answer. But Haerin turned slightly toward her.
"She was hired to ensure my safety," she said simply.
Mr. Yoon nodded a little too quickly, as if that confirmation alone eased an unspoken concern.
San didn't move a millimeter. Her gaze locked with Yoon's — cold, perfectly smooth, almost empty.
He looked away immediately.
A point for her.
The politician then bowed with a measured smile.
"I won't keep you any longer. Your father surely needs you before his opening speech."
Haerin returned the bow.
Then she pivoted, and San followed. They left the bright center of the room, walking toward a side corridor — quieter, almost peaceful compared to the social melee.
"You're never curious, Miss Kawada?"
"I prefer San," the young woman answered. "And it's not my role to ask questions."
Haerin gave a tired smile.
"No, I suppose not. And yet… you're the only person here who expects nothing from me."
She stopped, finally turning toward San, posture straight, gaze perfectly controlled.
"That might be what unsettles me the most."
San stayed silent.
But inside her, something tightened — not an emotion, but a data point. A valuable one. Haerin was beginning — unintentionally — to take an interest in her.
They emerged into the main hall. The gala looked less like a party and more like a perfectly choreographed stage. A silent theater where every guest seemed to know the dance by heart: polite smiles, calculated handshakes, discreet laughter exchanged over overpriced champagne.
San, who had spent the day studying the Seo dossier, recognized several faces. Politicians, businessmen, wives in elegant gowns drifting through groups like perfumed shadows. Interested glances, unspoken alliances, rivalries hidden beneath icy courtesy. The soft music didn't quite cover the conversations. In the hum of voices, San picked out keywords she knew too well: scandal, vote, reform, investment, reputation. The vocabulary of a world built on appearances and implicit contracts.
Haerin moved beside her with a forced ease, like a swan pushed into a pond where the water was heavier than it appeared. Her smile, immaculate, settled over the guests like a delicate veil—never intimate, never warm.
San followed with fluid steps. Invisible without being erased. Alert.
They had barely joined the first group of guests when a male voice rose above the murmur—too cheerful, too familiar:
"Haerin!"
The voice sliced through the background noise like a sharpened blade.
San saw the reaction instantly: her ward's shoulders tightened for a fraction of a second before returning to the impeccable posture she had maintained since their arrival.
Then the man finally stepped into view.
Han Do-Hyun.
Son of a real estate tycoon who kept expanding his empire. Young, wealthy, charismatic—and above all, accustomed to getting everything he wanted. He walked with the polished nonchalance of someone who had never heard the word no. His eyes locked onto Haerin as if San didn't exist, which was certainly true for men like him.
"I've been looking for you everywhere," he said as he approached. "Your father told me you were already here."
He paused, letting his eyes linger on her a moment too long.
"You're… wow. Even more beautiful than last time."
Haerin smiled—the gala smile, polite, hollow.
"Good evening, Do-Hyun."
He laughed, a laugh far too confident.
"Still so formal. You could at least pretend you're happy to see me."
"I'm not unhappy," she answered softly. "Just… busy."
"Busy?" Do-Hyun repeated, smirking. "With what? You just arrived."
He leaned in slightly, closing the distance.
San noted every centimeter he invaded.
"Your father mentioned a project you might be useful for," he went on, lowering his voice to a level far more intimate than appropriate. "I could explain it to you, if you'd like. It's a… delicate matter."
Haerin stood perfectly straight.
"I don't make political decisions," she said. "That's my father's domain."
"You could start taking an interest. For the future."
San noticed the way Haerin subtly averted her eyes, searching for a place to anchor them—anything to avoid snapping.
"You're not here with someone?" he continued. "A secret fiancé? An admirer to accompany you?"
His gaze slid along Haerin's impeccably modest dress.
"I certainly hope not," he added in a smooth, suggestive tone.
Haerin inhaled—very discreetly.
"Do-Hyun…" she began.
He interrupted her.
"I was thinking… There's a contemporary art exhibition in Busan next week. Very private. Very selective. I could take you. Just you and me. It would give us a chance to—"
"I'm not planning to leave Seoul," she replied. "I'm very busy at the moment."
"Well, your father would surely agree if I mentioned it to him."
Han Do-Hyun spoke too close. He had that way of leaning forward, slightly, as if he could close the gap by sheer force of will. A gesture meant to be charming… but revealing mainly arrogance.
"You should really consider the invitation to Busan," he insisted. "Unless you'd prefer I speak directly with Junghan?"
He stepped closer.
Just a fraction. But in Haerin's meticulously controlled world, where every gesture was a performance, that fraction was a direct violation.
San saw it before she even spoke: Haerin's microscopic retreat. A strand of her perfectly styled hair trembled—the smallest sign of a breath cut short.
Do-Hyun raised a hand, palm open, about to touch her arm in a gesture too familiar to be innocent.
Haerin shifted sideways—imperceptible to the crowd—and her hand instinctively sought an anchor. Her palm brushed the black fabric of San's jacket. A fleeting touch. A minuscule pressure, almost nonexistent. But San felt it like a silent signal.
She stepped forward.
Half a step.
Enough to change everything.
She positioned herself between Do-Hyun and Haerin—subtly, without force, without confrontation—yet firmly enough for the man to understand he had crossed a line.
Do-Hyun's expression twisted for a brief instant. Irritation. Wounded pride.
"I was speaking to Seo Haerin," he said, a rigid smile on his lips.
"She can hear you perfectly from here," San replied calmly.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Haerin had already recovered, her expression flawlessly restored—polite smile, controlled breathing, perfect posture. As if nothing had happened. Only the hand she had withdrawn too quickly from San's jacket betrayed the moment.
Do-Hyun tried to joke:
"I see your… bodyguard takes her job very seriously."
Haerin answered this time, her tone like cold silk:
"She is doing exactly what she is here to do."
A statement that held nothing resembling gratitude.
Do-Hyun, stung in his pride, forced a smile before stepping back half a meter—a strategic retreat more than a gesture of politeness.
"We'll finish this conversation later, Haerin."
She dipped her head slightly.
"Maybe."
He left the group, his back a little too straight, his shoulders a little too tense—clear signs that San had just reminded him of something he didn't like to acknowledge: that the word no could exist.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Haerin exhaled softly. Not a sigh. Something subtler. The sound of a ribcage loosening after an involuntary strain.
She didn't look at San.
"Thank you."
Haerin offered a faint smile—fragile, almost invisible, but real. Then, as if she'd said something she shouldn't have, she resumed walking—straight, immaculate—slipping back into the role imposed on her.
San followed. But she didn't miss how Haerin's fingers, for a single fleeting second, trembled against the fabric of her dress, as if her body still remembered the gesture she had tried to hide.
The evening unfolded with an almost oppressive smoothness. Conversations slid seamlessly, laughter rippled, glasses clinked with the calculated elegance typical of events where everyone played a role rather than revealed themselves.
San followed Haerin one step behind. She didn't necessarily draw attention, yet some gazes lingered on her. Too long. Too curious. Too perplexed.
San understood quickly why.
In this decor of shimmering dresses, custom-tailored suits, and choreographed politeness, she was a tangible shadow. A dark silhouette, straight, motionless, without smiles or social masks. An incongruous presence.
Some guests tried to hide their scrutiny behind a sip of wine. Others didn't bother. Women scanned her from head to toe, for a fraction of a second, before whispering behind a fan or against the rim of a glass. Men stared at her with curiosity.
Haerin—who walked with the fragile confidence of someone used to being observed—eventually noticed the atmosphere forming behind her. She cast a discreet glance over her shoulder.
"They're staring at you," she murmured, without slowing.
"I noticed."
They stopped near a buffet decorated with white flowers and rows of perfectly arranged hors d'oeuvres. Guests moved in tight clusters, forming discussion circles that opened and closed like sliding doors.
San stayed put. She watched the fingers trembling slightly around champagne flutes. The too-wide smiles. The hollow phrases repeated like social mantras:
"It's a pleasure to see you again."
"Absolutely, we should arrange a dinner."
"Your son was accepted where, again?"
Everything sounded artificial, polished. Designed to be seen, heard, repeated. And every smile, every handshake, every whisper around the politician—she captured, analyzed, noted it.
But she didn't have to wait long before something disrupted the overly polished calm of the gala.
A movement formed near the stage. Subtle, almost imperceptible—like a silent wave rippling through a crowd too disciplined to show it.
Yet the young woman sensed it before even turning her head. A shift in rhythm. A shallow breath. A tiny line of tension in the shoulders of two guards posted near the wings of the stage.
Seo Junghan had just been joined by a man slightly younger than he was. Dark suit, burgundy tie, hair slicked back with the kind of excessive care found only among ambitious politicians.
The man was smiling. From afar, he looked like a friend dropping by to say hello—warm, proper, almost cordial. Up close…
San immediately saw the tension in Junghan's jaw.
"Who is that?" San asked.
"Min Tae-won. A deputy, like my father. They… collaborate sometimes."
The word sometimes tasted bitter.
San watched the scene.
Tae-won placed a hand that was far too friendly, far too imposing on Junghan's shoulder, as if he were trying to claim the space around him. Haerin's father didn't move an inch—but his smile froze by a few degrees. They exchanged a few words. From this distance, impossible to hear. But San read lips. Postures. The shadows on their faces. Tae-won spoke too quickly, seemed to insist. He leaned forward ever so slightly—a gesture aggressive in disguise, wrapped in false cordiality.
Junghan, meanwhile, kept his hands clasped behind his back. His smile never reached his eyes.
Haerin, pretending to examine the décor, commented quietly:
"He wants my father to support a bill. A big one. Highly publicized. And he doesn't like being told no."
San followed the subtle curve of Tae-won's eyebrow—a quick lift, almost imperceptible, yet heavy with contained disdain. Two sentences later, the man finally stepped back. Not without a final tight smile, a last touch on the shoulder that resembled a warning more than a friendly gesture.
Haerin's face remained perfectly neutral.
"They don't like each other," San observed softly, hunting for any precious piece of information.
Haerin replied without hesitation:
"They'll destroy each other if given the chance."
The sentence was calm, poised, almost elegant… but sharp as a thin blade. Haerin turned her head slightly, and for a second, San could read something in her eyes—not fear, not loyalty.
Clarity.
"Those alliances in that world aren't meant to last," she said.
She looked at her father, who was adjusting his notes for the speech, perfectly unbothered.
"They're meant to hold… just long enough to climb higher. After that, you cut the rope. In my world, everyone betrays everyone."
The words slipped into the air like a casual observation. But for San… they tasted like steel.
Because the man about to climb onto that stage, the man standing just a few meters away, surrounded by admiring looks, respectful murmurs, and offered hands… that man, that pillar of political integrity, that public figure with the impeccable smile was the same man Seong-min had named as the murderer of her parents. The face behind the flames. The name etched at the center of her hatred. The only line of her past she had never allowed to truly heal.
San didn't look away from Junghan. She studied him the way one studies a target for a very long time—without emotion, but with icy precision, methodical, sharpened by twenty years of silence. Shaking hands. Smiling. Playing perfectly the role of the model father, the respectable man, the political ally.
None of it mattered.
She had not forgotten.
She would never forget.
Every second spent in that house, every glance, every routine, every rehearsed sentence… all of it had only one purpose: getting close enough to bring down the man who had signed the end of her family. The man who, even now, spoke as though he were a hero.
San inhaled slowly.
Vengeance never needed to smile.
The murmur of the room gradually faded, like a tide pulling back. The small-talk of the elite smothered itself the moment Seo Junghan walked toward the stage, escorted by two of the gala's security members.
Spotlights flickered on. A white halo surrounded his silhouette.
The crowd regrouped into an elegant arc, perfectly choreographed without any organizer needing to say a word. Impeccable suits, flowing evening gowns, overpriced watches. Tamed smiles, hands clasped behind backs, eyes ready to judge. The scent of champagne, fresh flowers, and something rancid beneath it all: politics.
Junghan reached the center of the stage.
Silence fell completely.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
His voice unfolded across the entire room, warm, steady, perfectly modulated. A voice accustomed to microphones, to expected applause, to cameras.
San watched him without looking away for even a second.
He spoke of reform. Progress. "National security," "the youth's future," "transparency," "the Korean people." Every word was a knife polished with a cloth, made to shine before being driven somewhere else.
Beside her, Haerin was still smiling. A polite, mandatory smile held in place with military discipline. Yet her fingers tightened around her small handbag. Her weight shifted slightly onto one leg, as if she wanted to step back—or disappear.
No one else noticed it.
San did.
Onstage, Junghan continued:
"…and with your support, I will continue to protect this country from the dangerous influences seeking to corrupt it."
A roar of applause burst through the room, but San didn't blink.
"Dangerous influences."
He might as well have chosen the words specifically for her. Or for those she served. Or for the ghosts he himself had created.
He was speaking about her father. About her mother. About them—spitting them back out in the shape of a righteous speech. And the room drank in every syllable.
The speech continued for a few more minutes. A slow rise, perfectly calibrated, followed by the fall—soft, controlled—ending with one last smile offered like a blessing.
"Thank you."
Applause rose again—louder, warmer, more satisfied. The young assassin remained completely still. Not a single clap touched her. None of it reached her.
Because she had just registered something essential: Seo Junghan wasn't merely a skilled politician. He was a born performer. A killer who knew how to make people applaud him. And the more she watched this room vibrate for him, the more a strange calm settled inside her chest. This world was built to protect him. She would dismantle it piece by piece.
When the applause faded, Seo Junghan stepped down from the stage.
A wave of extended hands, broad smiles, and well-polished congratulations immediately washed over him. He accepted them all with professional ease. Then he headed straight toward his daughter.
"Haerin."
She straightened instantly, as if her name were an order.
"Yes, Father?"
He brushed her arm—a controlled gesture, perfectly paternal in appearance.
"We need to speak for a moment."
His gaze slid toward San.
"Would you give us some privacy, Miss Kawada?"
It wasn't a request, but an order wrapped in politeness. San bowed her head and stepped away.
She backed up just enough to respect the instruction. But she hated every centimeter that separated her from Haerin and her father. That distance might cost her crucial information for the mission.
She repositioned herself a few meters away, just far enough to catch only fragments of their exchange. She could distinguish Haerin's posture tightening, Junghan's profile leaning slightly toward her, the subtle movement of his lips as they dictated, corrected, demanded.
She couldn't hear the words, but she recognized the music. The music of absolute authority.
She was about to edge closer—quietly, invisibly—when two men in suits stopped near her, right within earshot.
"…if the deputy maintains his support for the bill, we'll have the majority."
"It's not that simple. You know very well Yoon and Kang will do anything to take control. They want to force him to announce his support publicly."
"If he refuses, he could… disappear, like the others."
"Shh! Not here!"
San turned slightly, as if by accident. One step. Two. Just enough to try to catch the smallest details—names, connections, alliances. The kind of information Kang Dae-Sung wanted. The kind she had to bring back.
For exactly three seconds, her attention drifted, completely absorbed by the conversation. By her real mission.
Three seconds. Long enough for her not to see Do-Hyun closing in on Haerin.
When she finally lifted her eyes, it was to see the overly confident young politician leaning toward the young woman, a predatory smile plastered on his face. He was speaking quickly—too close, too low. Haerin stepped back half a pace, but he moved forward and suddenly grabbed her elbow.
It was tiny. A discreet gesture. Seemingly harmless. But for San, it was an alarm. Her spine tightened instantly. If anything happened to Haerin, the entire mission would collapse.
The assassin immediately took a step forward. But two women in long dresses cut her off, searching for a waiter.
One second lost.
She maneuvered around them. Moved faster.
Another second lost—and Do-Hyun was already pulling Haerin toward an alcove, away from listening ears. Politely. Smiling. But San knew the difference between a polite gesture and a possessive one.
She lengthened her stride.
Another second gone. The crowd was closing around her like a net. And just as she finally emerged from the other side of the room, Haerin turned her head—her gaze locking with San's.
San reached them like a shadow no one had seen approaching. Her movement was so fluid, so silent, that when she spoke, it felt as if she materialized from a void the world hadn't noticed. The music smothered conversations, the crowd created a fog of noise—but she found the exact crack in that chaos for her voice to cut through.
"Let her go."
The order cracked through the air, cold and sharp.
The two words were enough to stop the young man's gesture. He turned around, startled, facing a gaze that was nothing like that of a simple bodyguard.
San's eyes were utterly blank. A shining void. Something you don't forget once you've seen it. His stare flicked from Haerin to San with a mix of irritation and confusion.
"This is a private conversation."
But San was not someone to be intimidated by men like him. She stepped closer, her shadow casting a quiet threat. She took great care to repeat her order slowly, so he would hear each syllable perfectly.
"Let. Her. Go. Now."
Do-Hyun seemed to weigh his options for a moment before finally loosening his grip on Haerin's arm. She stepped back immediately, finding a discreet refuge at her bodyguard's side. Her hand brushed lightly against San's wrist—a barely-there gesture, almost involuntary, neither a plea nor gratitude. Simply a bodily reaction, something instinctive rather than deliberate. A silent call, fleeting, one that no one else would have noticed in the dim hush of the gala.
San felt the contact, even though the pressure was minimal. She didn't let it show and simply stared at the man without flinching, ready to react to the slightest suspicious movement. But he raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, a smile plastered onto his thin lips.
"Let's go," she announced without taking her eyes off the intruder.
Haerin nodded—too quickly, too relieved for it to go unnoticed. San stepped slightly ahead, creating an invisible corridor through which Haerin could walk without being touched. She didn't guide her physically, not a hand to her back or arm. She simply imposed a presence that opened the path on its own, as if the air shifted to make room for them.
Behind them, Do-Hyun remained exactly where he stood, his smile now stiffening into a wounded expression he tried clumsily to hide by adjusting his shirt. A few guests watched from afar, intrigued by San's severe silhouette, but none dared comment. She exuded something unnaturally solid—too quiet, too precise. The kind of presence people instinctively avoided questioning.
They left the main hall. The side corridor seemed to close in around Haerin's quick steps, swallowing the gala music little by little. She walked without looking back, like someone afraid of losing control if they slowed down even a millimeter. San followed at a measured distance, her boots gliding almost soundlessly across the polished floor.
When Haerin pushed open the door of a restroom and shut herself inside without a word, slamming it behind her, San simply stopped where she was. Her face remained impassive. Her body, still. But her senses were already working.
She heard the lock slide. Then the breathing behind the door. Not the sound itself… but the rhythm. The shifts. The breath cut short at the end of the exhale.
Protected by the coldness of her logic, an additional realization imposed itself—unnecessary yet persistent:
Haerin was holding back a sob.
It was useless to take note of it. Useless for the mission.
San noted it anyway.
So she simply positioned herself in front of the door—close enough to intervene at the slightest sound, far enough not to violate the space Haerin was desperately trying to preserve. She could have forced the door; the lock wouldn't have stopped her. But Haerin didn't need someone bursting in—only a silent witness capable of holding the line while she pulled herself back together. And that was exactly what San's cover demanded.
Inside, the minutes stretched. The young woman's breathing broke in small bursts before regaining some semblance of rhythm. San imagined the scene without seeing it: Haerin leaning against a sink or a wall, her hand clenched around the cold marble, her throat too tight to swallow air properly, her heartbeat pounding against her ribs as if trying to escape. A perfectly silent storm—like everything she had been raised to endure without witnesses.
The assassin knew those sensations too well. They had accompanied her through much of her childhood.
San remained still, her gaze fixed somewhere in the void, but all her senses locked onto what was happening behind the door. She offered no help, no comfort.
Finally, she heard Haerin's breathing loosen, as if her body had grudgingly decided to release its grip. Then came a faint click: the lock had given way.
The door opened just a sliver. Haerin appeared in that thin strip of light, her face pale, her eyes slightly glassy but undeniably dry. She didn't look at San, as though meeting her gaze would mean admitting she had cracked. Her chin was lifted a little too high—evidence that she was still trying to reclaim full control of her persona.
"My father mustn't see me like this," she murmured, her voice nothing like the one she used in public. She wasn't pleading; she was stating a fact. And that restrained shame broke the mask more deeply than any tear could have.
San nodded, her eyes steady.
"He won't."
It was a promise—simple, spare—and yet stronger than most of the assurances Haerin had ever been given in her life.
The young woman stepped out without another word. She took a moment to smooth her dress, check her breathing, and reset the fragments of her façade. And when her shoulders finally straightened, the transformation was so sharp one could have believed nothing had happened at all.
San naturally resumed her place behind her, becoming once again that invisible rampart, that shadow whose presence existed solely to steady the ground beneath her steps.
When they returned to the heart of the gala, the lights, the artificial smiles, and the well-oiled conversations slipped instantly back into position around them. But something had shifted.
San had just acquired a new piece of data. One she should never have noticed so clearly. One that served neither the mission nor her cover.
Haerin wasn't just monitored.
She was broken.
And she hid it better than anyone.
San felt nothing in response. No empathy, no pity. Nothing visible. Just a silent annotation…one that refused to disappear.