The first thing Kang Joon-seo noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The wrong kind.
Melbourne's docklands were never quiet—not at night, not ever. There was always the hum of machinery, the distant groan of ships, the slap of water against concrete. Tonight, the air felt sealed, as if the city itself had taken a breath and refused to let it go.
Joon-seo stopped walking.
The grocery bag in his hand swung once, then settled
Something was wrong.
He didn't know how he knew. He just did.
The warehouse ahead—Warehouse 17—stood with its lights on. Too bright. White light spilling onto wet asphalt, reflecting like exposed bone. His cousin had told him to drop the package inside, collect the envelope, and leave. Easy money. Cash work. No questions.
Joon-seo had learned not to ask questions.
Still, his pulse had begun to rise.
He took another step. Then another.
That was when he smelled it.
Metal. Smoke. Something sharp that scratched the back of his throat.
Blood.
The word surfaced uninvited, clear and sudden.
Joon-seo froze.
A normal person would have turned around then. A normal person would have run.
Instead, his hand drifted—instinctively—to his side, fingers curling as if expecting the weight of something that wasn't there.
That scared him more than the smell
He stepped inside.
The door creaked open, slow and loud, and the light swallowed him whole.
At first, he saw nothing but overturned chairs and shattered glass. Then shapes resolved. Dark shapes. Still shapes.
Men.
Too many men.
They were scattered across the floor like discarded tools. Some slumped against crates. Others lay face-down, arms twisted at impossible angles. No one moved.
The silence pressed in harder.
Joon-seo's breath hitched. His knees weakened, but he stayed standing, rooted to the doorway like his body had forgotten how to obey fear.
This wasn't a fight.
It was an execution.
Footsteps echoed somewhere deeper in the warehouse.
Joon-seo's head snapped up.
Voices followed—calm, measured, speaking Korean.
Not shouting. Not panicked.
Professional.
A chill crawled up his spine.
He turned to leave.
Too late.
A figure stepped into the light ahead, rifle lowered but ready. The man's gaze locked onto Joon-seo instantly, eyes sharp with surprise.
For half a second, neither of them moved.
Then the man raised his weapon.
Joon-seo didn't think.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
He lunged sideways as the shot cracked through the air, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. Splinters exploded from the doorframe where his head had been a moment earlier.
He rolled, hit the ground hard, pain flaring across his shoulder—and came up running.
More shots rang out.
Bullets tore through crates, sparks screaming as metal met metal. Joon-seo weaved without knowing why, feet finding paths his eyes never saw, timing his movements between shots with impossible precision.
How am I doing this?
A second man appeared ahead, blocking the exit.
Joon-seo didn't slow.
At the last second, he ducked low, grabbed a fallen chair, and hurled it with all his strength.
It hit the man square in the chest.
The force stunned both of them.
Joon-seo stared for a fraction of a second—at the man crumpling, at his own hands trembling—and that hesitation almost killed him.
Pain exploded along his side.
He cried out as something hot tore across his ribs, momentum carrying him through the exit and into the night.
He ran.
Rain hit his face, cold and sharp. His lungs burned. Sirens wailed somewhere far away—or maybe closer. He couldn't tell.
Behind him, voices shouted orders. Calm orders. Efficient orders.
He vaulted a fence without slowing, hands gripping wire with practiced ease, landing badly but staying upright. Another fence. A stack of pallets. A narrow alley slick with oil.
Every movement felt familiar.
That terrified him.
He burst onto a street and nearly collided with a passing car. The driver screamed. Tires screeched. Joon-seo kept running, ducking into the maze of side streets, losing direction, losing time, losing the part of himself that still believed this was a misunderstanding.
By the time he collapsed behind a closed café, gasping for air, his hands were red.
He stared at them.
Not shaking anymore.
That was worse.
Across the ocean, in Seoul, Han Seo-yeon stood perfectly still as the video ended.
The room was dark except for the glow of the screen. No windows. No clocks.
Only the truth—fragmented, incomplete, dangerous.
"A survivor?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," the man behind her replied. "Unconfirmed at first. But facial recognition matched after enhancement."
Seo-yeon exhaled through her nose. "That shouldn't be possible."
"He was wiped."
He was erased," she corrected. "There's a difference."
The man hesitated. "Then how is he alive?"
Seo-yeon turned.
Her expression was calm, but something sharp moved beneath it.
"Because," she said slowly, "someone wanted him to be."
She stepped closer to the screen, studying the paused image: a blurred frame of a man mid-stride, rain streaking past him, eyes wide with something between fear and awakening.
Kang Joon-seo.
Older than she remembered. Thinner. Alive.
Her chest tightened—just slightly. She crushed the feeling instantly.
"Status of the cleanup team?"
"Dead," the man said. "All of them."
That earned a pause.
Seo-yeon straightened. "All?"
"Yes. Within three minutes. No witnesses."
She looked back at the image.
Three minutes.
The corners of her mouth pulled down.
"He's already remembering," she said
Silence followed.
"Orders?" the man asked.
Seo-yeon didn't answer immediately.
She saw something else now—not the footage, but a memory. A boy sitting across a metal table, knuckles bruised, eyes empty but alert. A number where a name should have been.
Her voice, younger then. Colder.
Again.
She blinked.
"Activate Phase Black," she said. "No local authorities. No negotiations."
"And the target?"
Seo-yeon's gaze hardened.
"I'll handle him personally."
....
Joon-seo woke up shivering.
It took him a moment to remember where he was: a run-down motel on the edge of the city, paid for in cash by muscle memory he didn't trust. His side throbbed dully. He lifted his shirt and hissed.
A shallow graze. Cleaned. Wrapped.
He didn't remember doing that.
The TV flickered silently in the corner, news footage showing flashing lights at the docks. The anchor's expression was serious. Controlled.
No mention of survivors.
Joon-seo sat up slowly.
His head hurt—not like an injury, but like pressure. Like something pushing from the inside.
Images flickered behind his eyes.
A woman's voice.
A gun heavier than it looked.
A command spoken softly—but obeyed instantly.
He pressed his palms to his face.
"What did you do to me?" he whispered—to himself, to the room, to whatever had followed him out of that warehouse.
Outside, a car engine started, then stopped.
Footsteps approached.
Joon-seo's head snapped up.
Every instinct he didn't know he had screamed at once.
Someone was coming.
And this time—
They knew exactly where he was.
End of Chapter 1.
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