codename: Seraphim

Beom-ki didn't have time to watch the driver die. The man in the passenger seat let out a startled curse in Russian, firing the silenced pistol. The soft thwip of the bullet cut through the chaos, but it missed, embedding itself into the car seat beside Beom-ki's head. He ducked instinctively, adrenaline flooding his veins.

The car, now without a conscious driver, careened out of control. It sped down the alleyway, its tires screeching against the cobblestone road, the steering wheel spinning on its own. Beom-ki felt the car lurch violently to the side as he grappled with the man in the passenger seat. The gunman swung the pistol at him, but Beom-ki caught his wrist, twisting it with a sharp motion. The man howled in pain as the gun fell to the floor with a dull thud.

Both men struggled in the confined space, their limbs tangling as the car sped dangerously toward a dead-end wall. Beom-ki knew they were running out of time. He gritted his teeth, shoving the man's arm away and reaching for the gun, but the man was strong, thrashing wildly as he tried to regain control.

The alley walls blurred outside the windows, but Beom-ki's focus was entirely on the man in front of him. The Russian threw a punch, catching Beom-ki across the jaw. Pain exploded in his face, but he barely registered it. The adrenaline dulled everything except the immediate need to survive. He snarled, slamming his elbow into the man's ribs with a force that left him gasping for breath.

The car swerved again, the front tires screeching as they skidded on the slick pavement. In a terrifying instant, Beom-ki realized they were about to crash. The wall at the end of the alley loomed closer and closer.

With one final surge of strength, Beom-ki grabbed the man by the collar and slammed his head against the dashboard. The man's eyes rolled back, and his body went limp just as the car slammed into the wall with a deafening crash.

The impact sent Beom-ki flying forward, his body jerking against the seatbelt. The sound of crunching metal filled his ears as the car crumpled against the concrete. His vision blurred for a moment, pain radiating through his chest where the seatbelt had caught him. Everything was chaos—the smell of burning rubber, the crackle of broken glass.

Beom-ki groaned, blinking through the pain. His head throbbed, and he could feel the sting of cuts on his face, but he was alive. He coughed, tasting blood in his mouth as he unbuckled the seatbelt and stumbled out of the wrecked car.

The cold Moscow air hit him like a slap to the face, bringing him back to reality. He glanced down at his clothes—blood-stained, disheveled, but he was still standing. The man in the passenger seat wasn't so lucky. His limp body hung half out of the window, blood pooling on the cracked pavement below.

Beom-ki staggered forward, his legs weak beneath him. He needed to move—needed to get out of here before more men showed up.

The rapid gunfire echoed violently through the alley, the continuous BANG BANG BANG BANG ringing in Beom-ki's ears as he crouched low behind a rusted trash can, using it as temporary cover from the hailstorm of bullets flying overhead. His heart was pounding in his chest, the cold sweat on his forehead mixing with the grime and dirt of the alley. Every breath felt sharp in his lungs, the adrenaline coursing through him at full throttle.

"Shit... fuck," he cursed under his breath, his eyes darting frantically for any sign of an opening, any opportunity to retaliate. He could barely hear himself think over the chaos of gunshots ricocheting off the brick walls. Luckily, the gun he'd snatched from the car earlier was still tucked securely in his waistband. His fingers moved quickly, pulling it free, and he checked the magazine with a quick glance. Bullets. Thank God.

With a deep, steadying breath, Beom-ki raised his head just enough to peer over the edge of the trash can. His eyes narrowed, focusing through the smoke and darkness of the alley. Amid the chaos, he could make out several shadowy figures—silhouettes darting between cover, moving with deadly intent. They were fast, trained, but Beom-ki was faster. His mind switched gears, his body reacting as years of combat training took over.

He raised his gun, taking aim at the nearest silhouette. Without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger.

BANG! One down.

The figure dropped instantly, collapsing into the shadows with a lifeless thud. Beom-ki didn't stop to watch; he ducked back down behind the trash can as more gunfire erupted in response, bullets whizzing past his position, close enough to make him flinch. He wasn't out of this yet.

The air smelled of gunpowder and smoke, thick and suffocating. Beom-ki stayed low, shifting his weight from foot to foot, waiting for the next moment to strike. He could hear the footsteps of the attackers closing in, their voices barking orders in Russian. They were organized, methodical. He needed to be smarter, faster.

He peeked out again, this time spotting another silhouette near the far end of the alley, trying to reload. Beom-ki didn't hesitate. His aim was precise, his movements sharp.

BANG! Another one down.

The figure fell, and just like that, Beom-ki was already moving, ducking and rolling to the side, finding a new position behind an old stack of crates. His muscles ached from the sudden movements, but he ignored the pain. Pain meant he was still alive.

His breathing was labored, but he couldn't afford to stop now. Two more shadows loomed in the distance, advancing cautiously. Beom-ki lined up his next shot, steadying his hand as he took aim.

BANG! Another hit. The figure dropped, his body falling limp against the cold, wet ground.

But then, something caught Beom-ki's eye—something strange. A silhouette stood at the very edge of the rooftop, towering above the scene, motionless. Unlike the others, this one wasn't shooting, wasn't moving. It stood still, like a dark omen watching from the heavens. Beom-ki's brow furrowed in confusion.

His breath caught in his throat. What the hell?

The figure remained eerily still, standing on the very tip of the building's edge, balanced like a statue, overlooking the battle below with an unnerving calm. There was something off about this person—something cold and calculating, like a predator watching its prey struggle. It wasn't just another gunman. This was something far worse.

Beom-ki's grip on his gun tightened, his heart racing even faster now. His mind scrambled for answers. Why wasn't this person shooting? Why weren't they joining the others? It didn't make sense. And then, in a flash, it hit him.

YAROSLAV OLEGOVICH VYSHNEVSKY.

A name that struck fear into the hearts of even the most hardened agents. Beom-ki felt a jolt of dread surge through him as the realization sank in. "Son of a bitch," he muttered silently to himself, feeling a chill crawl down his spine. The infamous Russian arms dealer, the shadowy figure behind so much bloodshed and destruction, was here, watching him.

Beom-ki didn't hesitate, not even for a second. His instincts were firing on all cylinders as he bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his gun still gripped tightly in his hand. His pulse was racing, a mix of adrenaline and fury driving him forward. He had to find that silhouette—the figure that had watched him from above, unmoving, like some sort of dark specter. He had to know who or what that was.

Bursting through the door to the rooftop, Beom-ki kept his gun raised, finger ready on the trigger. His sharp eyes darted around, scanning the dimly lit rooftop, looking for any sign of movement, any clue that someone had been there. But... nothing.

Nothing.

The rooftop was empty. The only sound was the distant hum of the city below, and the cold night air that cut through the silence like a knife. Beom-ki's heart pounded in his chest as he stood there, tense, waiting for something, anything, to jump out at him. But the figure—the one he was so sure he'd seen—was nowhere to be found.

He stepped forward cautiously, his gun still raised. His boots crunched against the gravel as he moved further onto the roof, searching the shadows for any sign of life.

Had he imagined it? No... he was sure he had seen someone. That silhouette, standing so still at the edge of the building, watching. Beom-ki's brows furrowed, confusion mixing with the simmering anger in his gut.

Was he going crazy? Seeing things?

He muttered a low curse under his breath, about to turn back. Maybe this was all a setup, just a way to mess with his head. But just as he began to lower his gun and turn toward the door—

THWAK!