codename: Seraphim

Beom-ki's movements were painstakingly slow, his focus unwavering. With each stretch and pull, he felt a surge of hope rise within him. This wasn't just about escaping the handcuffs; it was a test of his own resilience, his ability to find a way out of the impossible. He pulled the key close enough to reach it with his hand, finally curling his fingers around it. Relief washed over him as he felt the cool metal pressing into his palm.

He twisted his body back to his bound wrist, heart pounding, every sense heightened as he worked to insert the key into the lock. The handcuff felt tighter than ever, but he managed to keep his hand steady, his breathing shallow as he focused. Click.

The lock released with a satisfying sound, and he quickly freed his wrist from the cuff, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The metal clinked as it fell to the ground beside him, useless now. He rubbed his wrist, feeling the faint sting of where the handcuff had dug into his skin. But he was free.

For a moment, he just sat there, catching his breath, letting the reality of his newfound freedom settle over him.

Beom-ki slipped his foot back into his boot, feeling the familiar weight steady him, and rose to his feet. His eyes returned to the cigarette left on the floor—the distinctive tobacco with dragon designs. Every curve of the intricate carvings, every scale etched along the dragon's body seemed almost too intentional, like a mark left deliberately for him. He studied it, the weight of his instincts growing. This was no ordinary tobacco; it was a signal, a sign that Yaroslav could be behind this. He pocketed the item, deciding it was worth investigating, the image of that dragon branding itself in his memory.

He descended the staircase, each step a calculated move to remain unnoticed. The night air was crisp, filled with the distant hum of city life, yet he walked with a measured calmness, as though he were just another traveler passing through. As he approached the car below, his suitcase awaited him—still where he'd left it, seemingly undisturbed. Without a hint of hesitation, he gripped the handle, straightened his jacket, and walked away from the scene. Every movement was precise, each step devoid of the chaos that had just unraveled above him.

Beom-ki emerged onto the bustling street, blending seamlessly with the people around him. The lights of Moscow were bright against the night, casting a glow that made the city seem almost surreal. For a moment, he stood at the edge of the sidewalk, letting the pulse of the unfamiliar city surround him. He stretched out his arm, his gaze steady, and within seconds, a yellow taxi pulled up beside him with a quick halt. The driver—a man with a graying beard and tired eyes—looked at him through the open window, waiting.

Without speaking, Beom-ki reached into his pocket and unfolded a piece of paper. The name of his hotel was written clearly, the only connection he had to where he needed to go. He held it out for the driver to read, feeling a strange detachment in that moment, as though he were both part of the city and entirely removed from it. The driver squinted at the paper, then gave a curt nod of understanding. Without a word exchanged, Beom-ki climbed into the back seat, sinking into the worn leather as the driver pulled back into the stream of traffic.

The city flashed by in fragments—neon lights, towering billboards, shadowed alleyways that reminded him of the one he'd just left. He watched as Moscow unfolded outside the window, each turn taking him further into the heart of the city. The muted conversations in Russian between pedestrians and vendors filled the air, a language he couldn't understand but somehow felt the intensity of. It was a city that kept its secrets close, and tonight, he felt himself pulled into its undercurrents.

In the quiet of the taxi, Beom-ki's mind replayed the recent encounter, dissecting every detail, every move. The silent figure, the feel of his polished leather shoe pressing against his face, the dragon-patterned tobacco—the puzzle pieces were there, scattered and waiting to be put together. And somewhere in this city, Yaroslav was likely watching, knowing that he'd left his mark. Beom-ki let the thoughts swirl in his mind, but his face remained impassive, giving nothing away to the driver who occasionally stole glances in the rearview mirror.

The taxi rolled to a halt, leaving Beom-ki in front of a worn-out, dreary-looking hotel, its faded sign barely legible under the dim, flickering streetlights. He peered through the cracked windshield at the building before glancing back at the driver. In broken Russian, he managed to ask, "This… this the hotel?"

"Da, yes," the driver replied in his thick Russian accent, barely glancing up as he nodded. Without further acknowledgment, he drove off, leaving Beom-ki standing alone on the uneven sidewalk, suitcase in hand. He let out a small sigh, his gaze sweeping up and down the structure that would apparently be his base for the night. The hotel was far from what he had imagined—its exterior showed signs of neglect, with crumbling bricks, peeling paint, and a general air of abandonment that made it stand out in the bustling cityscape.

Inwardly, he grimaced. "Here I was, thinking I'd get a place that's at least clean… or, you know, presentable," he muttered under his breath, stepping up to the weather-beaten doors. With each step, he felt the weight of exhaustion settle over him; it had been a long day, and this wasn't exactly the welcoming reprieve he had been hoping for.

As he stepped into the lobby, he was greeted by a stale, musty odor, the faint remnants of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The wallpaper was peeling in spots, and the low hum of a dim overhead light cast an eerie glow over the small, barely furnished room. Behind the front counter sat a woman—middle-aged and plump, with platinum blonde hair that had clearly seen better days. The roots had grown out, showing streaks of grey, and her face was thick with makeup, almost as if it were caked on in layers, each hiding something underneath. She was chewing gum with enthusiasm, blowing a bubble that popped loudly as her eyes flicked to Beom-ki, sizing him up without a hint of subtlety.

Beom-ki approached the counter, his tired gaze meeting hers as he placed his suitcase on the floor. The woman's eyes moved slowly from his shoes to his face, her expression somewhere between disinterest and mild curiosity. She was clearly used to seeing travelers come through, but there was something about her gaze that suggested she was appraising him, maybe even judging him.

"Room," she said in a thick Russian accent, her voice low and a bit scratchy, as though she'd been smoking all day. There was no warmth in her tone—just the directness of someone who'd spent years in a job that barely allowed for politeness.

Beom-ki simply nodded, giving her a small, tired smile. She didn't return it, though; instead, she rolled her eyes slightly before standing up with an exaggerated sigh. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if even the simple task of getting a room key required all her energy. Beom-ki watched as she walked over to an old, rusted key rack behind the counter, her thick fingers flipping through the keys until she found the one she wanted.

Finally, she pulled out a key attached to a small, dented metal tag. "Room 204," she said, the words practically dripping with disdain as she slapped the key onto the counter. Her gum-popping resumed as she sat back down, dismissing him without a second glance.

Beom-ki took the key, his fingers brushing against the cold, worn metal of the tag. He glanced down at it, wondering just how many others had held this same key, each one a traveler like him, looking for a brief refuge in a strange place. He gave a polite nod to the woman, but she barely acknowledged him, blowing another bubble as she refocused on the television in the corner, where some Russian soap opera played with overly dramatic voices echoing through the lobby.

With his suitcase in tow, Beom-ki made his way toward the staircase at the far end of the lobby. The faded carpet was threadbare in spots, and each step up seemed to creak in protest, adding to the unsettling atmosphere. As he ascended, he felt the weight of silence envelop him, broken only by the muffled sounds of the television and the occasional rumble from the street outside.

Reaching the second floor, he walked down the narrow hallway, lined with dim lights and faded, peeling wallpaper that gave the place an eerie feel. Finally, he stopped at room 204. He inserted the key into the lock, which resisted slightly before giving way with a loud click, and pushed the door open.

The room was as unimpressive as he'd expected—barely furnished with a creaky twin bed, a small wooden desk, and a dusty window that barely let in any light. The air was stale, thick with a smell he couldn't quite place, as though it had been left untouched for years. Beom-ki let out a long breath, accepting that this would be his home for the night, no matter how unwelcoming it seemed.

He set his suitcase on the bed, his thoughts drifting back to the events of the day. The tobacco with the dragon design still sat heavily in his pocket, a lingering reminder of the encounter with the figure. Even though he was weary, his mind remained alert, aware that Moscow was hiding something dangerous beneath its surface, and he was now in its midst.

The morning sun cast a warm glow over the kitchen as Beom-sook moved briskly, scratching her head, still dressed in her comfortable pajamas. She had been helping her mother prepare breakfast when the doorbell rang, its sharp chime slicing through the quiet hum of the morning. She glanced toward her mother, offering a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Maa, I'll get it," she said, setting down the cup she'd been holding and heading toward the front door, her footsteps light but firm.

As she pulled open the door, her face quickly morphed from casual curiosity to surprise, then irritation. Standing there, shifting nervously on her feet, was none other than Ji-soo—Beom-ki's ex-girlfriend. Her expression was a mixture of determination and discomfort, her hands fidgeting as she looked up at Beom-sook with an almost pleading gaze. Beom-sook's brow lifted, her irritation now mixed with a hint of disbelief. She certainly hadn't expected her to show up here.

"Beom-ki... can we talk?" Ji-soo started, her voice a little too soft, as if she thought being gentle would somehow change the weight of her visit.

Beom-sook didn't miss a beat, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Ji-soo a pointed, unimpressed look. "This isn't Beom-ki. Are you blind, or have you just forgotten what he looks like?" she asked, her tone sharp with a bit of a sarcastic edge. She gestured to her own buzz-cut hairstyle, which was a stark contrast to Beom-ki's look. "Does he have this haircut now?" she added with a raised eyebrow. She didn't need to fake the irritation in her voice. Seeing Ji-soo brought back memories of the pain Beom-ki had gone through after their breakup.

Ji-soo's cheeks flushed, and she looked down, biting her lip. "Beom-sook… is that you?" she asked, her voice uncertain, trying to regain her composure. "When... when did you get back?"

Beom-sook didn't bother to answer, rolling her eyes instead. "None of your business," she replied coolly. "The real question here is, what are you doing here?"

Ji-soo hesitated, her fingers twisting together as she took a step forward, her eyes darting around as if she was trying to avoid Beom-sook's piercing gaze. "I... I came to see Beom-ki," she said, fidgeting with the hem of her coat. "He... he blocked me everywhere," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she were embarrassed to confess it. Her nervousness was painfully evident, and it only deepened Beom-sook's frustration.

Beom-sook crossed her arms tighter over her chest, her expression hardening. "And for what?" she asked, her voice laced with barely-contained anger. "To apologize for cheating on him?" Her gaze was sharp as she scanned Ji-soo from head to toe, taking in the discomfort in the other woman's eyes. "You deserve the blocking, Ji-soo. Every bit of it."

Ji-soo flinched, looking down at her shoes as Beom-sook's words hit home. There was no hint of compassion or forgiveness in Beom-sook's stance. She hadn't forgotten how much Beom-ki had cared for Ji-soo, how he'd gone out of his way to be the perfect boyfriend. He'd given his all, only for Ji-soo to betray him in the end. Beom-sook had witnessed the heartbreak that had followed—the sleepless nights, the quiet, haunted look in Beom-ki's eyes, and the frustration he'd buried deep. And now, here Ji-soo was, acting as though she could just waltz back in.

"All he ever did was be good to you, Ji-soo," Beom-sook continued, her voice unwavering. "And what did he get in return? Heartbreak. You don't get to come back now, acting like you're the victim just because he blocked you. You should leave." Her tone left no room for argument, her words falling like final judgment.

Ji-soo's eyes widened, but she quickly looked away, swallowing hard. She opened her mouth as if to protest, to say something—anything to justify herself—but the fierce look on Beom-sook's face made her think twice. She closed her mouth, her expression falling as she took a small, unsteady step back.

There was a tense silence as Beom-sook held her ground, standing tall, her arms still crossed as she watched Ji-soo falter. The message was clear: Beom-ki didn't need Ji-soo's apologies or excuses, not now. Beom-sook had his back, and she wasn't about to let Ji-soo disrupt the peace he'd worked so hard to rebuild.

Slowly, defeated, Ji-soo glanced down, nodding slightly before she turned away, her footsteps retreating down the porch. Beom-sook waited until she was out of sight before finally relaxing her posture, a small sigh escaping her lips. She closed the door quietly, satisfied that she had protected her brother from the unnecessary drama Ji-soo would have brought.

Beom-sook lingered at the door for a moment after closing it, exhaling as if she'd just finished a fight. She shook her head to shake off any lingering frustration, then turned around, putting on a casual expression as she made her way back down the hallway. Her mother, who had been tidying up in the kitchen, looked up just as she entered the room.

"Who was that, Beom-sook?" her mom asked, an eyebrow raised, her hands pausing over a dish towel as she glanced toward the door, clearly curious about their unexpected visitor. Beom-sook knew her mother well enough to recognize that curious glint in her eye; she would definitely have questions if she sensed anything out of the ordinary.

Beom-sook forced a nonchalant shrug, waving her hand dismissively as she passed by her mother and made her way toward the hallway. "No one important, just someone asking for directions," she replied smoothly, hoping her tone came across as casual enough to prevent further questions. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to get involved in the whole mess with Ji-soo. Her mom had already been through enough worrying about Beom-ki's heartbreak—no need to drag her back into that.

Her mother studied her for a second longer, her gaze lingering as if trying to read the truth behind her daughter's words. But Beom-sook kept her expression carefully neutral, even giving a slight, reassuring smile as she started down the hallway. As she walked, she could feel her mother's gaze on her back, but thankfully, no more questions came.