codename: Seraphim

Beom-ki let out a deep, exasperated sigh as he sank down onto the edge of the bed in his dimly lit hotel room. The bed creaked under his weight, the old springs protesting like a grumpy old man. He had barely settled in when a scurrying sound caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a fat mouse darting across the room, its tiny feet pattering against the wooden floor.

The mouse paused momentarily, its beady eyes glinting in the low light, as if sizing him up. Beom-ki's instincts kicked in. He felt a rush of annoyance; he had just arrived in a foreign city and was already confronted with vermin. In one swift motion, he reached into his bag, fingers wrapping around the cool metal of the silent pistol he had tucked away for emergencies. It felt oddly comforting in his grip, the weight of it reminding him that he was still in control, even in this unpredictable place.

He took a deep breath, steadying his hand as he aimed at the furry intruder. The mouse, oblivious to the danger lurking just a few feet away, resumed its scuttling. Beom-ki narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the small target. He had always prided himself on his accuracy, honed over years of training and countless encounters in the field. This was no different—just a mouse, but a pest nonetheless.

As he pulled the trigger, a soft thwip cut through the silence of the room, barely louder than a whisper. The bullet flew straight and true, striking the mouse before it could react. There was a moment of stillness, and then the mouse fell, lifeless, onto the floor, its small body twitching once before going still. Beom-ki felt a mix of satisfaction and distaste at the sight. He had acted out of instinct, but the act of taking a life—however small—always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He stood up, walking over to inspect the scene. The mouse lay on its side, its once-quick movements reduced to a mere memory. Beom-ki knelt beside it, the silent pistol still in hand. The room felt heavier now, the atmosphere charged with the remnants of what had just transpired. He contemplated the fragility of life, even in the most trivial forms, and how quickly everything could change in an instant—whether it was a mouse in a hotel room or the complications of his own life back home.

After a moment, he straightened up, tucking the pistol back into his bag. He stepped back, his mind already shifting to the tasks ahead. It was a grim reminder of the realities he faced, but he couldn't dwell on it. With the hotel's questionable sanitation standards, he needed to ensure he wasn't interrupted again.

Beom-ki tugged his shirt over his head with a weary sigh, tossing it onto the creaky bed behind him. Each movement felt heavy, as if the weight of the day pressed down on his shoulders, seeping into his muscles and settling in his bones. His patience had been stretched thin, and now, alone in the dim solitude of this rundown hotel room, he could finally let his guard down. "Too many surprises today… it's irritating," he muttered inwardly, grimacing as he recalled the unexpected series of events: the ambush in the alley, the sinister figure watching him from the rooftop, the grimy confines of this shabby hotel.

He unbuckled his belt with a sharp tug, the leather sliding free with a quiet snap, and he tossed it aside without a second thought. His jeans followed, pooling around his ankles as he stepped out of them, revealing the tension woven into his movements—a tension he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge until now. With each article of clothing shed, it felt as if he was peeling away layers of stress, each one clinging to him stubbornly before he could finally shrug it off.

Barefoot and down to his last shred of modesty, he strode toward the bathroom, the cold, chipped tiles biting at his feet as he walked. The bathroom door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing an even dingier, barely lit space that reeked faintly of mildew and stale air. He wrinkled his nose but stepped inside anyway, feeling a flicker of irritation at yet another discomfort in an already long day.

The bathroom mirror was scratched and clouded with a thin layer of grime, blurring his reflection. He caught his own eyes in the distorted glass, dark and tired, shadows cast under them like bruises. It felt surreal, almost like looking at a stranger after everything he'd endured since he landed in Russia. Bracing his hands against the edge of the sink, he let his head hang forward, the quiet hum of the fluorescent light overhead droning on, filling the silence around him.

"Nothing like a day in paradise," he thought wryly, watching the beads of sweat and dust still clinging to his skin in the mirror's dull glow. He twisted the rusted faucet, feeling a fresh wave of irritation as it sputtered to life, releasing a trickle of water that splashed against the basin before finally flowing at a steady pace. Scooping some water into his hands, he splashed it over his face, letting the cold shock of it wake him up, shake him free from the lingering remnants of the day's adrenaline.

With a deep breath, Beom-ki straightened, his gaze hardening as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands that clung to his forehead. The simple act of rinsing off, of standing in this cramped, dim space, somehow felt grounding. It reminded him why he was here, what he needed to accomplish, and that he couldn't afford to let exhaustion cloud his focus.

He reached for the small bar of soap by the sink, its wrapper crumpled and yellowed with age. Lathering it between his hands, he began to wash, his movements slow and methodical, washing away not just the dirt and sweat of the day but the tension that had woven itself into every fiber of his being.

In a dimly lit office cloaked in shadows, a man sat at an imposing desk, his silhouette outlined against the faint glow of a single overhead light. A thick cloud of smoke curled lazily from the cigarette held between his fingers, its tendrils weaving through the air, filling the room with the rich, bitter scent of tobacco. The man's lips curved into a smug smile as he flicked ashes onto the polished wood surface, leaning back in his chair with an aura of practiced indifference. His eyes—icy blue and piercing—glinted in the low light, as if they could pierce through walls, unraveling secrets from a distance.

A subordinate stood nearby, head bowed slightly in respect, his voice low as he relayed the information. "Sir, we have found out where he is staying at the moment," he reported in a careful, reverent tone, his Russian clipped and precise.

The room fell silent, thick with anticipation, as the man behind the desk absorbed the news. His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm on the chair's arm, a slow, almost sinister sound in the otherwise hushed room. And then, out of the silence, came a dark, quiet chuckle—cold and mirthless, but holding a depth of amusement that made his subordinate uneasy.

Without shifting his gaze, the man finally spoke, his words delivered in smooth, measured Russian that was barely above a whisper, yet filled the room with its chilling authority. "Let's leave him for now," he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He took a drag from his cigarette, his eyes narrowing as he exhaled, releasing a thick plume of smoke that seemed to mirror the shadowy danger that lurked in his gaze.

The cigarette he held was no ordinary one; the intricate dragon designs etched onto its surface matched precisely the one Beom had found on the rooftop. A silent taunt, a calling card—this was a tobacco reserved for men of his rank and power, a symbol of control and dominance that few dared to challenge. He turned the cigarette between his fingers, admiring it, as if savoring the irony of Beom picking up the clue, almost like a spider inviting its prey to tug on a strand of web.

"Oh, Beom, Beom, Beom…" he murmured, rolling the name across his tongue with a mocking familiarity, his grin widening as he tapped a fresh layer of ash from his cigarette. His voice held a darkly amused tone, as if he were savoring some inside joke only he understood. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

The man's grin stretched further, revealing a glint of his teeth as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his hands steepled thoughtfully. The light caught the cruel curve of his smile, casting shadows across his sharp features, making him appear both regal and dangerous. To him, this game was already won—his opponent just didn't know it yet.

From behind the desk, he watched his subordinate with a faint look of satisfaction. "Let him run around a bit," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, the edge of his smile curling higher. "Let him believe he has the upper hand. It makes the fall that much sweeter."

With that, he took another leisurely drag, letting the tip of the cigarette glow a deep, ember red, eyes gleaming as he leaned back, shrouded once more in shadows, ready to savor every moment of this twisted game of cat and mouse.

Beom walked out of the bathroom, still damp from his shower, the steam lingering in the air behind him. A white towel was wrapped securely around his waist, clinging to his lean form, droplets of water trailing down his chest as he made his way across the room. His expression was tense, focused, his eyes narrowing with determination as he moved toward the small desk by the window. He placed his laptop down, the metallic surface cool against his skin, and plugged in his phone, his fingers moving quickly, a man on a mission. He knew he needed to check in with the agency and let them know he'd arrived—even if the welcome had been more hostile than anticipated.

The call tone buzzed, the screen lighting up with Nakwon's contact. After a few tense rings, he picked up. His voice was immediate, laced with relief and concern. "Hello, Nakwon... It's Beom."

There was a brief pause, then a sharp intake of breath from the other end. "Beom… is that you? It's been hours—I was starting to worry. Are you all right?"

Beom sighed, rubbing a hand over his damp hair as he settled into the chair. "Yeah, I'm all right now, but I had a rough start. I was attacked as soon as I arrived. But don't worry, I handled it."

"Oh…" Nakwon's voice was laced with worry, but he relaxed slightly, a soft exhale audible over the line. "I'm just glad you're safe. You had me worried for a minute there."

He gave a slight nod, even though Nakwon couldn't see him, his expression hardening as he recalled the events of earlier. "Listen, Nakwon, when I was attacked... the guy left something behind. It wasn't random. It was a tobacco stub, but not just any tobacco—it had a dragon design, intricate, like it was made for a specific purpose." Beom took a breath, then continued. "I snapped a picture of it. I'll send it to you now."

There was a soft clicking sound on Nakwon's end as he pulled up the image Beom sent. He was silent for a moment, studying the details, then he muttered, almost to himself, "That… that looks like something connected to the mafia."

"Exactly," Beom replied, his voice dropping to a steely edge. "And that means it's almost certainly Yaroslav. This kind of signature—it's too blatant, too intentional to be anyone else."

Nakwon's tone became contemplative, tinged with concern. "But Beom, if it was Yaroslav… why would he leave something like that behind? It's almost as if he wanted you to know he was there. What game is he playing?"

Beom clenched his jaw, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. His eyes flicked to the window, his reflection barely visible against the dark Moscow skyline. "I don't know, Nakwon," he replied, his voice quiet but tense. "But it feels like he's sending a message. He's making it clear that he's watching… that he's in control. And that means he's already several steps ahead."

Nakwon was silent for a moment, his breath audible over the line as he processed Beom's words. "It doesn't add up. Why go through the trouble of ambushing you but then leave something as obvious as a tobacco trail? It's like he's playing a mind game, taunting you."

Beom leaned back, exhaling deeply, feeling the weight of his situation sink in. "I agree," he said slowly. "He knows I'm here, and he wants me to feel that. This isn't just a random act of intimidation—it's calculated. Every piece, every move… it's part of some twisted game he's set up."

Nakwon was silent for a moment, his voice filled with both confusion and worry. "Just be careful, Beom. If he's already playing with you this way, who knows what he has planned next. Stay sharp… and trust your instincts. Yaroslav may be smart, but so are you."

Beom nodded, his expression hardening, his resolve strengthening. "Thanks, Nakwon. I'll be on my guard."

Beom leaned forward, still studying the dragon-designed tobacco stub on his desk, when Nakwon's voice broke the silence over the phone. His tone had shifted, now carrying a serious, almost cautious edge. "Ah... before I forget," Nakwon began, his voice steady but with a hint of urgency. "You remember I told you about Elena, the ex-Russian agent?"

Beom's gaze sharpened, his mind quickly recalling the brief but significant information Nakwon had shared about her in the past. "Yeah, I remember," he replied, keeping his tone calm but intrigued. Elena was known to be highly skilled, having worked covertly across various high-stakes missions. But Nakwon had always been careful not to reveal too much about her. Now, it seemed there was more to the story.