codename: Seraphim

Sasha barely paused as he pulled a pristine white envelope from the inner pocket of his coat, flicking it toward Beom with casual precision. "Before I forget," he said, his tone as nonchalant as if he were discussing the weather, "this is from my research. There was a woman—Merlin Berlov. She used to work as a servant in the Vyshnevsky mansion, and she was reportedly loyal." He tapped his fingers on the edge of his bowl, eyes flickering with an unreadable glint.

Beom took the envelope with a quiet nod, his fingers sliding over the paper as he opened it carefully, pulling out the neatly folded documents within. He scanned them quickly, murmuring to himself as he read, "She now works at a café in Krasnogorsk…" His voice trailed off, his expression sharpening as he processed the information.

Meanwhile, Sasha continued eating with an infuriating calmness, unbothered by the urgency Beom was starting to feel. As if sensing the energy shift, Beom closed the file and glanced at Sasha with a renewed sense of purpose. "Then what are we waiting for?" he demanded, leaning forward. "We should go and question her."

Sasha paused mid-bite, lifting his gaze slowly to meet Beom's eyes. He placed his chopsticks delicately on top of the bowl, letting out a faint, almost amused sigh. "Do you have a death wish? Do you even realize what you look like right now? You look exhausted—tired beyond measure." Sasha's eyes traveled over Beom with a scrutinizing glance, taking in the shadows under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. "You're a mess, Beom. You think you can just keep going, but it's obvious you need a break. Jeez, are you some kind of workaholic?"

Beom bristled, his fingers tightening around the envelope in his hand. He hated to admit it, but Sasha was right. His mind was still foggy from lack of sleep, his body still aching from the last mission. But admitting that out loud wasn't an option—not now. He lifted his chin, defiant. "This isn't about me," he muttered, his voice thick with a mixture of frustration and conviction. "Yaroslav might still be out there… He could be hiding, plotting something. We can't afford to sit around while he's a threat."

Sasha's gaze softened, but only for a split second before he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a smirk that was both challenging and calm. "Yaroslav will still be there after you rest. Trust me, he's not going anywhere. If anything, running yourself into the ground will only make you an easier target for him. And besides," he said with a slight shrug, "the world won't fall apart because you take a moment to breathe."

Beom glared at him, unwilling to concede even though his body screamed for rest. There was something about Sasha's casual confidence that grated on him, like an itch he couldn't scratch. It was as if Sasha knew the exact balance between persistence and rest, while Beom was caught in the relentless pursuit of answers.

Sasha leaned forward, lowering his voice as his gaze locked onto Beom's. "Listen. I get it, alright? You want to finish this. But working yourself to the bone isn't going to bring Yaroslav down any faster." His voice was oddly gentle, even if his words still held that hint of a smirk. "Let me handle things for a bit. You recharge, and then we tackle this together. Trust me on this."

Beom's jaw tightened, every fiber of his stubborn pride resisting Sasha's words. But beneath that pride, he felt the tug of truth. As much as he hated it, he was at his limit.

Beom let out a sigh, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair, watching Sasha finish his meal with an unhurried, almost elegant precision. Once Sasha was done, he casually swiped his card on the reader to pay, the transaction as smooth and effortless as his whole demeanor. He didn't even glance at the receipt, merely giving a slight nod to the vendor before turning to Beom.

"Let's go," Sasha said with that unbothered confidence, and they both headed out, stepping into the cold air outside.

Beom slid into the passenger's seat with his usual guarded expression, settling in as Sasha moved around to the driver's side. As Sasha started the car and began to drive, the silence hung thick between them, only the soft hum of the engine filling the space. The city lights streamed past, casting fleeting shadows across their faces, but Sasha's eyes stayed focused on the road—until he broke the silence.

"When I first saw you… you looked so familiar. Like I'd seen your picture somewhere on Taglt," Sasha said, his voice thoughtful, as if trying to solve a riddle.

Beom blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. "I'm not on Taglt," he said bluntly. "The person you saw was my twin sister."

Sasha raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways at Beom with an intrigued expression. "You have a twin sister?"

"Yes… I just said that," Beom replied dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he caught the hint of surprise in Sasha's eyes.

Sasha chuckled, turning his gaze back to the road. "Interesting. So there's two of you out there." His voice carried a trace of amusement, as if the idea of another Beom intrigued him more than he cared to admit. "Must be quite a handful for anyone to deal with."

Beom rolled his eyes, letting out a slight huff, though there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. He looked out the window, hiding the warmth that had crept into his face as he imagined Sasha meeting his twin. The thought was amusing—almost enough to distract him from the tension that always seemed to linger whenever they were alone like this.

Sasha tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, a relaxed rhythm that matched the effortless cool he seemed to embody. "So," he drawled, casting another quick glance at Beom, "if your twin is anything like you, I suppose she's got that same stubborn streak."

Beom let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "She's worse," he replied with a grin. "Ten times worse." He leaned back, crossing his arms, but the glint in his eyes hinted that he took a bit of pride in that. "You'd be lucky to survive a conversation with her."

Sasha smirked, as though already accepting the challenge, and Beom couldn't help but feel a small, inexplicable thrill at the thought of Sasha meeting his sister.

Beom tilted his head, glancing over at Sasha with a skeptical expression. "So… where are we going?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of both curiosity and impatience.

Sasha's eyes sparkled with a glint of mischief as he responded, "To my hideout."

Beom raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he shot Sasha a look that was equal parts disbelief and amusement. "Your hideout? What are you, twelve?" he scoffed, his lips curving into a faint smirk as he looked out the window, the city lights flickering past.

Sasha only chuckled, his laughter a deep, rich sound that filled the car. "Hey, every genius needs a place to retreat," he replied, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a self-satisfied smile. "It's more than just a hideout. Think of it as… my sanctuary." He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, clearly entertained by Beom's reaction.

Beom rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help the curiosity that crept in. "A sanctuary, huh?" he muttered, his tone laced with sarcasm. "What, do you have secret gadgets stashed away? A secret lab where you conduct experiments or something?"

Sasha laughed, shaking his head. "Not quite," he said, though there was a hint of mystery in his voice. "But let's just say it's a place no one knows about—a safe space. Only a select few even know it exists."

Beom couldn't deny the intrigue that was slowly building. He leaned back in his seat, arms still crossed, as he glanced over at Sasha. "Must be nice, having a place where you can just… disappear."

Sasha's smile softened for a moment, something unspoken lingering in his gaze. "It has its perks," he admitted, his tone quieter. "In this line of work, a little solitude can go a long way."

Beom looked at him, a strange tension settling between them. Despite himself, he was starting to feel curious, even a bit excited. Sasha was a mystery wrapped in layers of secrets, and the idea of seeing this so-called hideout—a place that held pieces of Sasha he hadn't yet seen—was oddly appealing.

"Fine," Beom said, trying to mask his interest with a casual shrug. "But if this 'hideout' of yours turns out to be just some creepy basement, I'm out of here."

Sasha smirked, shaking his head as he turned his gaze back to the road. "Trust me, Beom," he said with a teasing glint in his eye. "You've never seen anything like it."

They drove through Moscow's winding streets, Sasha taking sharp turns and navigating corners like he knew every inch of the city. After what felt like a maze of lefts and rights, they finally pulled up to a discreet, unassuming building tucked away in a quiet part of town. Beom stepped out, looking around with a mix of confusion and curiosity. This place was small, almost too quiet, blending in with the surroundings so well that it was easy to overlook.

"This is... also in Moscow?" Beom murmured, more to himself, taking in the modest exterior. It hardly looked like the sort of place someone would keep a so-called 'hideout.'

Sasha gave him a sly grin, leading the way inside. "Make yourself comfortable," he said, his voice low and calm. "Lemme go make an ice bath for you; it really helps after a day like this." Without waiting for Beom's response, Sasha strode off toward what seemed to be the bathroom.

Beom raised a brow, watching Sasha disappear down the hallway. "Mhmm...not bad," he muttered, letting his gaze roam around the small space. The place was surprisingly neat and cozy, with minimal furnishings and a sleek, almost Spartan aesthetic. But there was something about it that felt intensely private, like every object had a purpose, and none were there by chance.

"Nothing fishy…" he mumbled as he walked around, noting the absence of personal effects or anything sentimental. But Beom wasn't one to trust easily, especially not with someone as enigmatic as Sasha. He began a subtle search, peeking into drawers, sliding his fingers along shelves, checking for hidden compartments. Yet, every corner seemed meticulously empty—no papers, no evidence of anything unusual.