[2:08 AM - Abandoned noodle joint, backstreets of South Busan]
Everything was too clean.
Samuel pushed the steel shutter open with one knuckle. The metal screamed like it hadn't been touched in weeks. That was already a problem—Ji Yun was too paranoid to let rust build on any safehouse point, especially not this close to the Drift docks.
The noodle shop had long since stopped pretending to cook. Its windows were papered in old notices. Rats were louder than foot traffic. The city didn't breathe here—it coughed and spat.
Samuel stepped inside, moving through the dark with practiced muscle memory. Dust. Broken counter. Tools, gone.
Ji Yun wasn't here.
But her burner buzzed once on the ground, a final warning still lit on the screen.
[DON'T CHASE]
He turned it over. Blood on the back.
A second warning.
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[Flash Memory: One Hour Ago – Samuel's POV]
"You should have let me go on my own," Ji Yun said. They were in a stairwell, somewhere east of Line 6, just after the ambush he'd turned into a message.
"I don't need backup," Samuel said.
"But you're not good with exits."
She handed him a burner. Set the dead-drop time. One ping, no delay.
"And don't be dramatic. If they take me, assume I let them."
[Present – 2:10 AM]
Samuel moved to the corner of the shop where they used to reroute signal pings through an old rice cooker. The rig was ripped open. CPU half-melted. Someone had tried to fake a system fry.
He touched the inside lid. Still warm.
They'd left maybe twenty minutes ago.
Too close.
He stood still in the wreckage, calculating.
Then—movement.
Not Ji Yun.
A kid — 18 maybe. Fidgety. Didn't belong here. Crew mark: makeshift "N" inked onto his shoulder. Local nobody from a flea-bitten crew trying to attach themselves to Drift.
The kid froze when he saw Samuel.
Then ran.
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Samuel didn't sprint. He pivoted through garbage alleys, mapped the angles, cut corners with urban rhythm. His footwork was silent. Efficient. Barely touched the pavement.
The kid screamed for help once before Samuel caught his shoulder, spun him into a busted vending machine, and slammed an elbow into the wall beside his face—not touching skin. Just cracking plaster.
"Who told you she'd be alone?"
"I didn't—I didn't—!"
"Don't improvise lies. Just tell me which direction they dragged her."
The kid spit blood. Trembled. "Pier 17. Old dock warehouse. But you're too late."
Samuel leaned in close.
"That's what everyone says right before they bleed."
He let go.
The kid didn't run.
He just sat down and stared at the wall.
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Outside, Samuel knelt beneath a fire escape and pulled a cord he'd hidden days ago—a short duffel. Inside: a rolled-up steel pipe. His fallback gear. Bloodstained gloves. A knuckle brace.
He didn't like bringing it out.
But Lark had entered the city. And Ji Yun was gone.
This wasn't strategic anymore.
It was surgical.
[Meanwhile – Taejin Watches From a Rooftop]
Taejin leaned against the railing of a crumbling apartment, watching Samuel move like a ghost through the side streets.
He didn't blink.
He didn't follow.
"That's the second time I've seen that kid move like the city's already dead."
One of his crewmates muttered, "Think he'll make a move?"
"He will," Taejin said."But not alone."
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At Pier 17, Ji Yun sat bound to a chair. Bloody, but conscious. A single figure paced nearby — not Lark. Not yet. Just a mouthpiece.
A camera recorded. Silent.
"You see, Ryu," the voice said aloud. "They call you a ghost. But ghosts don't cry when we take their anchors."
The voice leaned forward, almost to Ji Yun.
"Let's see how far you'll crawl without her."
He turned off the camera. Pulled a wire.
A text fired out.Samuel's phone lit up once.
No words.
Just a map pin.
And a timer.