"Was being married that good?"

His expression was unreadable—somewhere between anger and grief. But behind that, his eyes were crawling with an abnormal obsession with Seoryeong.

See that? So much for purity and obedience. Who knows what he’s trying to provoke with all this poking and prodding. Seoryeong didn’t back away—she fired right back.

"I must look a lot like that Sonia person."

Kiya blinked slowly.

"Is that why you said what you did last time? That you liked screwing someone who looked like me?"

"What?"

Clatter—Lee Wooshin dropped his spoon with a sharp clang, voice cutting in like a knife. Whoa... the Special Security Team members all let out barely-restrained gasps and glanced at Wooshin’s face as if on cue.

"If you’re that curious about marriage, go try it yourself. And find her too—screw her all you want. But—"

A flicker of strain twisted at the corner of her eyes. Seoryeong swatted his arm aside and shoved the chair he had pulled toward her with a long kick. Thud. Thud. With each strike of the chair leg, she widened the distance. Kiya’s expression flinched into surprise.

"Marriage, husbands—don't go throwing around those words so carelessly to someone you just met. I’m sorry, but ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) I lose it when it comes to my husband. I hate when strangers bring up my personal life out of nowhere. And frankly, the shit about ‘hardtack’ and ‘boar’—I find that just as offensive, Father."

“...What are you talking about?"

Kiya’s brow furrowed. That look—like he had no idea what she meant—left Seoryeong even more dumbfounded.

Oh, come on. First he runs his mouth, now he plays dumb? She remembered every slurred word he’d sobbed through tears and blows, plain as day.

“You fucking hardtack...! Your husband’s such a wild—” What was it again? Boar? ...God, even thinking about it made her stomach burn.

She’d felt it from the first meeting—this man, despite claiming to serve God, had not a shred of respect in word or action.

Seoryeong kept shoving his chair away. Kiya flailed his arms in protest as their distance grew.

"Sonia, wait, that’s not what I—"

"My name is Han Seoryeong."

"......"

"I am married. Yes. I have a husband. But I don’t have a religion. I don’t have friends either."

"......!"

"Father, I can let one act of rudeness go. Two? Not so much. Going forward, I expect you to call me by the correct name."

The moment she drew a clear boundary, Kiya’s face subtly shifted. He ran his fingers along his brow and fell silent.

Seoryeong turned casually back to her tray, but his gaze—now weighed down with too many thoughts—lingered until she finally set down her spoon.

After finishing their meal, the operatives followed Kiya down into the basement.

The temperature had dropped below freezing. Children sat there shivering, their heads drooped low as they clung tightly to each other. Their clothes were worn thin, shoes stripped away.

They called this a monastery, but it was really a prison—a windowless underground chamber. The team did their best to keep a neutral expression, but there was one thing they couldn’t ignore.

"What exactly is this?"

The children wore strange masks. They looked like clown hats—horns branching from either side, each one colored and shaped differently, giving them a garish, almost playful look.

But the masks covered their entire faces like helmets. They looked heavy—so heavy that the children couldn’t keep their heads up and kept nodding forward, weakly swaying.

At first, it seemed like the masks were just meant to obscure their faces. But something was wrong. The children squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. One was even clawing at the surface with their fingernails, trying to peel it off.

They weren’t masks. They were torture devices—tight-fitting restraints that compressed the skull, controlling the body.

Seoryeong spoke before she realized it.

"The masks... they look painful. Do they have to keep wearing them?"

"Yeah. They were painful."

"......"

"Don't like how they look? Want me to take them off?"

She hadn’t even replied when, all at once, Kiya hopped forward and began removing the masks, one by one.

Shit— She instantly glanced at Wooshin. He stood there silently, face pale, not saying a word.

Clang. Clatter.

Each mask that hit the ground echoed through the stone chamber.

Seoryeong studied the color draining from his face. His jaw was locked tight, like it had been carved from stone. His breathing was unsteady.

The children clutched their foreheads, marked with red welts, sobbing uncontrollably. Only Kiya remained smiling.

"Dress them up like this and negotiations go smoother. I don’t have any ulterior motives, really. And tomorrow they’ll be transferred to the annex on the far side of the monastery. Just make sure they’re escorted safely, okay?"

"......"

Wooshin’s throat twitched as he swallowed hard. Like he was seeing a ghost, he crouched down and reached toward one of the fallen masks. Kiya tilted his lips in amusement and said:

"That one’s the mask I wore when I was little. Why?"

"......!"

Wooshin’s hand froze mid-air. His warped gaze ran slowly up Kiya’s body. That expression—seeing the priest like a stranger—was abrupt.

"I made it to that pretty castle, you know. That winter castle. I wore it there."

The look he gave Wooshin asked silently—

Am I your favorite out of everyone here?

***

He jolted awake.

Throwing back the blanket, Lee Wooshin sat upright, sweat beading like pearls down his neck.

It had been a long time since he’d woken like this, drenched in sweat, tormented by something he couldn’t name. He dragged a hand down his face, the monastery’s dead silence pressing against his skin—no insects, no wind. Nothing.

Kiya and Sonia...

The unfamiliar names stabbed at his chest. Even saying them aloud felt like lifting something impossibly heavy.

Sonia... Kiya... Kiyara...

"――."

Maybe it was the fact that he’d returned to this land again. His nerves felt like they’d been stripped bare. The whole day was soaked in irritation.

The connection between the Winter Castle and the Russian Orthodox Church—and those black-haired children—was closing in, second by second. And the terror attack triggered by Ligai, which blew all of it wide open at once... that had been no accident.

He rose from the bed, his mind a tangle of unease. He felt like he was finally back at the beginning.

The Solzhenitsyn family estate. The Winter Castle, once crawling with government officials. The threads of a religious cult and a group of scientists. If there was one thing they all had in common—it was the power to change the world.

Wooshin staggered forward, pressing against the migraine threatening to split his skull. He needed to see Seoryeong. A worm of dread twisted inside his gut, growing tighter with every step.

This feeling—this unbearable sense of urgency—where was it coming from? Was it from the moment he saw that mask?

His heart was pounding out of control, like he’d swallowed pure caffeine. He couldn’t calm down.

He felt like something would explode the moment he let down his guard—

"What the... what kind of bullshit is that?!"

Suddenly, a panicked shout rang out in the night. At this hour? And it was a voice he recognized. Wooshin’s face hardened. He broke into a run straight toward Seoryeong’s room.

"...Father, I told you to quit spewing nonsense—!"

Another shout, cracking with strain.

Sonia, Sonia—the name repeated in desperate tones, the argument unfolding behind closed doors.

Thud, thud—a blunt sound, like something being thrown.

A muffled sob, like someone trying to choke down their cries.

All of it resonated through the worn floorboards.

Wooshin seized the doorknob like he was ready to rip it off its hinges.

"Let go...! Let go of me!"

The scene that met his eyes turned his blood to ice.

"Don’t—! Don’t touch... ngh, me... Move, get off!"

"Sonia, calm down! Sonia—!"

"If you’re just gonna run your mouth, get the hell out...! Ngh...!"

"Don’t cry. I’m sorry. Don’t cry."

Her belongings lay scattered in the wrecked room. Two bodies tangled together in what looked like a struggle.

Between forcibly parted lips, something bright red pushed its way in. The wet, sucking sound of flesh being devoured was too vivid.

"――."

What... what the fuck is this?

His vision blacked out, then blinked back to life like a hammer to the skull.

Kiya had her tongue trapped, his mouth clamped down over hers, jaw unhinged like a predator. Her cheeks caved in as he devoured her lips, and though Seoryeong strained to push him away, she couldn’t stop the sobs breaking loose.

Wooshin lunged. His body surged forward with the kind of fury that lit every vein in fire. He grabbed Kiya’s neck and wrenched him away.

"Han Seoryeong—!"

His shout cracked like lightning through the room. The moment he saw her swollen lips, sucked red by another man—murder surged up like a tidal wave.

Fucking hell—!

He reached to grab her, trembling with rage, but—smack—her hand struck his before he could even touch her.

The situation made no sense. His face twisted into disbelief as he met her eyes—bloodshot, wide, and staring at him like he was some grotesque insect.

"I just... heard something really insane..."

That hollow gaze turned pitch-black, strange vitality seeping in. She muttered like she was biting the words apart.

"You’re... really—"

A broken laugh, shaped like a sob, spilled out of her.

"Are you Kim Hyeon?"