Black agents did not leave official paperwork behind, but in truth, Lee Wooshin was the cornerstone of the Foreign National Interest Intelligence Division led by the First Deputy Director.

The field support teams that aided him changed depending on the mission, but Lee Wooshin alone was a constant.

Unofficial Team One of the Foreign National Interest Intelligence Division. The only person belonging to that team was Lee Wooshin.

“Even during my personal time, I don’t do anything without the silicone mask. What kind of freak would be like me?”

—.......

He grinned, pleased by the Deputy Director’s silence.

“They said it was OCD at the hospital. I thought it was just an occupational hazard. They told me if I don’t fix it now, I’ll end up clawing off my own face someday. Ah—no wonder some faceless egg ghost keeps staring at me at night.”

Contrary to the melodramatic way he spoke, he snickered soundlessly. A red tongue softly traced the corner of lips lifted in a sleek arc. He looked entirely frivolous and delinquent.

“And I can’t be a spy anymore, anyway. Got a tattoo.”

—What?

A black agent’s body, by principle, had to remain clean. It was an unspoken rule, meant to prevent any single body from becoming uniquely identifiable—kept blank like a canvas.

They crafted fictitious identities by adding or removing visual cues, calculating everything from hairstyle and nail length to the stories behind their scars.

For a black agent to tattoo their bare body... it was a flagrant violation. The Deputy Director struggled to keep the agitation out of her voice.

—...Is it permanent? Or semi-permanent?

“Permanent.”

—...You idiot. It’s fine. We can cover up scars, so what’s a tattoo?

“I got it on my dick.”

—...Say that again.

“You heard me. Why make me say something shameful again?”

When he replied with a slow drawl, the Deputy Director ground her teeth so hard it echoed. Knowing full well how she would react, Lee Wooshin added cheerfully,

“So now I can’t even whip my dick out carelessly, what do I do?”

—Phew... We can cover up scars, a tattoo’s nothing...

“Still, I probably can’t have sex with a target anymore, right?”

—...!

“If someone licks it or sucks it, they’ll know right away.”

—...Lee Wooshin, you insane bastard!

The Deputy Director, unable to restrain herself any longer, exploded in a thunderous roar.

Even as the shout stabbed at his eardrums, Lee Wooshin only furrowed his brows. With an amused expression, he turned on the windshield wipers. He watched, grinning, as the long blade scraped dryly across the completely clean glass.

—You tattooed the body that belongs to the nation?! What, where, why? Are you out of your mind?

“At this point, I can’t tell if you’re my handler or my pimp.”

—Shut your damn mouth, you bastard!

Though highly competent, his superior had her old-fashioned sides.

She believed that agents were property of the state and shouldn’t damage or misuse their bodies—but simultaneously, that they had to offer up those same bodies on behalf of everyone else.

An intelligence officer had to be a decent, model citizen and patriot, while also being capable of surveillance, deceit, blackmail, assassination, wiretapping—a split identity was required.

The Deputy Director had upheld that contradictory standard as a lifelong conviction. Even the Birdbox Operation had involved sex as an essential component. Approaching a lonely, exhausted woman had always been a deception based on sexual appeal.

Lee Wooshin, of course, had taken it all with cold detachment. The missions, the acts of intimacy—licking a woman until her skin puckered with wrinkles—all of it had been a first for him.

—Are you seriously quitting? Is that what this is? You, of all people?

“What did you think I’ve been saying?”

—There’s no way you’re quitting.

“Unless you plan to give me my face back, stop there. I’ll handle praying for the dead myself.”

The Deputy Director didn’t believe for a second that Lee Wooshin would actually resign, despite all his bluster. Because he...

—You... don’t need that document anymore? That one file you’ve been holding out for all this time. You’re just going to give up?

The voice that had been teasing and grinning suddenly stopped cold. The glint of mischief vanished from his eyes, and something deeper surged up—a long-festered inflammation of unknowable origin.

The expression on his face drained away, revealing a raw, exposed surface. A thick, black boredom pooled like sewage—this was the real face he had hidden beneath the surface all along.

“I haven’t given up.”

He merely stared quietly at the dried blood crusted over the bones of his knuckles.

What Lee Wooshin had demanded in exchange for becoming a black agent was a classified file marked with the highest security clearance. His superior at the time, Ju Seolheon, then a Grade 2 Division Head, had recruited him with a covert promise to obtain that file.

But even now, after her unprecedented promotion to Director and her current title as the youngest Deputy Director in NIS history, access to that file remained locked. Only the Director of the NIS could open it.

“It’s just... after ten years, I turned into the egg ghost first.”

—...You’re still making jokes?

“I served the owl all that time and still failed.”

His voice held a subtle smile, but it landed like a blade. The mission had succeeded, but the results were negligible. The only lead—the owl—had outlived its usefulness.

“So what if I kick up a fuss now? I’ve got nowhere else to vent this rage. Is it really that offensive?”

—...So you’re taking it out on me now. You impudent bastard...

The Deputy Director muttered, unable to hide her fatigue. Lee Wooshin might seem soft-spoken, but inside he was cunning and rotten to the core. He had long since mastered the art of peeling people’s nerves with a brazen smile.

“Either you or Wŏnchang—it’s going to be one of you. Still, I’ll honor seniority.”

Just as he lowered his darkly shadowed gaze with a playful flick—

The engine, which had been running smoothly, suddenly began to rattle. Smoke began rising from the hood.

Ah, fuck... His once-gentle smile cracked with a low curse.

“I don’t have much for roadside repairs. Then I’ll—”

He was just about to pull over and yank out his in-ear mic when—

—...Okay, okay! Fine! You can quit!

The Deputy Director shouted in urgency.

—But...! Just take on the mission the dead one was supposed to handle. Do that, and I’ll find a way to get you in. I’m just one step away from becoming Director.

“...”

—I’m serious. You can quit. Just settle the score before you go.

Lee Wooshin grabbed the bottle of water he had tossed onto the passenger seat and gulped it down in one go. His Adam’s apple moved heavily up and down.

—You can even have your face back.

The empty bottle crumpled with a crunch.

The first thing a black agent lost was their name and face. The best agent had the most forgettable face. The more blurred in the memory of others, the more competent the spy.

But Lee Wooshin, with his physique and striking face that didn't suit a typical East Asian, had left too strong an impression. It had become his greatest weakness. So, for ten years, he had thoroughly erased his face.

And now they were offering it back, just as he was about to quit. Should he call that stingy, or generous?

A dry laugh slipped out. It was a wave much larger than the one that came when he had vibrated his molar implant. Blood soaked in dopamine coursed fast and hot through his veins.

“Without that fucking mask?”

—Without it.

“As Lee Wooshin?”

—Just as Lee Wooshin.

His own name, spoken aloud for the first time in ages, felt like it belonged to someone else. Even so, the Deputy Director accepted every word as if surrendering. Lee Wooshin narrowed his eyes and snorted skeptically. But the offer was tempting enough. His wet lips curled smoothly upward.

“Didn’t you say before I could never escape?”

He leaned the back of his head against the headrest.

—You’re a quarter, remember? That’s exactly the kind of mask we need now.

Lee Wooshin’s real mask.

His half-lidded eyes gleamed mischievously. It was a mission only possible at the very end.

—Have you ever heard of a company called Blast?

***

<Recruitment Notice: Team Leader and Training Instructor>

We’re looking for individuals with successful experience in military organization and leadership.

Applicants with battalion or brigade-level training experience preferred. Must be capable of building trust and confidence with foreign military command.

Should be able to take responsibility for rapid deployment, joint operations, peacekeeping missions, humanitarian aid operations, and training management. Preference for applicants with prior experience living in Africa.

Han Seoryeong skimmed the recruitment post on the Blast Corp site with vague disinterest.

It had been a few days since she submitted her resume on Jung Pilgyu’s recommendation. It was an unfamiliar company, but all Seoryeong needed was a stable paycheck—and a certain opportunity.

She needed a palatable hostage. And at the same time, a capable helper.

This was a place filled with freelance soldiers who’d broken away from the regular army. Most of them likely cared only about money and survival.

People with dangerous skills but no conscience. People with deep resentment toward society and shitty personalities. That’s the kind of people she wanted to keep an eye on.

“Miss Han Seoryeong?”

The door burst open, and a middle-aged man entered, tapping the back of his neck with a file folder. Seoryeong set down the phone she had been pointlessly reading with such intensity.