Clang. With the chime of a bell, cold wind pushed into the tavern, turning the heads of those drinking inside. Who was this lunatic woman in the middle of the night? Someone coughed awkwardly.

A thick coat stained with blood, boots like those of a soldier, a swollen face like dead meat, hair tangled and wild, and between it all, ghostlike eyes flashing.

As she trudged into the lit tavern, a strange silence fell.

Her condition was already far from normal. From the beginning she had been abducted in nothing but thin clothes, forced to strip coats and boots off the dead.

Climbing back down from the rails, through the tunnel, all the way to the village where people lived. Her eyes stung at the memory of her instructor’s lesson—that a mercenary must be able to walk, and keep walking.

So she had gone, without rest for hours, until she stumbled into this tavern with its lights on. Even in the warm air, Seoryeong’s shoulders shook violently. Limping, she sat at the bar table, earning a disapproving glance from the burly middle-aged owner. She only wanted a glass of water, but her throat was frozen, lips stiff, making it hard to even speak.

“A customer walks in and you just stand there staring, you husband-fool!”

A woman bustled across the hall, scolding the owner as she draped a blanket over Seoryeong.

“You and that temper! That’s not the point—”

The owner’s eyes flared as he rapped the bar with his knuckles.

“Miss, you shouldn’t be here like this. Looks like you need a hospital. Want me to call an ambulance?”

“No...”

The warmth of the stove felt like needles stabbing her skin. Why did such small pain bring tears? Because Wooshin wasn’t there. Because he had vanished from before her eyes again.

But she could no longer hate him as before. Even the moment when he let go of the tracks without hesitation—she knew now it had been for her sake. She could not rage at him as she once had.

Her raw eyes were colder, yet burning hotter than ever. Even without you, I won’t collapse the way I did before. Once was enough for loss to gnaw away my mind and shatter all I had built. A parting like this won’t touch me.

[...This morning, during a test run, the TX-1 train derailed, killing eight crew members including the conductor and injuring fifteen passengers. Among the list of dead released, Yuri Solzhenitsyn has been confirmed as a victim, shocking the public. We now connect to a reporter on the scene.]

Her frozen red fingers flinched. At the name piercing her ears, she slowly lifted her head. Above the bar, a monitor hung.

Her wavering eyes fixed on the news. The footage showed carriages sheared off, the gorge below, devastation beyond words.

[...Four carriages of the TX-1 train suddenly derailed in a tunnel and plunged into the gorge. As you see, the front cars are tilted to one side, the windows shattered to pieces. The cause is reported as sudden mechanical failure during the test run...]

“Oh heavens... how pitiful.”

“Clicking my tongue does nothing, still can’t believe it. How can life be so cruel...”

“You’re the cruel one, listen to yourself!”

The woman set down steaming potato soup, snapping at her husband. Seoryeong flexed her numb toes like in rehab and began spooning the soup.

The wreckage drifted downstream in the current. Rescuers combed the gorge in their gear. Yet the news mentioned nothing of America. Shaking, she devoured the soup like the starved.

[Eight hours since the derailment, despite the deployment of fire, police, and even military units, recovery and rescue progress remains slow. People gather to mourn Yuri Solzhenitsyn. Muscovites, solemn but calm, grieve deeply the unending tragedies of the Solzhenitsyn family...]

Soup smeared her lips. Her bloodshot eyes stayed locked on the monitor, spoon stabbing again and again.

On TV appeared Wooshin at fourteen, his birthday, his face then more Western, smiling angelically. Seoryeong pressed harder against the ache in her eyes.

Potato pulp softened in her mouth, soup dribbled down her chin. She ate like an animal driven only by instinct. People frowned at the vulgar sight, but she didn’t care.

She licked the bowl clean, scraping even the last drops with her tongue. Wiping her mouth roughly with her palm, she spoke.

“May I use the phone for one call?”

The owner eyed her with suspicion, so she added:

“To pay for the soup.”

***

One wall was filled with monitors. A red dot blinked, then with a sudden pop vanished. The capsule tracker’s seventy-two hours had ended.

Na Wonchang ripped off his headset irritably and dropped his forehead onto the desk. The Owl’s location was lost. Wooshin, too, was gone.

He pressed his palms against his blurry eyes, forcing breath. If Wooshin lived, his wrist device should still transmit heartbeat, blood pressure, at least body heat—but nothing. Was the equipment destroyed, or...

―Wonchang, listen carefully. This may be my last order.

Na Wonchang replayed the last recording Wooshin had left before the fall.

―Bring the Owl back to Korea no matter what.

‘Wait, sir...!’

―You’re the only one I can trust. Don’t leave her alone.

‘What? How am I supposed to—’

―Everything else, follow my preparations exactly. I’m counting on you, sh—! Hold still—!

Over the in-ear came the sounds of grappling with Kiya. Coarse curses, the choking of someone’s throat. A short scream, groans, a sickening impact against something. Then silence.

“...Sir, please...”

Again and again, Na Wonchang replayed the file, clenching his fists. He input his superior’s biosign codes, chewing his nails. Nothing else could be done. He was helpless.

“I can’t do this alone. I can’t even find the Owl anymore...”

Covering his eyes with both hands, he glanced at the empty seat beside him. He remembered Hur Channa, who had smashed through the Russian network to stop the TX-1. His face stiffened.

He had known she was skilled, but not like this. Even seven years after defection, she had enemies. North Korea had even sent killers, declaring it better to kill her than let another country claim her. Their ruthlessness made a grim kind of sense.

He recalled vividly how the usually combative Channa had fallen utterly silent, tearing through firewalls one by one. Yet the opposition had been just as fast, restoring their defenses without pause. Breakthrough, recovery, breakthrough, recovery—the tug of war ended in catastrophe.

Wonchang sighed, staring at the smashed keyboard Channa had hurled against the wall. The uncertainty of both Wooshin and the Owl’s fates had clearly shaken her. Rubbing his dry face, he tilted back his head.

No, the worst failure is me...

The mission had failed. He had lost the one Black Agent he served. The most pathetic was himself.

“――”

His sore nose wrinkled. A phone buzzed harshly on the floor. Channa’s phone.

Wonchang startled. He turned away, but the number flashed. An international call.

810822....

His eyes widened.

Wait—that’s Russia? Too much of a coincidence. But he couldn’t touch someone else’s phone. Especially not a sensitive young woman in her early twenties, ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) one who valued her privacy like her life—

“Hello!”

Crash! Wonchang tumbled out of his chair, answering desperately. After a long silence, a hoarse, shredded voice trickled through.

―...Who’s this? Her boyfriend?

“...What?”

―Isn’t this Hur Channa’s number?

“Ah—ah! Yes, it is, but she stepped out, so I’m answering—”

And then Wonchang froze. That voice. However ragged the throat, however ruined— His suppressed emotions collapsed in a rush. His jaw quivered pitifully. How could I not know the Owl? How could I not recognize our lady?

―...Sorry to ask as a stranger, but... do you have money?

Not extortion, just... The careless voice was unmistakably the Owl’s.