Andrea felt the city's oppressive weight, the Seoul skyline blurring into a hazy orange as the sun began its descent. She stood by the reinforced window of her safehouse, a sterile apartment that felt more like a holding cell than a home. The early morning silence was her only companion, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city outside. Even that fragile peace was shattered as her phone buzzed, the screen flashing a single word:
Maya;
It was a secure line, encrypted and untraceable, a lifeline in her world of shadows. Andrea answered immediately, her voice tight with a barely suppressed urgency.
"Where the hell have you been?" she demanded, the words spilling out before Maya could even offer a greeting.
"Well, good afternoon to you too, darling," Maya replied, her voice smooth as silk, yet edged with a playful sarcasm that Andrea found both infuriating and strangely comforting. "And FYI, I'm on a break. Official leave. I filed it two days ago. You should check your inbox more often, Miss Workaholic."
Andrea sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Maya's timing was impeccable, as always. A much-needed vacation for her, another complication for Andrea. She couldn't afford to worry about Maya's leisure time, not now.
"I don't care about your spa time, Maya. Did you file the Carter files?"
"No need to snap," Maya said, her voice turning serious, the playful tone vanishing. "That's why I called. There's movement. Carter's transferring. They're pulling him out of the area within the next five hours."
Andrea froze, the air suddenly thick and heavy in her lungs. The information slammed into her, a cold wave of adrenaline washing over her. Five hours. That was all she had.
Her fingers instinctively tightened around the phone, the plastic digging into her palm. "Repeat that."
"It's confirmed. His men are cleaning a warehouse near Gungnim-dong. That's the drop point. They're prepping for a quick exit, burning anything that ties Carter to the network."
"Can you send the location?" Andrea asked, already moving across the room. Her body responded without conscious thought, years of training kicking in. She headed towards the reinforced weapons case hidden behind a false panel in the wall.
"Sure. But Andrea…" Maya's voice faltered for the first time, a tremor of genuine concern breaking through her professional facade. "Don't go alone."
Andrea paused, her hand hovering over the case's locking mechanism. The thought of backup was a foreign concept, an unnecessary burden. She worked alone, always had. Trusting others was a luxury she couldn't afford.
"I don't need backup. Just data."
"No, you don't get it. He's not just being moved. They're cleaning it. Like, burning evidence. This could be the last trace. If you're walking into this solo, you're walking into a death trap."
"Then I'll tread lightly." Andrea's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. She knew the risks, always did. Danger was a constant companion, a familiar shadow lurking just beyond the edge of her vision.
"Andrea!" Maya snapped, her patience finally wearing thin. "You're off-book. Eunwoo's going to kill both of us if he finds out."
Andrea didn't reply, her focus entirely on opening the weapons case. The familiar scent of gun oil and steel filled her nostrils, a strangely comforting aroma in the sterile apartment.
"Just flirt with me and I might survive the scolding," Maya added, trying to soften the weight of her own fear with a joke.
"Shut up, Maya. Send the damn coordinates."
"You're no fun," Maya murmured. A ping followed seconds later—a red dot blinking on Andrea's secure side screen, pinpointing the warehouse location. "There. And Andrea… Be smart."
Andrea ended the call without another word. Emotions were a liability, a distraction she couldn't afford.
She tried calling Eunwoo immediately, her thumb hovering over the contact name saved simply as "BOSS." Her relationship with Eunwoo was complicated, a mix of respect, frustration, and a grudging acknowledgement of his authority. He was her handler, her superior, and the closest thing she had to a friend, despite the layers of secrets and lies that separated them.
The call rang.
And rang.
And went to voicemail.
A frown creased her lips, a rare display of emotion on her otherwise impassive face. She dialed again, her frustration growing with each unanswered ring.
Still no response.
She tried once more, her jaw tightening with a mixture of anger and anxiety.
Call declined.
Her jaw tightened, the muscle ticking in her cheek. "You've got to be kidding me."
She typed out a message, her fingers flying across the screen with practiced ease.
A.Y.: Pick up the call. I want to talk.
Nothing. The silence from the other end was deafening.
.______..______..______..______..______.‼️.______..______..______.
She paced for another minute, her boots hitting the cold tile floor with a rhythmic thud. Then, fueled by sheer irritation and a growing sense of urgency, she hit the record button and sent a voice message instead.
Andrea's Voice Message: "Mr. King. If you think I'm just sipping cocktails and tanning all day, you're dead wrong. I'm here to work. And when I have intel, I report it. Whether or not you're busy being royalty in your corner office. If something's important, I'll act. This is your warning."
She paused, taking a deep breath to control her rising anger. The thought of Eunwoo, sitting in his comfortable office, detached from the reality of her situation, fueled her resentment.
She added another line in a quieter, tighter tone: "I didn't come here to waste my time. I came here to close this case."
She sent the message, the digital words hanging in the air, a silent declaration of her intent.
Her hands were already moving—calm and collected, efficient and precise—as she walked toward her weapon locker. Years of training had honed her into a lethal weapon, a precision instrument designed for one purpose: to eliminate threats.
Andrea's Room was like an extension of her own mind, a meticulously organized space where everything had a specific purpose and place. Her worn leather boots were lined neatly under the dresser, her compact black combat suit folded in a vacuum bag beneath the bed, preserving its integrity and minimizing its bulk. She knelt, her movements fluid and silent, and opened the case with her custom katana—forged in Japan, the blade folded and tempered countless times, the hilt wrapped in worn red satin. Her backup Glock, meticulously cleaned and silenced, lay beside it. Flash disks containing vital data, a spool of nearly invisible grappling rope, and a pair of tactical lenses designed to pierce through darkness and smoke completed the arsenal.
She changed quickly, her movements economical and precise, pulling the snug tactical suit over her skin. The black and crimson armor, a custom design created by her own division—one that no longer existed on paper—felt like a second skin. It was a reminder of her past, of the sacrifices she had made, and of the price she had paid for her skills.
The zipper reached her collarbone with a soft hiss, sealing her into the protective embrace of the suit.
Then came the gloves, fingerless for maximum dexterity, the palms reinforced with a non-slip material.
Then the voice recorder, a slim device strapped to her wrist, ready to capture every word, every sound, every piece of evidence.
Her reflection stared back from the mirror—stark, poised, unreadable. The lines of her face were hard, etched with years of hardship and loss. Her expression was carefully blank, masking the emotions that churned beneath the surface. Her face disappeared beneath the fitted, high-security tactical mask that covered her from the nose down, leaving only her stormy gray eyes visible.
A ghost in black and blood-red, a whisper in the shadows, a force to be reckoned with.
.______..______..______.📑.______..______..______.
Thirty Minutes Ago
She stepped into the hallway, the hush of marble floors beneath her boots echoing softly in the otherwise silent building. She moved with a practiced grace, her steps light and silent, her senses alert to any potential threat.
The maid, a young woman with wide, startled eyes, turned from the living room as Andrea approached. The woman had probably never seen anything like Andrea, not in this pristine environment, not in this world of luxury and privilege.
"Miss Andrea? Leaving already?" the maid asked, her voice hesitant.
"Yes," Andrea said briskly, her tone leaving no room for further conversation. "Keys?"
"They're in the vehicles, as always. Third floor, underground bay."
Andrea nodded, offering a curt "Thanks" before turning towards the stairwell.
She took the stairs down, preferring the physical exertion to the confines of the elevator. Each step was a conscious decision, a deliberate action. She trusted her own senses, her own instincts, far more than any machine.
Three bikes awaited her in the underground garage—sleek, midnight-colored machines, their engines purring even when silent, waiting to be unleashed. She walked towards the central one—matte black with crimson decals, a custom-built speed demon designed for precision and power—and swung a leg over the seat with practiced ease.
Helmet. Earpiece. And one last message typed on her phone, a final attempt to reach Eunwoo before she went completely dark.
Andrea → A.Y.: Heading out. Mission critical. Tried reaching you. Going alone.
She put the phone in a titanium sleeve on her hip, protecting it from EMPs and other electronic interference.
And she drove, the powerful engine roaring to life beneath her, a symphony of controlled chaos.
Ten Minutes Ago
The wind roared in her ears as the sports bike cut through the afternoon air, weaving past the gridlocked traffic with ghostlike precision. She was a phantom on the road, a fleeting shadow that appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye. The location Maya had sent was tucked behind an industrial belt, a desolate wasteland of abandoned factories and decaying warehouses—perfect for illegal transactions and clandestine meetings. The area was a haven for smugglers, arms dealers, and other denizens of the underworld.
She killed the engine two blocks out from the warehouse, letting the bike coast silently behind a thicket of overflowing trash bins. The stench of decay and rotting garbage filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile environment of her apartment.
No eyes. No sounds. No witnesses. She was alone, as always.
She checked her belt, ensuring that each piece of equipment was in its proper place, readily accessible when needed.
Four darts, each tipped with a different type of incapacitating agent. Two stun pins, capable of delivering a crippling electrical shock. One boot knife, a last-ditch weapon concealed in the heel of her boot. And her katana, the gleaming blade a silent promise of swift and decisive action.
Her suit was light and flexible, designed to allow for maximum mobility and freedom of movement, yet strong enough to withstand bullets and blades. It was perfect for high climbs, for scaling walls and navigating treacherous terrain. She eyed the warehouse, her gaze sweeping over the structure, cataloging every detail, every potential entry point, every possible threat. Three floors, lined with razor wire, the windows boarded up and reinforced with steel bars. Thirty-four guards positioned in staggered rotation, a formidable defense.
She whispered to herself, half out of ritual, half out of a desperate need to maintain control. "This is it."
Rope hook in hand, she swung it towards the nearest ledge, the weighted hook arcing through the air with pinpoint accuracy. The hook caught on the crumbling concrete, biting deep into the surface. She tugged once, twice—tight. Secure.
Then she began to climb, her movements fluid and silent, her body a symphony of controlled strength and precision. The razor wire snagged at her suit, but she ignored the minor cuts and abrasions, her focus solely on the task at hand.
.______..______.(^///^).______..______..______.📑
Eunwoo's POV — Present
Eunwoo finally glanced at his phone again, the incessant buzzing a persistent annoyance that he had been ignoring for the past hour while waiting for Minjoon to finish his status update on the latest arms shipment.
He saw her last message, the words burning into his mind.
Heading out. Mission critical. Tried reaching you. Going alone.
And above that—
20 missed calls. 3 voice notes. 7 texts.
His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening with a barely suppressed anger. Andrea was a force of nature, a whirlwind of chaos and destruction. She was brilliant, resourceful, and fiercely independent, but she was also reckless, impulsive, and prone to ignoring orders.
"You did it again, Andrea," he murmured under his breath, his voice laced with a mixture of exasperation and admiration.
His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking in his cheek. He knew what she was capable of, he had seen her in action, but he also knew the risks she was taking. The warehouse was a trap, a carefully orchestrated kill zone designed to eliminate anyone who got too close to Carter.
He listened to her first voice message, the words hitting him like a physical blow. Her frustration, her devotion to the mission, the raw intensity with which she spoke—it was all there, laid bare for him to hear. That voice—sharp and tired but unwavering—hit him like a storm, tearing through his carefully constructed defenses. She wasn't disobedient, not really.
She was committed, driven by a force that he couldn't understand, a burning desire to right the wrongs of the world, to bring justice to the innocent.
Too committed to follow protocols when time was bleeding through their fingers. She saw the opportunity and she took it, damn the consequences.
Minjoon entered the office, his face pale and drawn. "Boss? Something wrong?"
Eunwoo was already picking up his jacket, his movements swift and decisive. There was no time to waste, no time for explanations. Andrea was in danger, and he had to get to her before it was too late.
"Get the car ready. Now."
"Boss? Is it the shipment?"
"She's alone."
Minjoon's eyes widened in understanding. He knew exactly who Eunwoo was talking about. "Andrea?"
Eunwoo nodded grimly, his face a mask of determination. "And she just walked into a hornet's nest."