The sound came first — a faint metallic clink, like loose brass casing rolling on concrete. Then came the rhythm of boots, steady and deliberate, echoing through the hollow space of the old Busan warehouse. The walls, streaked with decades of rust and salt-stained grime, seemed to breathe with the incoming danger.
Lin crouched behind a stack of wooden crates, his breathing slow and controlled, eyes tracking the shadows dancing across the cracked glass windows high above. Whoever was coming wasn't rushing. They moved with the measured confidence of professionals — trained operators, not street punks.
Min-joon was beside him, one knee in the dust, fingers still on the worn leather cover of the ledger they'd risked so much to get. The book vanished into a crate with a practiced motion. "They're not here for the cargo," Min-joon murmured in Korean, his voice low and tight. "They're here for you."
Lin's gaze didn't waver. "Then you've been talking."
