Raymond's feet pounded against the corridor floor, each step driving him forward. His heart hammered—not panic, but the sharp clarity that came with survival mode engaged.
Behind him, footsteps. Fast. Closing distance.
His eyes swept the corridor as he ran, cataloguing every detail in rapid succession. Doors on both sides—patient pods, sealed shut. Medical stations, unmanned. Nothing he could use. Nothing that would slow her down or give him an advantage.
He needed a weapon. Cover. Anything.
The corridor stretched ahead, sterile white walls offering no answers.
Raymond made a sharp left turn at the end of the hallway, his momentum carrying him wide before he corrected. His shoulder brushed the wall.
There—to the right. A door. Different from the pods. Larger frame. A label printed across its surface in clean text.
EQUIPMENT ROOM
His mind processed the implications instantly. Medical supplies. Tools. Items that could become weapons in the right hands. Better than running blind through corridors where she had the advantage.
He sprinted toward it, hand already reaching for the panel—
No access light. The control remained dark, inactive. Locked.
Shit.
Two corridors away, Bileg and Ji-Hoon hit the hallway at a dead run, boots hammering against the floor in rhythm.
Ji-Hoon's eyes stayed fixed on his wrist terminal. Control was feeding him the relevant camera feed—Ray's current position updating as he moved. The display showed Ray stopping at a door. Equipment room.
He's looking for a place to hide.
Ji-Hoon's voice cut through the comm channel, sharp and commanding.
"Control, open the equipment room door on the target floor ASAP."
Professional. No wasted words.
"Once the target is in, close it. Lock it."
Back at the equipment room door, Raymond's muscles coiled, ready to pivot and run again. The footsteps were close. She'd be around the corner any second.
The door panel lit up.
Green. Active.
The door slid open with a smooth hiss.
Raymond didn't question it. Didn't hesitate. His body was already moving, instinct and training overriding curiosity about who'd just saved him.
He lunged through the opening.
The door slid shut behind him immediately, cutting off the corridor. A soft mechanical sound echoed in the small space—the lock engaging, sealing him inside.
Unseen help.
Someone was watching. Someone on his side.
Raymond didn't waste time. His eyes swept the equipment room, cataloguing contents with practiced speed.
Shelves lined the walls—medical supplies stacked in organized rows. Bandages, antiseptics, diagnostic tools. Nothing immediately useful as a weapon.
His hands moved quickly, pulling open drawers, checking under counters.
There—a pack of unopened syringes. Sealed plastic wrapping, needles gleaming inside.
If I can ambush her—
He shook his head. Too risky. The needles were thin, designed for medication delivery, not combat. They'd penetrate skin but wouldn't stop someone trained and determined. And she was both.
He moved to the next counter, crouching low, checking the storage space underneath.
Metal glinted in the shadows.
Raymond's hand closed around cold steel. He pulled it free.
A bolt cutter. Heavy-duty, industrial grade. The metal head was solid, weighted for leverage. The handles provided good grip, gave him reach.
Perfect for bludgeoning.
Not elegant. Not precise. But effective. The kind of improvised weapon that could crack bone if swung with enough force.
Outside the equipment room, the nurse rounded the corner and stopped. Her eyes scanned the corridor—empty. No sign of her target.
He couldn't have reached the exit. Not enough time. Which meant he was hiding.
She moved forward, systematic, checking each door as she passed. Patient pods—all sealed, all empty. Medical stations—no one.
Then she reached the equipment room.
Her hand moved to the access panel. She pressed her palm against it.
The light stayed red. Access denied.
Her brow furrowed. That didn't make sense. Her credentials were valid. She'd passed through multiple checkpoints with them, accessed restricted areas. The system hadn't flagged her yet.
Unless.
A smile curved across her lips.
Found you.
Security had noticed by now. Guards were coming. But her access shouldn't have been revoked this quickly—the bureaucracy didn't move that fast.
There was only one reason this specific door wouldn't open.
Control had locked it manually. From the security room.
Which meant someone was protecting the boy inside.
She reached into her clothes and pulled out a small circular device. Her fingers pressed it against the door itself, positioning it near the locking mechanism. It latched onto the metal surface with a soft click, magnetic grip holding it in place.
A blue light flickered across its surface, pulsing in rapid sequence.
The nurse stepped back, moving to the side of the door. Away from the blast line.
The device beeped. Slow at first, then faster. Cascading into rapid frequency.
A cruel smile curved across her lips as she waited.
Inside the equipment room, Raymond didn't know if the assassin had found him yet. The door remained sealed, sound-insulated. No noise penetrated from the corridor. She could be standing right outside or still searching—he had no way to tell.
But his instincts told him she was close.
He moved back to the drawers, pulling one open. There—a scalpel. Medical grade, surgical steel. The blade caught the overhead light, sharp enough to slice through tissue with minimal pressure.
He pocketed the scalpel and grabbed the bolt cutter, positioning it near the door where he could reach it quickly. The scalpel he kept in his hand—lighter, faster for close quarters if she came through first.
Raymond pressed his back against the wall beside the door. Not behind it—that would leave him exposed when it opened. To the side, where he could strike first, use the element of surprise.
He steadied his breathing. Waited.
Then—
BOOM!
The explosion tore through the corridor. Small. Controlled. But devastating.
The equipment room door blasted inward, metal frame shattering into twisted scrap. Pieces crashed onto the floor with a deafening clatter. Dust and smoke billowed into the room, filling the air with grey haze.
The overhead lights flickered from the shockwave impact. On. Off. On.
The assassin moved through the smoke, stepping over twisted metal. Her silhouette emerged from the grey haze, boots crunching on debris. She moved carefully, eyes scanning the room despite the poor visibility.
Raymond waited. Pressed against the wall. Scalpel gripped tight.
She took another step forward, past the threshold.
He struck.
His arm shot out from the side, scalpel aimed at her throat. Fast. Precise. The kind of strike that ended fights before they began.
She twisted. Not away—into the attack. Her forearm came up, deflecting his wrist. The scalpel blade skittered across the fabric of her sleeve, catching nothing.
Her other hand snapped toward his face, fingers rigid.
Raymond jerked his head back. Her strike whisked past his nose, close enough to feel the air displacement.
He pivoted, using his momentum to create distance. His free hand grabbed a metal tray from the counter and swung it at her head.
She ducked under it. The tray clanged against the wall behind her.
Fast. Too fast for someone in heels.
The assassin closed the gap. Her fist drove toward his ribs.
Raymond shifted his weight, angling his body. The punch glanced off his side instead of landing clean. Still hurt—enough force behind it to bruise.
He slashed with the scalpel. A quick cut aimed at her extended arm.
The blade caught skin. Drew blood. A shallow line across her forearm.
She didn't flinch.
Her leg swept low. Raymond jumped back, but not fast enough. Her shin connected with his ankle, throwing him off balance.
He stumbled. Caught himself against the counter.
The assassin pressed forward. Her hand shot out, fingers closing around his wrist—the one holding the scalpel. Her grip was iron. Unbreakable.
Raymond's mind processed the strength difference immediately. She was stronger. Significantly. His teenage body, even with seven points in Endurance, couldn't match her raw power.
He let go of the scalpel.
The blade clattered to the floor.
His now-free hand drove upward, palm-strike aimed at her nose.
She jerked her head to the side. His palm caught her cheek instead—solid contact, but not the devastating blow he'd intended.
Her other hand grabbed his throat. Squeezed.
Pressure. Immediate. Cutting off air.
Raymond's hands shot up, gripping her wrist, trying to break the hold. His fingers strained. She didn't budge.
The bolt cutter.
He twisted his body, throwing his weight sideways. The movement pulled her off balance—just slightly. Her grip loosened for a fraction of a second.
Raymond tore free. Gasped. Air rushed back into his lungs.
He dove for the bolt cutter near the door. His fingers closed around the handles. Heavy. Solid. Better reach than the scalpel.
The assassin came at him again.
Raymond swung the bolt cutter like a club. The metal head whooshed through the air.
She sidestepped. Fast. Professional.
He swung again. Horizontal. Aiming for her ribs.
She caught the handles. Both hands. Stopped the swing cold.
They struggled for control of the weapon. Raymond pulled. She pulled back. Her strength advantage showed immediately—the bolt cutter moved toward her, inch by inch, despite his resistance.
Raymond released one hand. His elbow snapped forward, aimed at her face.
She turned her head. His elbow glanced off her temple. Not enough to stun, but enough to make her loosen her grip.
He yanked the bolt cutter free and swung again.
This time she ducked under and rushed him. Shoulder-check to his chest.
Raymond's back slammed into the counter. Pain flared along his spine. The bolt cutter fell from his grip, clattering onto the floor.
Her hand was at her waist. Moving to the garrote tucked in her dress.
Raymond's knee came up. Hard. Aimed between her legs.
She twisted. His knee caught her thigh instead. Still enough force to make her grunt.
His hands grabbed equipment off the counter blindly. A diagnostic device. He swung it at her head.
She blocked with her forearm. The device shattered. Pieces scattered.
Her fist drove into his stomach. All her strength behind it.
The air exploded from Raymond's lungs. Pain radiated through his core. His knees buckled.
She pulled the garrote free. Wire gleamed in the flickering light.
Raymond tried to straighten. Tried to move.
Too slow.
She looped the wire over his head. Pulled it tight around his throat.
The garrote bit into his skin. Pressure. Immediate. Crushing. His hands shot up, fingers scrambling between the wire and his neck, trying to create space.
Nothing. The wire dug deeper.
She pulled him backward, using leverage, her body weight adding to the force. Raymond's feet slipped on debris. His vision started to grey at the edges.
His hands clawed at the wire. Desperate. Ineffective.
She leaned in close, her voice cold in his ear.
"Should have drunk the smoothie."
The wire tightened.
Raymond's vision tunneled. Darkness creeping in from the sides.
BANG.
The gunshot cracked through the room.
The pressure on Raymond's throat vanished.
The assassin's grip went slack. Her body jerked. Once. Twice.
She collapsed.
Raymond fell forward, gasping. His hands went to his throat, feeling the deep indentation where the wire had cut in. Blood trickled from shallow lacerations.
He sucked in air. Desperate. Ragged breaths that burned going down.
Footsteps. Heavy. Running.
Bileg Bator stood in the doorway, his weapon raised, trained on the assassin's still form. Smoke curled from the barrel.
Behind him, Ji-Hoon appeared, breathing hard, his own sidearm drawn.
Bileg's eyes swept the room. Assessed. Confirmed the threat was down.
Then his gaze found Raymond, still on his knees, clutching his throat.
"You alright, kid?"
In a dimly lit room, a figure sat motionless. The only light came from a terminal resting on the desk, its screen casting pale blue illumination across folded hands. Text scrolled slowly—a report, dense with data and timestamps.
Outside the room, faint disco music thumped through the walls. Muffled bass. Rhythmic. The kind of sound that never quite stopped in places like this.
The figure reached forward and set the terminal aside.
Darkness swallowed the room completely.
A chair scraped. Footsteps crossed the floor—confident, unhesitating. No fumbling. No pause. This path had been walked countless times before.
The footsteps stopped.
A soft click. The sound of a panel opening.
Faint red light bloomed in the darkness—a retinal scanner, active and waiting. The figure leaned forward. A mechanical whir as the device processed. Compared. Confirmed.
Green light replaced red.
A section of the wall beside the panel shifted. Seams appeared where there had been none. The hidden door swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a staircase descending into deeper darkness below.
The figure stepped through without hesitation.
The door closed behind with a soft pneumatic hiss, sealing away the disco music and leaving only the sound of measured footsteps descending into the depths.
The stairs opened into a hallway. Narrow. Utilitarian. No decoration. Just smooth walls and a single piece of furniture dominating the center—an oval table, its surface embedded with consoles and control panels that gleamed dully in the low light.
The figure approached without hesitation. His fingers moved across one of the consoles, entering a series of codes. Numbers and symbols flickered across the screen in rapid sequence. A panel slid open to the side, revealing a palm scanner.
He pressed his hand against it.
The scanner hummed. Green light traced the outline of his palm, reading the unique patterns.
Confirmed.
Above the table, mounted high on the ceiling, a monitor flickered to life. A calling symbol pulsed on the screen—concentric circles expanding outward in steady rhythm.
A moment passed.
The other side picked up.
A silhouette appeared on the monitor. Rough. Indistinct. Shrouded in layers of green scanlines that distorted any recognizable features. The image shifted constantly, never settling into clarity.
"Is it done?"
The voice came through scrambled. Digitally altered. Pitch shifted. Gender indeterminate. Just cold authority wrapped in electronic distortion.
The man shook his head.
"We failed, Master. Number 107 is confirmed deceased."
Silence on the other end. The silhouette remained motionless.
Then: "New player?"
The man shook his head again.
"No, Master. Ministry lackeys posted in the hospital. The news is under tight wraps, but we got to know she died under gunshot wound from standard federal issue handgun."
The silhouette didn't respond immediately. The scanlines continued their steady crawl across the screen, distorting, obscuring. Seconds stretched.
Then the voice returned.
"Alright. Suspend your activities for now and lay low. You can attempt again when the situation subsides."
The monitor went dark. CALL ENDED appeared briefly on the screen before it too faded, leaving only the faint glow of the console displays.
The man stood alone in the underground room, surrounded by technology and silence.
His hand remained on the console. His mind already working through contingencies. Alternate approaches. Waiting for the right moment.
The target wasn't going anywhere.