Eun-jae felt his blood pressure rise, the constant needling starting to get on his last nerve. He hadn't exactly signed up for an impromptu interrogation. "I mean, what is this? 'Welcome to Russia, now let's grill you about every little thing,'" he thought sarcastically, letting out a small exasperated sigh that he hoped would shut them up.
The new officer seemed to take that as an invitation to talk more, of course. "Come on, come on, we don't see a lot of your type around here. Tell me, is it true that all Asians are really good at martial arts?"
Eun-jae's eyebrow twitched. "Really? Really? Is this what we're doing now?" He let the sassy thought run through his head, but on the outside, he gave the officer a deadpan stare, clearly unimpressed. "Yeah, because the minute I step off a plane, I just immediately start practicing kung fu. Makes total sense, right?"
The officer chuckled at his own question, but Eun-jae wasn't laughing. "Ugh, why does every person who's never met an Asian person have to ask the same dumb questions? Do they think I carry a secret martial arts manual in my pocket or something?"
The officer didn't seem to notice the sarcasm in Eun-jae's tone and instead pressed on. "So what's it like? You know, back in your country. Are you really all disciplined and serious?" He seemed genuinely curious, though his tone was casual, bordering on condescending.
"Seriously?" Eun-jae thought, feeling the sarcasm bubbling up again. "What is this? A bad reality show? I didn't come here to explain my whole damn life to some random guy who thinks I'm a ninja just because I'm from Asia."
But he knew better than to snap at him outright. Instead, he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "You know, in my country, we don't just train in martial arts 24/7. We're not all kung fu masters, and we don't have some mystical connection to ancient martial disciplines. Some of us just like to sleep in and watch TV." His words came out with a bite, but he made sure to keep it light enough to avoid further conversation.
The officer didn't seem to pick up on the irritation, instead leaning in slightly, clearly intrigued. "Huh. Well, that's new. So... do you think you could teach me something?"
Eun-jae blinked, momentarily stunned. "Seriously? Did this guy just ask me to teach him something? What is it with people and their weird requests?" His mind raced as he tried to figure out how best to respond without completely losing his cool.
His thoughts drifted again, "Honestly, I've dealt with more questions than this on a daily basis, but damn. I'm just trying to get to my hotel, get some sleep, and plan my next move. I'm not here for some tourist lecture on the diversity of my culture."
The officer was still grinning like a curious kid, clearly expecting a response. "I don't know... Maybe you can show me a move or two? I'm curious how you guys stay in such good shape."
Eun-jae looked the officer up and down. He wasn't a huge guy—more wiry than anything—and Eun-jae couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Sure, because the best place to show off my 'secret martial arts moves' is in a freezing cold police station, wrapped in a blanket. Yeah, totally. You want me to impress you with my ninja skills right now? How about a round of 'shut up and let me get on with my life?'"
Instead, Eun-jae offered him a pointed look, his expression ice-cold. "No, I can't teach you anything. But you could start by learning how to mind your own damn business." He straightened his back, ready for them to just wrap up whatever nonsense they were trying to put him through. "I'm here to do a job, and I'm already behind. So if you're done asking about my 'Asian secrets,' I'd really appreciate it if I could just go back to my damn hotel and stop being interrogated."
He leaned forward just slightly, his tone no longer teasing but sharp, laced with the frustration that had been building since he stepped off the plane. "And next time you ask me about martial arts or any other ridiculous stereotype, I'm sending you straight to the director of the International Bureau of Dumbass Questions. Got it?"
The officer's smile faltered as he realized Eun-jae wasn't in the mood to entertain his questions. "Right... sorry. Just... trying to make conversation, you know."
Eun-jae's lips curled into a small, tight smile. "Yeah, well, I'm not the person to have a conversation with. Unless you've got something useful to say, I'd rather not waste my time."
The officer backed off a little, probably realizing that poking the bear any further wasn't going to get him anywhere. The first officer, who had been quietly observing the exchange, cleared his throat. "Alright, sir. We're wrapping things up here. Your luggage is ready, and we'll take you to your hotel. Let's get this over with."
Eun-jae stood up, his muscles sore from the rough night. "Finally," he muttered under his breath, grabbing his bag. As he walked toward the door, he couldn't help but think, "I can't wait to get out of here. Just me, my bed, and a few hours of peace before I have to dive back into this mess."
Eun-jae stepped out of the car, his body tense as he stretched his legs, feeling the tightness in his muscles from the intense chase. The night air of Moscow bit at his skin, but it barely registered against the storm brewing in his mind. The hotel's towering glass exterior shimmered under the cold Moscow skyline, the city lights reflecting off the surface like thousands of tiny stars scattered across the dark sky. A modern monolith that stood in sharp contrast to the chaos of the evening, the building loomed above him, its sleek design a reminder that he was no longer in familiar territory. His eyes flickered upward, but they couldn't quite focus. Everything felt fuzzy, like his body and mind were on different wavelengths.
He gripped the door handle of the car one last time before slamming it shut behind him. His shoes clicked on the smooth pavement, a stark reminder that he wasn't in a rush anymore. There was no sense in running. Not now. Not when the evening had already dragged him through hell. His thoughts were a whirlwind, questions about the strange figure that had attacked him, the bomb, the rare tobacco—the threads of it all twisted together in his head. What the hell had just happened? Who was that man?
His boots echoed in the empty space as he made his way toward the hotel's entrance. Every step felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. It wasn't just exhaustion. It was the kind of fatigue that came from the edge of danger, that razor-thin line where you could almost taste death on the tip of your tongue, where every muscle in your body screamed for release but your mind refused to let go. Eun-jae had been in tight spots before—he'd fought, bled, and survived his fair share of scrapes. But this? This felt different. Something wasn't adding up, and it gnawed at him like a persistent itch he couldn't scratch.
The hotel lobby was a stark contrast to the outside world. Brightly lit with polished marble floors and elegant chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings, it was everything Moscow was supposed to be—luxurious, sophisticated, and a little cold. Eun-jae paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the pristine lobby. He could almost feel the weight of the glass and steel pressing down on him as he made his way to the reception desk.
The receptionist, a woman in her mid-20s, glanced up from her screen. Her expression was cool, professional, the kind of look that came with years of experience in a high-end hotel, but her eyes flickered with a trace of curiosity as she assessed Eun-jae's appearance. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd had on when he'd been chased, his jacket torn and smeared with dirt, his face lined with exhaustion. She took in his tired, bruised features, but said nothing. The silence between them stretched for just a moment too long.
"Hello," Eun-jae said, his voice rough, a little hoarse, but polite. He had perfected the art of appearing calm even when everything inside him screamed otherwise.
"Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?" The receptionist's voice was smooth, welcoming, with just a hint of a smile on her lips.
Eun-jae didn't waste time. His mind was still racing, and the feeling of being on edge hadn't left him. "Please, is there a cigarette shop nearby?" He was craving the familiar taste of tobacco to settle his mind, to dull the sharp edges of his thoughts. His usual calm demeanor, the kind of stoic resolve he was known for, had started to slip away after the chaotic events of the night. The hunger for something to dull the pain was overwhelming.
The receptionist gave a polite nod, her finger gesturing to the street outside. "There's a cigarette shop a few blocks down. Not far at all, sir." She didn't seem to ask why he needed it, why a man like him, covered in grime and looking like he'd just survived a near-death experience, would be asking for cigarettes at such an hour. Maybe she thought it was none of her business. Maybe she knew there was more to him than he let on, but chose not to ask questions. Either way, her calm professionalism only heightened his unease.
"Thanks," Eun-jae muttered, his words almost inaudible as he turned and walked away. He could feel her eyes on his back as he made his way toward the door, but he didn't look back. He didn't need to. The only thing that mattered now was getting to that cigarette shop.
He needed to focus. He needed to think. And as his boots clicked against the cold pavement outside, the world seemed to quiet down, the noise of the city fading into a dull hum. But inside his head, everything was far from quiet. He needed to get answers—answers that would lead him to the man who had attacked him. The man who had dropped that strange, hand-made tobacco. There was something about that moment, the way the figure had so effortlessly overpowered him, that gnawed at him. The fear, the overwhelming sense that he was up against someone who wasn't just dangerous but different.
Eun-jae's thoughts turned dark as he walked down the street, the streetlights casting long shadows on the ground. Who was he? The thought circled in his mind, repeating over and over. The attack had been too clean, too precise. The man knew exactly what he was doing. The bomb, the way he twisted Eun-jae's arm, and the strength in that one kick—nothing about it felt ordinary. This guy has to be rich. He could feel it in his bones. People with that kind of skill, that kind of power, didn't come from the streets. They were part of something bigger.
Eun-jae reached the cigarette shop, a small, unassuming store nestled between two larger buildings. The neon sign flickered slightly above the door, casting a dull glow onto the pavement. He pushed the door open, a soft bell chiming as he stepped inside. The air was thick with the musky scent of tobacco and the faint, bitter tang of coffee. Shelves lined the walls, filled with all kinds of cigars, cigarette packs, and smoking paraphernalia. The dim lighting made everything look a little blurry, but it was just what Eun-jae needed—a brief distraction, a momentary escape from the storm brewing in his mind.
Behind the counter stood an older man, his hair graying at the temples, his eyes sharp despite his age. He glanced up at Eun-jae as he entered, his face unreadable, but the flicker of recognition in his gaze didn't go unnoticed. Maybe he had seen enough people like Eun-jae—people who were just a little too disheveled, a little too worn down, to make him pause. The man's eyes lingered on Eun-jae for a second longer than necessary, but then he went back to his work, polishing the counter with a cloth, his movements methodical.
Eun-jae walked up to the counter, pulling out his wallet and glancing at the rows of cigarettes. "Do you have any premium brands?" he asked, his voice hoarse, his fingers tapping lightly on the counter.
The older man gave a slow nod, his hands pausing for a beat before he gestured toward a glass case behind him. "Got a few," he said, his accent thick but understandable. "Imported. Expensive. Exclusive."
Eun-jae's interest piqued. "Let me see," he said, leaning forward just slightly. He wasn't here just for cigarettes. No, he had something else on his mind—the tobacco he had seen earlier. The one dropped by the man who had nearly killed him. It was no ordinary brand. There was something about it that had struck him, something too deliberate for a simple coincidence.
The older man unlocked the glass case with a small key, pulling out a sleek black box. He opened it with a soft click, revealing rows of pristine, hand-rolled cigarettes, each one wrapped in a fine, gold-leaf paper. The tobacco inside smelled rich, almost intoxicating, a far cry from the typical mass-produced brands lining the other shelves. The man slid the box toward Eun-jae.
Eun-jae studied it, taking a moment to run his fingers over the smooth surface of the box, feeling the craftsmanship in his fingertips. This wasn't just tobacco. This was something else entirely. He had seen a brand like this before, but only in high-profile circles, with the kind of people who could afford to burn money on something this exclusive.
He picked one of the cigarettes up carefully, inspecting it. "Where is this from?" he asked, his voice low, as if he were afraid the answer would make the situation worse.
The shopkeeper tilted his head slightly, watching Eun-jae carefully. "Not from around here," he said with a knowing look. "It's handmade, imported. Very expensive. Only a few places carry it."
Eun-jae frowned. "And who makes it?" he pressed, narrowing his eyes. He had a feeling he wasn't going to get an easy answer, but the sharp edge of suspicion in his chest was only growing. Whoever had attacked him wasn't just some random thug. This was someone with resources. Someone with wealth and connections.
The older man hesitated, glancing around the store as though making sure no one was listening. "It's from a private supplier in Kazakhstan," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not much known about them. But they supply to a few select people in Moscow. Very few. High-end clientele, you know?"
Eun-jae's mind raced. Kazakhstan. The name echoed in his head, but it didn't quite make sense. What connection could there be between a cigarette supplier in Kazakhstan and the attack on him? Who was behind all of this? The man who had nearly killed him hadn't been some random figure from the street. He was someone well-funded, well-connected. Someone who had access to things like this.
"So," Eun-jae continued, his thoughts spinning, "how do I get in touch with them? Where do they operate out of? Moscow? Or...?"
The older man shrugged, his face twisting into something close to a grimace. "I don't know, kid. They don't operate openly, not around here. The people who buy from them know how to get in contact. But me? I just sell the product. It's all I know."
Eun-jae leaned in closer, eyes burning with intensity. "Do you know who the suppliers are?" he asked, his voice soft, but heavy with the weight of his desperation. He had to know more. This couldn't just be a coincidence. The whole thing—the attack, the bomb, the shadowy figure—was all connected, and this tobacco was the thread he needed to pull.
The shopkeeper shook his head slowly, a sigh escaping his lips. "I don't know, kid. They're too careful. I only know the people who pay for it. Not who's behind it."
Eun-jae stared at him for a long moment, the frustration building in his chest. This was getting him nowhere. He didn't need the runaround. He needed answers. He wasn't just some tourist wandering through Moscow. He was caught up in something much bigger than he had ever imagined. Whoever was behind this—whether it was the shadowy figure or the people who controlled the cigarettes—he was getting closer.
As he paid for the cigarettes, the old man slid the pack across the counter, his eyes lingering on Eun-jae for a second longer. "You look like someone who's chasing ghosts," he said quietly. "Be careful. Moscow's a big city, but it's small when you make enemies."
Eun-jae took the pack, tucking it into his pocket. He nodded curtly, his mind already running through the next steps. He didn't have time to waste here. He needed to find out who was behind the attacks, and he was done playing games. "Thanks," he muttered, his voice colder now.
As he left the shop and stepped back into the cold Moscow night, he took a deep breath, feeling the smoke curl in his lungs as he lit a cigarette. It did little to calm the storm in his mind, but it gave him a moment of clarity. Whoever was after him wasn't just some isolated threat. They were part of something larger, something with international reach.
Eun-jae's thoughts were clouded by a mixture of anger and resolve. He had to get answers. He had to figure out who was behind all of this before it was too late. "I'll find you," he muttered under his breath as he pulled his coat tighter around himself. "And when I do, you won't be able to run far enough to escape."
Eun-jae stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind him with a quiet click. The soft glow of the bathroom lights reflected off the pristine tiles, and the faint hum of the exhaust fan filled the space. He twisted the shower knob, and the sound of rushing water cascaded into the silence. Steam began to rise, enveloping the room in a warm haze.
Stripping off his clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the fogging mirror. His wrist was still red and swollen, an ugly reminder of the cuffs that had bit into his skin earlier. He flexed his fingers experimentally, wincing as a dull ache radiated through his arm. His nose, slightly swollen, looked worse than it felt. "Great," he thought sardonically, running a hand over his face. "I'm bruised, battered, and humiliated. What a stellar day."
Stepping into the shower, he let the warm water pour over him, soothing his aching muscles and washing away the grime of the day. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the stream hit the top of his head, the water running down his face like a small, fleeting comfort. But his mind refused to stay quiet.
That figure. The one who had attacked him. His movements, his strength—none of it made sense. Eun-jae couldn't stop replaying the encounter in his head.
"Unhuman strength," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the sound of the water. "That guy tossed me around like I weighed nothing. Who the hell is he?"
As he raised his head under the water, he let out a long sigh, his frustration bubbling up with each passing thought. He wasn't the type to get thrown off his game easily, but this... this was different. There was something unsettling about the man's presence. His polished shoes, the way he carried himself, even the way he mocked Eun-jae before walking away—it all screamed arrogance and power.
"Bes Ilay," Eun-jae thought, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "What kind of person names themselves 'demon'? Talk about dramatic. But honestly... it fits. The guy's a nightmare come to life. I'm sure it was him."
He rubbed his wrist absentmindedly, his thoughts spinning. Bes Ilay. He was certain it was him. Eun-jae didn't have enemies like this—at least, not the kind that showed up out of nowhere and pinned him to the ground like he was a rookie.
"Why me?" he wondered, tilting his head back against the stream. "If he's got that kind of strength, that kind of presence... he's not just some thug. He's someone big, someone dangerous. But what does he want with me? I don't remember stepping on anyone's toes recently."
The steam in the room thickened, but his thoughts remained sharp and unrelenting. He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, his eyes narrowing.
"This job... it's going to be difficult. No, scratch that—it's going to be hell. Especially if this guy keeps popping up. But what's his game? Does he enjoy showing off? Intimidating people?" Eun-jae snorted softly, though there was no humor in it. "What a sadistic bastard. Bet he gets a kick out of seeing people squirm."
As the water continued to pour over him, Eun-jae's mind kept circling back to one question: Why? Why would someone like Bes Ilay even bother with him?
He straightened up, running a hand through his wet hair and letting the water drip off his fingertips. "I don't get it. Is this personal? Or am I just unlucky enough to be caught in his crosshairs?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Knowing my luck, it's probably both."
Eun-jae stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist. The cool air hit his skin, making him shiver slightly, but his thoughts burned on.
"Whatever it is, I'll figure it out. Bes Ilay might think he's some untouchable demon, but everyone has a weakness. Even him. And when I find it..." He smirked, though the mirror reflected the exhaustion in his eyes. "He'll regret ever crossing me."