bodyguard: the first guard | part two | chan/reader
masterlist. part one of the previous story.
PART ONE. PART TWO.
( READ ON AO3. )
A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.
pairing: bang chan/readercontent info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. the previously established story dyanmics: explicit violence, mentions of torture, death. chapter word count: 12,000 words.
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B E F O R E
Felix is wearing itchy civilian clothes, the jeans distractingly stiff. Regardless of how many field missions he is assigned, he never gets used to undercover disguises.
“Look what I found,” Chris says, dropping into the seat beside him.
Chris looks marginally more at ease in his baggy basketball shorts and baseball cap, passing for a teenage boy on an afternoon train with his friend. They are in the passenger car outside the first class cabin, a compartment that should contain their mark but presently sits empty.
“Uh, the target?" Felix asks. “You know, the thing you just went to find?”
Chris giggles like the whole situation is funny. Felix is far less amused. This should have been an easy job: get in, kill the mark, steal back the data he took from Miroh, and get out. But so far it has been tedious.
Felix can’t even blame Chris this time. For some reason, Chris has been more accommodating lately. Chris is fifteen, almost sixteen, and Felix is twelve. They have both been active in the field for a couple years. Felix is not sure why Chris has opted for sudden compliance. He does not necessarily volunteer for jobs but he accepts them without much grudging reluctance. He will occasionally voice his worser grievances but for the most part he is keeping his head down.
Maybe it is the result of all those punishing sentences in the Cell. More than once he has been shoved down there, sometimes alone and sometimes with Miroh’s daughter. Felix would not want to spend any isolated time with her. But maybe she is intimidating enough to get through to Chris.
Whatever it is, it is working. Excluding moments like this when Chris is giggling and distracted and doesn’t seem to care about the job at all.
“Relax, Felix,” Chris says. “It’s a train. There’s only so many places he can be, yeah?”
“Well, there’s one place he’s supposed to be but he isn’t there, is he?” Felix says.
“Lighten up, mate,” Chris says. “We’re supposed to look normal. Normal kids have fun.”
Chris dumps a candy bag in Felix’s lap. Felix looks at it like it’s a bomb.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Felix asks.
Chris opens his own bag and starts eating the candy.
“That,” he says. He tosses a piece in the air and catches it in his mouth. When he tries to do it again, Felix snatches it mid-air and throws it on the floor. This makes Chris laugh.
“He was in the dining car,” Chris relents. “Four security officers. Ex-military. Piece of cake.”
“Why didn’t you say that before?” Felix asks, annoyed. He starts to stand but Chris yanks him back into his seat.
“The hell, man?” Chris says. “You gonna go ventilate the guy while a bunch of civilians are having afternoon tea? Ya think that might blow our cover? Just a bit?”
Felix frowns but he knows Chris is right. Miroh does not like a public mess. They will have to wait until the mark returns to the privacy of his cabin.
Felix does not like waiting. It is a part of a soldier’s training, but his least favourite part by far. He prefers action. With the quiet stillness comes fear, doubt.
The latter makes him sweat. He tries not to think about it. His life is his mission. Through Miroh, Felix has contributed good things to the world. Lately, it just seems like no matter what he does, the world does not stay good.
The Enemy has been dead for two years. The new enemy, his idiot heir, has holed up like a dragon guarding his hoard. He has built defences so high that not even an army like Miroh’s can breach it. There has been no retaliation, no offensive strike like the old enemy, but these deep roots are almost more sinister. Felix is starting to think this might be hopeless. That maybe Miroh is wrong. That maybe some things cannot be saved.
Felix crinkles the candy bag in his lap. He gathers himself and exhales.
“Fine,” he says. “How long do you think he will be distracted? Enough time to get the data?”
“If it’s in there, yeah,” Chris says. “Might as well check. He just started eating so we should have some time.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
Chris frowns like Felix is inconveniencing him with the job they were sent here to do.
Felix is not in the mood to argue. He shoves his candy bag in his back pocket and pushes past Chris. They make their way down the aisle. No one lifts their head, the two boys disappearing in their inconspicuous disguises.
They pick the lock to the first class cabin. Felix opens the door and looks around the room, for a moment a little stupefied by the luxury. It is all deep mahogany and gold trim. Their target is an engineer who stole designs from Miroh to sell to the enemy. The wealth of this cabin exemplifies that corruption, surely.
Felix tells himself that as he rifles through the luggage. He finds a laptop and tells Chris to stand guard while he collects the data. Chris is the better fighter but Felix is better with technology.
The laptop loads. The home screen is the mark with his family, three smiling, sunny-faced children, all younger than Felix. It gives him a queasy, uneasy feeling, a feeling that should be long scrubbed out of him by now.
He blames it on the rocking of the train carriage. Physical sensations can manipulate mental energy.
He searches through the computer storage for the stolen designs. Both Miroh and the enemy are chasing government building contracts, tying their businesses irrevocably to political power and pursing relationships therein. These plans will cinch the deal for whichever party has them. The engineer who betrayed Miroh masqueraded as a potential recruit before stealing the plans.
There is only one problem; Felix knows how to read metadata and he cannot find anything that was once on Miroh’s servers. In fact, some of these designs go back years, well before Miroh even considered pursuing these contracts.
“What’s taking so long?” Chris asks, poking his head in the room. “You’re usually a computer whiz. Is something wrong?”
“The files aren’t here,” Felix says. For the fifth or sixth time, he opens what looks like the plans. Everything except the metadata matches the description. But that metadata does not lie.
These files do not belong to Miroh.
Chris double checks the corridor before joining Felix. They look at the files together.
“Isn’t that it?” Chris asks. “It looks like the right thing.”
“Yeah, but it’s not,” Felix says, his eyes darting frantically all over the screen. “Or it should be. But these, uh, these files aren’t Miroh’s.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this guy stole the plans from Miroh. But all these files are original. They were never on Miroh’s servers.”
There is a moment of quiet. Chris is not famous for reservation so Felix looks at him. He is embarrassed to find a pitying look on Chris’s face.
“Felix,” Chris says. “Come on, man.”
It is not exactly a condescending tone, rife with too much sympathy to be so cruel, but It sounds like Chris is saying, don’t be stupid.
Felix swallows. He looks down at the plans. The realization hits him and the words come to his mouth, rising like bile.
“We’re not stealing back the plans,” Felix says. “We’re just stealing them. Aren’t we?”
“Well, yeah,” Chris says. “You didn’t know that?”
“How did you know that?” Felix snaps back, embarrassed and upset and very, deeply confused.
“It wasn’t exactly a stretch,” Chris says. “It’s what Miroh does. It’s what they all do. You haven’t figured that out yet? You?”
Felix, who has done the most assignments. Felix, who is the most successful agent in the special-ops program. Felix, who is the best only because the real best refuses to be.
He studies Chris, this older boy who seems so confident he has all the answers. Felix does not even know all the questions. He feels that weakness and vulnerability he so hates, the entirely world suddenly unfamiliar enemy terrain.
“Look, it’s fine,” Chris says. “Just take the data and we’ll leave. We’ll tell Miroh the mark got away. He cares more about the plans anyway.”
“Lie,” Felix says. “You want us to lie to Miroh?”
“It’s not a lie,” Chris says. “It’s just protecting the truth.”
Felix stares at him. Chris, on steadier feet than Felix, sighs and pushes Felix out of the way. He loads the data onto the external hard drive himself. He then makes a show of ejecting it and putting it in his pocket.
“Let’s go,” Chris says.
Felix does not get a chance to protest because the door opens. They have no time to react. In seconds, they are joined by the mark’s security team.
Felix knows how to fight. It is second nature to him. He should not need to think.
But he does. He overthinks. He gets a look at the mark before a bodyguard whisks him away. Felix thinks of the smiling faces on those children. He thinks how he is not much older than them.
There is a growing pit of anxiety inside him. It swallows him whole.
Felix and Chris fight to get away. Chris could take all these guards on his own but he is trying to avoid severely hurting them. That distracts Felix too. Suddenly, Chris’s refusal to fight does not seem like cowardice but instead it is something Felix cannot name. Something he once saw in Miroh but doesn’t anymore.
Distracted, Felix does not fight like he usually does.
The first class cabin is a private attachment at the back of the train. The fight lead onto the outside landing at the end of the car. A guard dislocates Felix’s shoulder. The next thing Felix knows, he is tumbling over the railing. He manages to grip with his good arm, holding all of his body weight to avoid getting snagged and ripped along the train tracks.
But it won’t save him. He’s going to die. The realization hits him like any other calculation in a fight, when he measures his odds and deduces his best move.
He has none. The train is moving too fast and he is at a bad angle to jump. He has one good arm keeping him alive and no way to fight the approaching guard. Chris has taken out his own adversaries and should be retreating with the data. That is what they are trained to do. The job is more important than the soldier. In a crisis, you leave the weak behind.
Felix braces himself to let go, hoping the above-average strength in his body can also withstand slamming into railroad tracks at high speeds. He suspects even if he does survive, he will be severely injured, abandoned in the middle of nowhere, and dead to the only place he has ever known.
But the guard falls back. Chris knocks him out with sharp efficiency. He then lays the unconscious man down with almost comical gentleness.
Chris runs up to Felix. Felix wants to shout at him – everything from go away and finish the job to my shoulder hurts and I need you to save me.
Chris gives no opportunity for argument or acquiescence. He shouts, “Hold on!” Then he swings himself over the railing. He wraps an arm around Felix and hauls him into his side. Once secure, he carries them back over the rail and onto the landing.
“What are you doing?” Felix asks. He cannot slow the race of his heart, seemingly tethered to the thunder of the train car against the tracks. He is not sure it will ever slow again. He thinks he might remember this moment forever.
“What am I doing?” Chris asks. He laughs for some forsaken reason. “Just doing this, mate,” he says.
He seizes Felix by his injured shoulder. Felix winces, having only seconds to brace himself before Chris shoves his dislocated shoulder back into place. Agony washes over Felix, hot and sharp, the pain rattling him worse than the actual dislocation.
“Sorry,” Chris says. “Sometimes getting better hurts more for a bit.”
The rest of the mission is a blur to Felix, lost to the throbbing ache in his shoulder and a similar pain taking root inside him.
They make it back to Miroh’s facility. Chris hands the hard drive off to an upper level agent while Felix sees a medic. The bag of candy is still in his back pocket. He sits in the infirmary a long time, just crinkling it between his fingers. He feels like his world is crashing around him.
It is days before Felix has an opportunity to see Chris again. They are in different barracks because of their age difference, the soldiers grouped by year. When Felix finds Chris in the corridor, Chris is talking to Miroh’s daughter who lives in the barracks too. They are on their way to their bunks.
Felix taps Chris on the shoulder. Chris looks at him, his laughing expression faltering when he sees Felix. He must see something in him that Felix cannot even recognize in himself.
Chris turns to Miroh’s daughter and says, “I’ll catch up, yeah?”
She spares Felix a glance and Felix feels an unusually panicked skip in his blood. It feels like she can see his mental turbulation the way Chris can. But unlike the rest of them, she has a direct line to Miroh. She might live and act like a soldier but she is more and always will be. Felix balks under her scrutiny, worried she will see his doubt and report it right back to Miroh.
Felix is grateful when she leaves. But when Chris looks at him so expectantly, Felix no longer knows what to say.
It takes a moment.
“I wouldn’t have done the same for you,” Felix finally says. It comes out as instinctively as a punch. “I wouldn’t have saved your life. I would have just finished the job.”
Chris blinks at him. He exhales on a laugh. Then he claps Felix’s good shoulder, a touch of clear camaraderie.
“I know, Felix,” he says. “I didn’t do it so you would pay me back. I didn’t do it because I thought you would do the same. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”
Felix thought he was speechless before but now he is truly at a loss. Even his long engrained instincts fail. He is out of punches.
Chris just smiles at his confusion. With one final nod, he turns and retreats to his bunk.
Felix stands in the corridor, wounded but bandaged. He stares at the place where Chris stood, like if he looks long enough then Felix will understand what Chris understands. That maybe there is a right and wrong outside of what they have been taught. Maybe things exist outside of this place.
Maybe some things can be saved.
-
P R E S E N T D A Y
“Ah, it’s the classic story,” Changbin says with a sigh. “A boy and a girl, forced to share a bed. He is her bodyguard. She is an heiress. Should we kiss on the lips?”
You whack him in the gut with a pillow and he erupts with giggles.
Changbin has been your so-called bodyguard for a few weeks now. It has changed little in your daily routine as your father had assigned Changbin to your department sometime before that. The special-ops program was written off as an experiment with potential for future development, though that development has long sat arrested. Bang Chan is in your father’s direct employ while Changbin has been on different teams fulfilling different missions. When you started taking the lead on projects, he served under your direction.
It is why your father is not happy. The bodyguard arrangement was meant to assert his control over you, using an agent as his eyes and hands. Miroh is not good at relinquishing power, not even to someone like him, or maybe especially to someone like him. You have always been a good, loyal, obedient soldier and daughter. Taking over projects and assuming command was inevitable. Somehow you have wronged him by doing everything right.
Lately, your work has been meagre clean-up duty. Miroh has been accruing assets and terrorizing his way into the mess left behind by his late enemy. It is making Miroh’s paranoia even worse. He has seen for himself how this powerful house fell apart just because its patriarch died. The business was left in shambles, underlings squabbling like helpless children. It was ripe for picking.
You have been cleaning whatever mess is left behind. This week you have been cleaning out some old office buildings, primarily sifting through abandoned storage for anything useful that might have been sequestered. You are spending the night at a nearby safe house, sharing a room with Changbin. The rest of your team is scattered around the house.
Seeing as your father has relegated you with menial tasks, you have taken it upon yourself to conduct your own investigations. Your findings have been on your mind all day. It is why you do not respond to Changbin’s joking with your usual wit.
“You’re quiet, murder princess,” Changbin says. “Should I be worried?”
He drops his mask on the nearby desk then unholsters his gun. He places it beside yours. It is a testament to your dynamic that you feel comfortable disarming around each other. You would certainly never do it around your father. But Changbin is different. You are not someone who seeks true friendship but you acknowledge the necessity of teamwork especially in times of crisis. You do not fully trust Changbin as you do not fully trust anyone, but he is loyal and you reciprocate that dependability.
It is why you beckon him forward. You are sitting on the bed, feet on the floor. Changbin pulls up a chair to sit in front of you.
“The enemy had a multi-level security system,” you say. “Physical in some capacities, digital in others. My father has always been more preoccupied with offense than defense, so in that regard they were always a step ahead of us. That is the part my father is interested in. That is all he sees.”
“And what do you see?” Changbin asks. His disposition changes with the severity of your words, joviality replaced with equal seriousness.
“I don’t see anything,” you say. “That’s the problem.”
He lifts an eyebrow, curious. You show him the image on your tablet, then swipe to the next one.
“The security log is missing information,” you say. “There is no trace of anything unusual transpiring the day they were all killed. No breach, no shutdown. Everything is normal until everything is gone. Someone scrubbed every last second of data from the digital system. Someone who knew the system well enough to not just delete the surface files but to clean the server entirely.”
“So what are you saying?” Changbin asks. “You think it was an inside job?”
“I know it wasn’t us,” you reply. “I know it wasn’t any of the usual players. This family had enemies in every market. If it was one of them, you’d think they would have stepped forward to assert themselves by now. Whoever it was had no interest in taking over company assets. No interest in even sticking around. Someone went to great lengths to make the entire thing look ambiguous, to leave everyone asking more questions, to turn our heads in one direction while they disappear in the other. Someone professional. Someone technologically capable. Someone whose only motivation was escape.”
His jaw is clenched as he stares at the images, but you can see the gears turning in his mind. When he meets your gaze, you sit forward.
“Changbin,” you say. “What happened on that mission?”
He does not need specification. Changbin is usually like you, pragmatic and realistic. He does not dwell in his emotions and never for so long. It has been well over a month now but he is still rankled by that warehouse confrontation with Lee Felix.
“Ah, Yongbok,” Changbin says wistfully. His eyes are downturned but his thoughts are somewhere else. “You remember him. He always needed a fairy tale to believe in.”
That much is true. You and Changbin have always been simple soldiers manoeuvring through the morally complicated world around you. You never had any delusions that Miroh was better than his enemies, simply that one or the other was inevitable. You knew you could make a bigger impact in the fight than watching from the sidelines.
Felix was competent but naïve. He believed in Miroh unequivocally which is why he blind-sided them all with his betrayal. To this day, you do not know why he joined the enemy, nor why he stayed.
It makes sense he might have naively devoted himself to a different cause.
“What fairy tale was that?” you ask. “The enemy?”
“Chris.” Changbin looks at you beneath the sweep of his dark bangs. His smile is wry. “He asked me about Chris.”
You blink back at him, surprised by the answer. After stumbling over any number of replies, you say, “That wasn’t in your initial report.”
“It didn’t seem important,” Changbin says with a shrug.
“You have a responsibility to report back everything—”
“Yes, commander,” he says dryly. He slumps in his seat and crosses his arms. “Does it matter now? I told him Chris was dead.”
Not a lie, in a way. Bang Chan was a rebellious subject in his youth, nothing like the merciless soldier he is now. The inhuman machine was wrought through inhumane treatment. You were not privy to the grittier details nor have you ever felt an inclination to investigate. You do not need knowledge of the gruesome torture that was administered. The results are the same: the rebellious boy died. He has been gone ever since he was dragged into a basem*nt room for correction.
“Chris,” you say. The name sits heavy on your tongue. “Why would he want to know about Chris?”
“The better question is, why didn’t he want to know about me?” Changbin retorts. It sounds like a joke, his tone jumping back into comically exaggerated hysterics. But there is a tension in his shoulders that was not there before. “You know he didn’t even recognize me? Ah! The little brat! I knew him too! I wasn’t Bang Chan, no one was … But I was there. Forgetting me… We’re all that’s left!”
You tilt your head and study Changbin, as if there are more answers in his face than in his words. Your gaze drifts to the scar by his eye. He got hit today, taking a swipe meant for you. Other adversaries have sent agents to scour the late enemy’s business remains, but they are no match for soldiers of Miroh.
Changbin joked he was being a good bodyguard. In truth, he is a good bodyguard. Your security team is competent but nothing compared to him. It has made a difference, having someone so reliable at your back, even though it has painted a target on his. Your father is not happy Changbin outsmarted him. Changbin jokes about it, as he is wont to do, claiming he can’t wait for a pummelling of his own. He is probably right. Miroh has been quiet about the bodyguard assignment but that does not mean he has surrendered. He is a strategist. He is patient if it means results.
Raising children into soldiers is a testament to that patience. You look at Changbin, arguably the last true survivor other than yourself.
We’re all that’s left.
You find yourself reaching for him. It is not like you, but lately everything seems out of character. You touch his face, drawn to that scar, a scar that should be yours. You touch it very lightly.
When you meet his eyes, he is looking at you strangely. You are not a famously affectionate character, not even with him. You rip your hand back and shake your head.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, more curious than accusatory.
“Nothing,” you say. “I mean – well.” You scrub a hand over your face. The weeks have healed the worst of your injuries, but it is still littered with scars, including the ones Changbin gave you.
His eyes linger there before he sighs and drops his head. He rubs his face too.
“We’ll talk later,” you say, suddenly feeling the weight of today, not to mention the accumulative exhaustion of the days before. “It’s been a long day.” An understatement.
Changbin doesn’t argue. You separate to use the facilities and dress down for rest. You sleep in sweatpants and a t-shirt, your weapons and shoes not far. The one bed has plenty of space. You lay down first, certain that your mind is running too fast to rest, but all that exhaustion catches up to you.
You wake some time in the middle of the night. When Changbin gets out of bed, the dip and rise of the mattress stirs you. You blink awake, watching him amble over to the window. There is a cushioned seat and he plops down, his arms crossed and his eyes on the stars.
You wonder if you look that young out of combat clothes. His hair is ruffled and the black t-shirt and pants are comfortably fitted. His face looks vulnerable and open as he stares into the night.
“You’re awake too,” he says, not looking at you.
“Obviously,” you reply. You push yourself upright. “You woke me.”
“Sorry,” he says, trying to flash you one of his jovial grins but barely managing.
“You look tired,” you say.
“Thanks,” he replies with a laugh.
“You should go back to sleep.”
“I’m on bodyguard duty,” he jokes, gesturing to you. “I need to make sure no one murders the murder princess.”
You give him a dry look that makes him giggle. Naturally his humour returns at your expense. He really is the little brother you never had.
You slide off the bed and join him at the window seat. You shove and kick like bickering children until you are comfortably settled. You sit with your legs curled up to your chest, mirror images of each other. He looks out the window and you look at him.
“What are you thinking about?” you ask.
“Nothing,” he says, an automatic response. Then he shakes his head and sighs. “I don’t know, princess,” he says. “I don’t think you’ll understand.”
“What makes you say that?” You cannot help but feel offended even if he is probably right. You do not have heart-to-hearts, which is what this feels like, a quiet moment carved out of chaos. If everything was different, you would just be two friends talking about your normal lives.
Your life is anything but normal.
“I know you,” he answers, simple and confident. “I know who you are. Even when – well, no matter what happens, I guess.”
“Well,” the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, “that makes one of us.”
You swallow your thoughts quickly. Your innermost turmoil cannot be entrusted with anyone. It is dangerous to even think such weakness, never mind vocalize it.
Changbin looks at you with a pinch in his brow. You look away, up at the sky. You wonder about the vantage from the stars, seeing the bigger picture of your life. Your pain and sacrifices have to be worth something. Miroh always said the world was full of shadows, dark spots no regular person could clean. He was right about that. He is definitely one of them, but sometimes only darkness can fight darkness. Or so you thought. All this business with the enemy has changed things. That darkness collapsed in on itself like a black hole, taking everything with it.
“It used to be easier, didn’t it?” Changbin asks. “Just doing what you’re told… You can tell yourself it’s not your fault, that it would have happened anyway… Maybe I was believing in fairy tales too.”
You look at each other. He just sighs.
“A part of me feels like I never grew up,” he says. “I’ve always been what I am. Maybe it’s time to stop.”
“That sounds a lot like treason,” you say, realizing how dramatic it sounds after the fact. Miroh is a businessman and this company is not a country. And yet treasonous is what it feels like, a deep betrayal to the place that raised and shaped you into what you are. It feels like treachery to even think about abandoning it after everything.
“Maybe it does,” he says. He gives you another wry smile, flicking his bangs out of his face. “Does it matter? He already wants my beautiful head off its beautiful shoulders.”
“You shouldn’t be saying this to me,” you say. You’re Miroh’s daughter. Your relationship with your father might be fraught, but your loyalty is to this house and always has been. It is the only constant in this tumultuous, violent world.
“Are you gonna tell on me?” Changbin teases, so unserious on such a deathly serious matter. He just laughs at your silent but intense stare. He shakes his head as he looks out the window. “I don’t worry about that.”
“About what?”
“You telling on me.”
That stops your heart faster than the treason.
“Why not?” you ask slowly, as if you are wary of a trap about to spring.
Changbin puts a hand in his hair, shaking out his ruffled bangs. He looks normal but also not, his strong body so clearly built for violence. It is why you are shocked when he reaches out, when he touches you like you touched him, an undemanding press of his fingers along a scar.
Your startled eyes find his. It splits your focus. You see Changbin right now, older, stronger. You also see him younger, thinner, looking at you with concerned eyes as he wipes blood off your brow.
You blink again and it is just him as he is now.
He drops his hand.
“You don’t trust anyone,” he says. “I know. Ha! I really know.” He swings around, planting his feet on the ground. He reaches into his pocket then flicks open a pocketknife.
It should make your heart palpitate, a soldier with a weapon in your proximity, especially when you are unarmed. But there is no rush of blood, no fear, no worry. You just look at him, seeing all of him, young and old. You realize there has been more than one constant in your life.
The knife catches a glint of starlight, a flash of light in the darkness.
“You and I are the same, aren’t we, murder princess?” he says. “But also not. You were raised in the pen with us but it was never the same. We’re just animals to him. Raised to the slaughter, ha! But not you. One way or another, you’re going to be someone.”
You watch as he lifts his hand. He curls and uncurls a fist. He looks down at his palm.
“When it happens,” Changbin says, “Because it will happen, tomorrow or in a month or a year or whenever Miroh decides… But when I go like the rest of them… When it’s just you and you’re trying to decide who you want to be, not who your father wants you to be… When you’re trying to remember everything and you can’t decide what was real and what was just training and what was Miroh…”
He draws a slow slice across his hand, not so deep to be detrimental to his grip, but enough to draw blood in a long, thin line. You look at this small scar as if it the deepest wound you have ever encountered.
“Just… remember me,” he says. “I didn’t bleed because I believe in Miroh. I’m your soldier, not his.”
You are at a loss for words. You do not think there are any words, none that you were raised to know. You can only stare at the little trickle of blood as it runs down his wrist and drips onto the floor.
You have always felt very alone. You learned to thrive in that solitude. Even clinging to the hope of your father’s approval proved exhausting and useless. You accepted your high promontory was a lonely one.
Not even that solitude compares to the idea of Changbin gone. Even if you go weeks without seeing him, he is out there somewhere. You both keep your heads down, get the job done. Not the best soldiers, not the worst, but the ones still here.
You let instinct override your senses for the second time that night. When he makes to stand, your reflexes snap into action. You grab him by the arm and snatch the knife. He has no time to respond, watching as you slice a similar scar on your own palm.
Your eyes meet. You are unflinching, more resolute than ever. You clasp his hand and the blood smears in a signifying pact that needs no other words.
Only when the moment settles do you say, “You’re not a half-bad bodyguard.”
His laughter comes to him slowly, none of that empty joviality but a genuine burst of it. His eyes crinkle and his smiles widens and the laughter bubbles out of him.
“I’m the best bodyguard,” he says. “And don’t you ever f*cking forget it.”
-
In the light of day, last night’s whirlwind of dramatic emotions feel tempered. You and Changbin are able to conduct yourselves with a proper degree of soldiership. Though his words and your promise are in the back of your mind, you put it away for now.
You dress in combat gear and pack your bags for another day of infiltration, investigation, and clean-up. It is hard to say how easy or difficult the day will be. If you encounter other agents, the confrontation could complicate things, but sometimes that is better than a long day with no interesting discoveries at all.
The enemy had properties scattered all over town, some active and some not. This particular office building is a very old one, seemingly long since abandoned and turned into company storage. Some of these boxes have not been touched in decades, perhaps remnants of the business as run by the previous generation.
A thick layer of dust coats the desks and boxes. At least your masks are put to work, filtering the dusty air as you trail through the building.
“Yahhh,” Changbin whines, flicking some papers off a desk. “Today’s going to be boring.”
“Yup,” you say in accord. There is no way anyone else will be here. You doubt there is anything of value to be discovered, but Miroh will harass you if you do not complete his missions as outlined. With so much tension between you already, it is better to keep your head down and complete the menial tasks, even if it is blatant busy work.
A few of your officers are sent ahead to sweep the building. It is not a towering skyscraper but several tall floors nonetheless. Your subordinates take different floors while you and Changbin take an upper level. You begin the tedious task of rifling through the abandoned documentation.
“I’m a supersoldier, not a secretary,” Changbin gripes, moving boxes with more force than necessary.
“You’re not a supersoldier,” you say without looking up from your work. “There’s no such thing.”
“I’m pretty close,” he says, flexing and kissing his bicep.
“When you start flying, maybe I’ll consider it,” you retort, dryly.
“All right, I’m not a supersoldier,” he says. He takes off his mask to grin at you. “But I am super good looking.”
You take off your own mask to throw at him like a projectile. He squeals and ducks, then proceeds to cuss you out for the next few minutes while you smile.
Eventually he takes a seat. He props his booted feet up on a desk while sorting through some papers with absent-minded perusal.
“So tell me again about the security log,” Changbin says, evidently growing bored within minutes.
You can hardly blame him. It is why you are about to reply, but your thoughts are quickly obliterated. Gunfire reverberates in the nearby stairwell, followed by shouting and thumping. Seconds later, your warning pagers are vibrating. Your officers’ voices come through the communications software.
“Hostile enemy agents breached ground zero,” they say. “Be ready for confrontation.”
You and Changbin spring into action. Your masks are unfortunately abandoned, too far to grab in a rush thanks to your shenanigans, but your bags and weapons are within reach. You swing them on and arm yourselves, racing into the corridor to join the rest of your team.
It happens very fast. One moment, this ancient building is nothing more than a dilapidated office from a bygone era, brimming with useless nothings that no one would want. The next moment, it is overflowing with enemy agents, pouring in one after the other.
You and Changbin join the other officers in the stairwell. None of you are prepared for the sight that greets you, the sheer number of adversaries that come streaming into the building at rapid speed.
“What the f*ck,” you say, realizing far too late you cannot take this many agents. You have not had anything near this problem before.
You look at Changbin, both of you shooting uselessly to stop the encroach of hostiles.
“We need to retreat,” you say in unison. You nod at each other.
The message gets passed along the communicators. There is no way to escape through the ground floor, the enemy agents chasing you up the stairwell. You take out your phone to call for back-up, relaying the message directly to Miroh’s team leaders.
“Can you at all identify the hostiles?” the man asks.
“Do we know who they are?” you shout at Changbin over the gunfire and chaos.
“Ah, well they’re not friends!” he replies.
You pause in your ascent to squint down at the approaching horde. The uniform colours are familiar at a glance, but the dog tags confirm your suspicions. It locks you in place with shock and confusion, because there is no way that makes any sense.
These agents belong to the enemy. The enemy. It explains the numbers, as only that house could rival Miroh in terms of size and numbers. But it is not possible he is conducting an offensive attack because he’s dead and his business is in shambles. There is no one to conduct an operation on his behalf. It makes no sense.
Changbin grabs you by the back of the neck, hauling you up the stairs with him.
“Not the time to stop and smell the flowers, murder princess,” he says.
“It’s the enemy,” you say. “I don’t know how or why, but it’s them.”
“We’re sending a back-up team straight to you right now,” Miroh’s leader says.
You end the call to focus on your surroundings, confusing and chaotic as they are.
You watch as several of your officers are taken down. You wince at each reverberation of a gunshot that kills them. A dozen more faces flash in front of your eyes, every child in that program with you, every enemy you have killed on Miroh’s behalf. Chris. Felix. Changbin, young, small, looking at you with concern.
The reign of fire follows you. You think you will be hearing gunshots for days.
“Get her out,” one of your officer’s says into the comms, directed at Changbin. “Leave through the roof. We’ll hold them off.”
You trip running up the stairs.
You never trip, far more coordinated than the average soldier. But you hear your officer say that and your mind’s eye is overwhelmed with the image of them dying. Because that is what will happen. You should not be bothered by it. You can train a new security team. They exist for this exact reason.
But all their faces are flashing in front of your mind. Your team, the program soldiers, the First Guard. A thunderous pain rattles down your spine, a cry leaving your lips as you are inundated with visions of death that you suddenly cannot shake.
“Up, up!” Changbin shouts, hoisting you onto your feet. “You’re better than this!”
He’s right. You are a soldier. You trained for this. You were made to fight.
You push through the pain and thunder. You get your feet back under you. You race with Changbin to the roof and trust your team to do what is best.
You slam and bolt the door behind you. You look around for something to barricade it but there is nothing. Changbin meanwhile opens his pack and takes out the rappel line and harness. You have had little use for it on most of the assignments, but it is standard tactical gear when assigned any investigation or clean-up work, as it can require getting into locked areas through sky access. You almost left them behind today, knowing the building was abandoned and you would have no difficulty getting in. You are glad you decided against that.
“Here,” Changbin says, handing you the harness. “Put this on.” He ducks back down to finish securing the line on the edge of the roof.
“They’re not gonna be able to hold them,” you say, fitting the harness around yourself. It is second-nature. You hardly need to think, fastening every buckle as you stare at that closed door. “They’ll be on us in seconds,” you say. “They’ll just follow us over the roof on the line.” You grant your odds are better on the street, that you can endeavour an escape, but that is only if you get that far. Those enemy agents are going to blast down that door like it’s made of cardboard, then they will be on you.
Your heart is pounding in your chest, your adrenaline propelling every breath. You do not have time to think twice. It is why it takes you so long to notice that Changbin has not put on a harness.
“What are you doing?” you ask when he stands, completely unprepared to rappel down the building. “We have to go! Put your harness on, idiot!”
He takes the hook and locks it onto your harness, fastening it with a few skilled flicks of his fingers. You grab his hand, stopping him.
He takes a breath and finally meets your eye. The wind blows his dark bangs across his face, opening up his expression to you. You can feel the furious scrunch of your own features go lax. Just like that, your adrenaline dwindles, all that heat turning to an ice cold block in your chest. It drops to your gut.
“Changbin,” you start.
“You’re going to go down that line,” he says. “When you’re at the bottom, I’m going to cut it so they can’t follow you. It will buy you time to get to the vehicles and get away.”
“Absolutely not,” you say. “What the f*ck are you thinking? You—”
“I’m your bodyguard,” he says with that wry smile. “This is my job. Let me do it.”
“No,” you say, struggling against him. You try to unhook the rappel line but he fights back, not your usual play-fighting but deadly serious. “You can’t be serious!” you shout. “We’re the same thing! If you’re staying and fighting then I’m joining you!”
“We’re not the same thing!” he shouts back. “You’re a Miroh! You need to get out of here!”
“You’re right, I am a Miroh!” you say. “It’s me they want anyway! You put on the harness! You can still get out of here!”
“I’m not leaving here without you!”
You want to reply. The words are right on your lips: I’m not leaving here without you either.
But before you can say them, all that thunderous pain fractures your vision again. Your focus splits. You see Changbin in front of you, dressed in his combat gear with the wind in his hair.
Then everything changes.
The sunny sky darkens and the rooftop disappears. You see the colour grey. It is all around you, halfway blinding you, filling your lungs so you can hardly breathe. You blink rapidly, as if that will clear your vision, but it is just more grey and the sound of faraway voices.
Then you see Changbin again, in his combat gear but years younger. Just a teenager, all skinny cheeks and sharp angles. There is no wind in his hair. There is no wind anywhere. He is bleeding profusely from a head wound, a stark slash of red in the middle of so much grey. He says your name. You hear your own voice but it is a foggy, faraway thing. You cannot make out what you are saying. When you look down, you cannot see your body. You can only see him. You can only hear him.
“I’m not leaving here without you,” he says.
Then you are abruptly yanked out of that grey. You are back on the rooftop in the sunshine. Changbin has his hand planted on your chest, securing the last piece of the harness. You hear the thud of someone kicking at the bolted door. You look there frantically. Changbin does too. Then you look at each other.
“I told you I was the best bodyguard ever,” he says, smiling.
He whips off his glove, revealing his freshly scarred hand. He grabs your bare hand, the one with the still-tender scar. He clasps your hands together and looks at you with a desperation you have never seen before, like he is trying to tell you a thousand things with just a glance.
Then he slowly lets go of your hand.
“Sorry I can’t fly,” he says.
He shoves the middle of your chest, hard. You go tumbling over the edge of the roof just as the enemy agents break the door down.
There is nothing you can do mid-air. You can only shout his name, terrified and furious and desperate all at once. You scream your emotions out until the line comes to an end, a few feet from the ground. You unclip your harness and drop to the ground smoothly.
“Can anyone copy?” you speak into your comm, looking up at the roof helplessly. You watch as an enemy agent swings over and starts to climb down the rope. You draw your gun and brace yourself.
Then Changbin’s head pops over the edge. “Copy,” he says, then cuts the line.
You jump out of the way. Seconds later, the enemy agent comes careening into the ground. The pile of rope lands on top of him.
“f*ck,” you say. “f*ck, f*ck, f*ck. Changbin!” you shout hysterically into your comms. “Changbin, can you copy?”
He doesn’t answer. You run over to the body, searching for something. You don’t even know what, you just know that this whole situation is wrong.
It does not take you long. You roll the body over. Though his neck is now twisted at a fatal angle, you recognize the agent. He was standing in your father’s office just a few weeks ago. His name was Agent Slump. You shot him through the shoulder.
These are not enemy agents attacking the house of Miroh, they are your father’s men attacking you.
You push away from the body, looking frantically up at the roof for any sign of further commotion. You see nothing from this vantage.
You run back into the building. You let adrenaline and instinct carry you up the stairs, taking a few at a time and ignoring the burn in your thighs. This is Miroh, you keep repeating to yourself. Your father has done this. Sending fake enemies after you. Teaching you yet another lesson. You said you could handle yourself. You said your security team could protect you. Now you are running past their dead bodies, your chest heaving from exertion and emotion. You find yourself blinking back tears. You cannot remember the last time you cried.
“Changbin,” you say into your comm, tripping on another step. Your voice comes out of the comms on your dead officers. It echoes in the empty stairwell. “Changbin, answer me, please,” you say. “It’s not the enemy. It’s my father. It’s Miroh. Changbin. Changbin.”
You are halfway up the building when you hear voices below. You stop to listen. Your vibrating phone makes you jump.
“Miss Miroh?” comes a voice, then you see one of your father’s officers at the bottom of the winding stairwell. This one is not playing a part. He is in the standard uniform. There are more officers behind him. The back-up you called like an idiot.
You do not go back down. You drop your phone and race to the roof.
“Get her,” you hear the officer say, then the stairwell is thundering with footsteps as they chase you.
You no longer know what you are doing. You do not know where you are going or what you will find. A part of you is unsurprised when the rooftop is empty, that they got away, that now your father’s men can come in and play hero.
You look around for Changbin but you cannot find him anywhere. You try to tell yourself that is a good thing, that it could be worse, that he could be as dead as your security team, just a body on this roof. You try to tell yourself that he is safe. It was just Miroh. They are probably taking Changbin back to the main facilities right now. Everything will be fine.
Deep down, you know nothing will be fine. Everything has changed.
You hear the officers behind you. You look around. The building next door is too far for a regular person to jump, potentially too far for you to jump. It will be cutting it close, but it is all you have. At this point, you halfway hope you’ll fall and your father’s men will be forced to report they let you die.
You shed the top layer of your combat shirt, getting down to the tank top underneath. You are not sure it will make a difference, but every bit counts. You back up and count a few seconds, then you take a running leap off the roof. You get a grip on the next one, though not without a lot of pain. You grit your teeth and hoist yourself up, ignoring your scraped arms as you take off running. You open a skylight and drop into the building. Another empty corridor stretches in front of you.
You decide your objective it to escape. You can confront your father after, but right now you need to prove you can handle yourself. You can get out of here.
You are certain your father’s men will have the vehicles locked in. Once you escape this building, you will have to find another—
A window behind you shatters. You duck and cover your head as glass explodes around you. You roll to get away, though your limbs are shaky from everything. When you get to your feet, it is more unsteady than usual.
You turn around. You feel that sinking feeling in your gut again.
“Oh my god,” you say. “Of f*cking course it’s you.”
Bang Chan stands there, cold and ungiving like the living shadow he has become. Your father likes an agent that can both disappear and intimidate, so Chan somehow feels like a terrifyingly huge figure, looming over you, despite the fact he is not much bigger or taller. His presence is hulking, as deadly and awful as you remember. He stares at you with those dark eyes over the half-mask. He is not breathing especially hard despite the fact he just took a running leap from the opposite building and smashed through a window. His body is as steady and ungiving as his gaze.
You do not waste any more breath cursing. You turn and run.
You know it is useless but you have to try. In your head, if you get away, that is a bargaining chip. You can talk to Miroh, you can show him that you were right, you can have Changbin back, and Changbin will be fine and—
You let out an aggravated cry when Chan grabs you. You manage to rip away after a few good kicks. It is amazing what hidden strength lies in adrenaline. Your heart is pumping even faster than your last fight with him.
You duck into a stairwell and jump over the railing, landing a couple floors below. You keep doing that, ignoring the fact you can hear him copying you. If you look back, it will slow you down. You keep jumping until you hit the bottom floor.
You make it a few steps before he grabs you again. This time he is relentless, a big gloved around wrapped around your throat.
That adrenaline betrays you. It is like all your training abandons you as your terror and fury rips through you. You struggle against him, your motions jerky and frantic and poorly strategized. He pins you to the wall, using his whole body to lock you in place so you stop kicking him.
“Let me go,” you say, barely above a whisper. It makes him tighten his grip on your throat. You twitch helplessly, gripping his arm uselessly, your face pinched with anger.
You are swiftly joined by the other officers. You glare at them, still digging your nails into Chan’s arm. He does not soften his grip until he is ordered, then he puts you on your feet. You stumble, your vision covered in black spots as you suck in deep, gasping breaths. It was not even just the choking, as he did not squeeze hard enough to fully incapacitate you, but as your adrenaline dwindles, your strength does too.
You trip for the third time. Someone grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you back up. You are not sure if you are more surprised or terrified to find it is Chan, looking at you with calculating eyes. You stare back at him, this manifestation of your father’s worst, most inhumane actions. You are torn between apologizing to him and kicking him again.
Then another officer grabs you. You watch with alarm as he puts you in handcuffs.
“What the f*ck?” you ask. “Who’s f*cking side are you on?”
“Miroh always, of course,” the officer says. “This is for your own good. You are behaving erratically. Don’t be scared. We will inform your father that you tried to flee from your own protective officers. I am certain he will do everything in his power to ensure you cannot put yourself in harm’s way again.”
You have no more words. An animalistic cry escapes from your chest, ripping through you. Even with your hands cuffed behind your back, you dive at the officer and take him down. You bite down on his ear until you taste the metallic tang of blood. He screams under you until someone rips you off him. They hold you by the back of the neck like a poorly behaved puppy.
The officer gets to his feet. Blood is pouring down the side of his neck, part of his ear torn. You spit blood at him.
He raises his hand as if to strike you. You stand there, chin jutted forward, ready to take it.
Then you realize it is Chan holding you. When the officer brings his hand down, Chan moves you. He steps in between you and catches the officer’s wrist.
Chan says nothing. He does not need to say anything. He looks at the officer and the officer swallows.
The officer snatches his hand back and straightens his clothes.
“We’re leaving,” he says. “Guard, take your charge.”
You are looking smugly at the officer. That co*ckiness dissipates when Chan turns around and looks at you. It has you immediately shrinking away, then flinching when he grabs your arm.
They take you to a truck. It is one of the holding trucks, the kind they use for transporting undesirables. It is obvious they always intended to lock you in chains. You have been in metaphorical chains your whole life, and it is only taking this to realize it.
You try and slow your frantic breathing. You cannot have a breakdown right now. It will only make it harder for you when you confront your father. You are already at a disadvantage, being dragged to him in literal chains. You will be completely at his mercy, and Miroh does not have mercy.
You sit on the bench in the back of the prison truck. You expect to be alone with an officer, giving you time to strategize and think, but then it is Chan climbing into the van and sitting on the bench across from you. All the hairs on your body stand up. You cannot concentrate on anything with Bang Chan in close proximity. He moves like a wild animal, something predatory and swift about him. When they close and lock the door, your heart skips beats.
Chan says nothing. He never says anything. On the rare occasion you have been in contact, you have not heard a word out of him. You seldom have anything to do with the missions he runs. They are above even your paygrade, the worst of Miroh’s work.
You swallow. He is not speaking but he is staring. He does not remove the mask. You have not seen him without it in years. He is nothing but a soldier. An army unto himself.
Your heart skips another beat. An idea slowly forms in your mind.
You are better than average. Chan is better than you. You cannot take all these agents on your own, but you could definitely take them with his help. Of course, that is an entirely hypothetical thought. It would be absolutely, completely, severely ridiculous to even try. You are certain the best reaction you will get out of Chan is nothing, just a penetrating stare and silence. The worst would probably be a snapped neck.
You curl your hands behind your back. The scar on your palm stings. You clench your jaw.
You have nothing else to lose.
“You’re not a soldier, you know,” you say.
Just like you suspected, he says nothing. He just stares at you. The truck rattles along, jostling you so your handcuffs jingle. He moves with the sway of the vehicle, hardly affected.
Your fear turns to frustration. You heave a breath.
“Did you hear me?” you ask. “You’re not a soldier. You’re a prisoner. You’re not who you think you are. Miroh has you under his control, but it’s not real. The real you is in there somewhere. And the real you—” The words come rushing up, slamming into your furiously clenched teeth, “The real you hates Miroh almost as much as me.”
Chan stares at you. That is expected.
What is unexpected is the slow tilt of his head. It makes you shiver, instinctively cowering as he studies you. His brow slowly quirks, a questioning expression. You did not know he could make such an expression.
“Are you… listening to me?” you ask.
He straightens, but he still looks questioning. It is enough for all your desperation to rush to the surface. You fall forward, slamming on your knees in front of him. You are so scarred and bruised, it hardly matters. More important is the fact he looks down, as if he is more concerned by it, though you cannot read any more expressions on his stoic face.
“Chan,” you say. “Chris. Whatever you want to be called. If you’re in there, then listen to me, please. I know you don’t know me. We hardly knew each other at all growing up. But we did grow up together. Miroh is controlling both of us. He is going to use us to do things. He—” You curl your fist behind you, needing to feel the sting on your palm. It brings a tear to your eye.
Chan is looking at you, expressionless again, but it doesn’t matter. You have to try.
“It’s not just us,” you say. “This is bigger than you and me. I have a—I have a friend—my friend, you understand, and I—”
The van comes to a stop. Chan grabs you by the shoulders and puts you back on your bench. You screw your eyes shut and shake your head. You want to scream.
When you open your eyes, you pour all your anger in your glare. It is not directed at Chan, though he is the one to catch your gaze and hold it.
You are still looking at each other when the door is unlocked. There was only a small window providing light in the cabin of the truck. A bigger slash of golden light has you wincing.
Chan is unaffected, still staring at you. An officer opens the door wider and nods to him.
“Let’s go, guard,” he says.
Chan gets up. You watch as he struts past. He jumps out of the van and lands smoothly on his feet.
Then he reels back and punches the officer. It is quick as a snap, the unconscious body hitting the tarmac in a flash. It makes you jump, the bench rattling underneath you.
You sit, petrified, confused. Chan slowly turns. You blink at him.
He holds out his hand.
“What?” you say. It comes out a rasp. You cannot manage more words. There is no way your frantic, barely coherent pleading got through to him. This man has been tortured into compliance. There is no humanity left in him, no memories, no emotions, no hopes. He does not feel anything. He does not understand anything. He is a weapon.
He is still holding out his hand.
There is nowhere to go but forward. You get to your feet and shuffle towards him. He still does not speak, nor does he look at you with any particular expression. He just holds out his arms and lifts you out of the van. When you are on your feet, you stare at each other.
He spins you around. A gust of breath whooshes out of you. You panic for half a second, then you realize he is unlocking your handcuffs.
Never mind. He is breaking them with his bare hands. You watch as they hit the ground in a mangled heap. You turn around slowly, your knees still shaking.
Chan is calm as the other officers approach. Someone asks why you are out of your handcuffs.
Chan looks at you. You do not know why or how, but he nods.
You nod back.
You are a soldier. You trained for this. You were made to fight. It is time to remind them of that.
-
Your father is in his rooftop garden. Miroh has a few soft hobbies like that, gardening among his favourite. He sees himself as a cultivator as much as a green thumb, bringing more life into the world despite what life he takes. It balances for him. The ends always justifies the means.
You walk into his garden. It is obvious he is not expecting anyone, much less you. He does not have time to hide his surprise. You just fought your way through all of his security measures, battered and bruised and beaten. You have not seen yourself, but you are certain your body is a canvas of violence right now.
“Hello, father,” you say.
“Go to my office,” he replies without hesitation. “We will talk there.”
“No,” you say calmly. “We’ll talk right here. Right now.”
He is holding a watering can. He puts it down without looking and it tips over, splashing everywhere. Neither of you look at it. Your eyes are locked on each other. You both know what he did today. He is smart enough to work that out.
“Where are my men?” he asks.
“Detained,” you answer. Chan is holding them off somewhere. You still do not know why or how, but there will be time for that later. You have to solve one problem at a time.
You have no real plan. You are making it up as you. All you know is that scar on your hand is throbbing.
I’m not leaving here without you.
You touch your palm, running your finger over the scar. You do not look away from Miroh as you approach him. Your legs are weak, your knees shaking, your body in agony, but you take one step after the other. Given the stricken look on his face, you think this might be more disturbing than if you were healthy.
Your injuries might have made you equal fighters, but his arm is still in a cast, weakening him too. He will not win in a one-on-one fight. He is smart enough to know that too. It is why he takes a careful, calculating step back.
“You’re injured,” he says. “Go to the infirmary. We can talk after.”
“We can talk now,” you reply, taking another step forward.
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” he says.
“Where is he?” you ask.
You are both speaking calmly, moving slowly. The watering can is slowly leaking water, gurgling in the background. Wind moves through the flowers. You hear birdsong in the sunshine. Still, in the background, it feels like the world is screaming, the high-pitched whistle of that pot at a boiling point.
“Who?” your father asks.
“I’m not playing any more games,” you say. “I’m not playing dress-up with any little secret agents. I’m not getting in any rings and playing made-up fights with your silly toy soldiers. No more lies. No more games. No more secrets. Seo Changbin is my best officer. I want him back. Tell me where he is.”
“His time as a soldier has run its course,” Miroh says. “His body is more useful than him. The initial special-ops experiment was a failure. His genetics might unlock the key to replicating the medicant. We can try again. You should want to help me. You would know better than anyone what worked and what did not.”
Your exhaustion and emotion nearly gets the better of you. You almost hurl right in front of him, imagining all the horrifying implications of genetics and keys. You imagine them taking Changbin apart, piece by piece, experimenting on him like a slab of meat.
You keep your disgust and horror down. You take another step forward.
“Give him back to me,” you say. “Right now. I told you already. I’m not playing any games.”
“You are deeply unwell,” your father says, his tone changing as he looks at you with more scrutiny. His whole face seems to darken with the furrow of his brow. “This is not like you. Go to the infirmary.”
“I’m not asking again,” you say. “Give him back to me.”
“Why?”
Because you’re my father, should be a good enough answer. You know it will not work. You know he does not care. Miroh hates you because you are his daughter. Miroh is not scared of anyone because he knows he is the best. He is scared of himself in you. You never stood a chance.
“Because he’s my friend,” you say, because that is the only truth that matters anymore.
It makes your father laugh unexpectedly. You do not break.
“Your friend?” he asks. “Oh, well, my dear, if he’s your friend, then of course I’ll suspend all my plans and operations!” He continues to laugh.
“I already told you,” you say. “I’m not asking again.”
You fly at him without further warning. He has a half-second to react, his eyes widening as he side-steps clumsily. With your mutual injuries, it is not much of a fight. After a short scuffle, Miroh kicks at your legs, your weakest point, and you double over. He swings his knee up into your stomach and it makes you fall, curled protectively over yourself. You plant your forehead on the ground, arms around you, breathing hard.
“That is how a daughter should be before her father,” he says, looking down at you in your broken little bow.
You look up as he reaches into the lapel of his coat. He has kept his gun in the same place for years. In the same place you always keep yours when you wear a long coat.
He puts his hand there and finds nothing.
You uncurl, showing the gun in your hand. You point it, co*ck it, and place your finger on the trigger as you stand.
“If the next words you speak are not his exact location, I’m killing you,” you say.
“Then kill me,” he says.
He must know you are running on fumes and a half-baked plan that you did not believe would work. He is calling your bluff, knowing you like he knows himself. You will drop the gun and concede. Miroh wins. Miroh always wins.
But you are gripping that gun with your scarred hand. It sends a twinge of pain shooting up your arm. You hear Changbin’s voice in your head.
You pull the trigger.
You are not sure who is more surprised. You can feel it on your own face, dripping with your sweat and blood. You lower the gun and watch as Miroh stumbles backwards, frantically patting his chest. You wonder if he is wearing any protective layers.
It doesn’t matter, in the end. You spent the last few minutes walking him backwards. If you couldn’t get the gun, you were going to grab him and threaten him with the edge of the roof.
When you shoot him, he stumbles. He falls back. He goes right over the edge.
You stand there for a long minute. The watering can has emptied. The wind has gone still. The whole world seems to stop. When you drop the gun, it hits the concrete with a clatter. It feels very strange that the sun is still shining.
You walk to the edge of the roof. You look down. Your father has loomed over the world from this perch for years, looking over the things he has so meticulously grown.
He is laying in a broken heap at the bottom of it now.
You do not know how long you stand there. The wind begins to blow again. You feel it on your face.
Then you hear a voice. It nearly makes you jump.
“What now?” it asks.
You turn around. Bang Chan is standing there in his dark combat gear, that half-mask still fastened in place. He has finally broken a sweat, his hairline damp, and his chest is moving a little faster with breath. He is human somewhere under there. Deep, deep down. You have no idea what to do with that human anymore than the soldier.
One problem at a time.
A few more officers appear on the rooftop. Chan turns. You approach him.
“What now?” you repeat. You scoop up the discarded gun and point it at the officers. Chan draws his own and does the same. You stand side-by-side, arm-to-arm, eyes on your adversaries. “Right now,” you say, “we fight.”
You pull the trigger.
The fight begins.
