Evening arrived without ceremony.
The sky dimmed, the light thinning through the cracks of the city buildings, and our hideout felt smaller than it ever had. We didn't have much to pack. We never did. A change of clothes, a few tools we trusted more than people, and things that fit into a bag without asking questions.
Junseo moved around the room with an ease that hadn't been there earlier. Our conversation had settled him—at least on the surface. He didn't look like he was about to explode anymore. That, more than anything, told me how much weight he'd been carrying for me.
I watched him zip his bag shut. Maybe this was how new beginnings started: quiet, unremarkable, and disguised as just another night. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a life where this ended cleanly—where we walked away with enough to disappear and live without looking over our shoulders.
A good life.
The thought felt dangerous. I shook it off just as the walkie-talkie on the table crackled to life.
Static. Then a voice—flat and efficient. "It's time."
Junseo looked at me. I nodded. We left without turning back.
The city looked different at night—less forgiving. Streetlights stretched long, skeletal shadows across the empty roads as we followed the GPS route we'd been given.
No detours. No second thoughts.
The airport was quiet in a way public places never truly are. It was too controlled. A man approached us near the far end of a private terminal. He wore no uniform, no name tag.
"Follow," he said, already turning his back.
We were led past security gates meant for ordinary travelers and out onto the tarmac.
The air grew colder here, carrying the sharp, stinging smell of jet fuel and frozen metal.
Then we saw it.
The jet waited in the dark—sleek, black, and untouched by logos or flags. Its lights glowed low against the concrete, like a predator trying not to be seen. Figures stood nearby, silhouettes under the floodlights.
They were still. Watching.
Junseo slowed beside me. "Hyung," he muttered, trying to find his humor again.
"You ever notice how every bad decision in a movie starts near an airport?"
I didn't smile. "Airports just make people honest," I said. "About their mistakes."
We boarded without ceremony.
Orina climbed in first, looking casual as if this were her daily commute. Peter followed, and Gu Wen came next, his eyes already glued to a tablet, his fingers moving before he'd even taken his seat. Borislav stepped in last—unhurried and certain, like the plane wouldn't dare leave without his permission.
Junseo and I took our seats. The leather was clean, expensive, and cold beneath my palms. It was the kind of luxury meant to reassure you while quietly reminding you who owned the person sitting in it.
The door was still open when the atmosphere shifted. No footsteps announced him. No voice. Just a sudden, chilling presence.
Miran entered.
He was tall and unnaturally pale under the cabin lights. His white hair was pulled back neatly, not a single strand out of place. His blue eyes swept the space—not with curiosity, but with a sense of ownership. He took the seat directly opposite us, crossing one leg over the other with lazy precision.
No greeting. No introduction.
Junseo leaned closer and whispered, "Hyung… that guy really does look like he owns the world."
I didn't answer. Miran's gaze flicked briefly toward Junseo. Just once. Junseo stiffened, his breath catching. Then Miran looked away, already bored with him.
The cabin door sealed shut with a heavy, pressurized hiss. The engines roared.
As the jet climbed, the city lights slid away from the windows—shrinking, blurring, and eventually disappearing like they'd never existed.
No one spoke during takeoff. Not Orina, not Peter, not even Borislav. The silence felt deliberate, a weight we all had to carry.
Hours passed in fragments of dimmed lights and the steady hum of the engine.
Eventually, Junseo fell asleep despite himself. I stayed awake, staring at the black void beyond the window.
Borders didn't feel real from thirty thousand feet. Only consequences did.
When the descent finally began, the sky had changed. Dawn crept in, pale and sharp, painting the clouds in cold blues and greys.
The land below was vast and unforgiving. Snow-dusted concrete. Skeletal steel structures. Long stretches of nothingness between places that mattered.
Russia.
The jet touched down smoothly, but the impact still settled deep in my bones. As we slowed on the frozen runway, Miran finally spoke.
"Welcome," he said. His voice was calm, effortless, and heavily accented. It wasn't warm, but it wasn't hostile either. It was simply certain.
"This," he continued, his icy eyes lifting to meet mine at last, "is where things stop being simple."
I met his gaze and didn't look away. For the first time since this deal was made, I believed him completely. The "Twin Brothers" weren't in their city anymore. We were in his.