┌── ⋆ ⋆ ── 𖥔 ✧ཐི ྐ❤︎ ཋྀ✧ 𖥔 ── ⋆ ⋆ ──┐

You're a federal agent—covert intelligence, cybercrime division, operating under the Ministry of National Security.

Your job? Infiltrate, gather evidence, vanish. Leave no trace.

And tonight, your target is Kim Taehyung.

Officially, he’s a luxury investor. Unofficially, he's the quiet architect behind half the organized crime on the peninsula—arms, drugs, data trafficking, blackmail rings. The man has left behind corpses, bank collapses, and broken governments... but never fingerprints.

Until now.

You’ve been assigned to recover proof—real, undeniable evidence hidden inside his private estate. And tonight, during his birthday gala, the mansion will be full of suspects and secrets. The one time you can get in.

But you needed a key.

An invitation.

Not a flimsy paper card. A high-security pass embedded with a chip linked to biometric data—face, gait, voice print. Each invitation is a digital lock and the person it's tied to is the key.

Which is why you needed Min Seojun.

Arms dealer. Middle of the food chain. Arrogant. He drinks too much and talks too loud. He made the perfect ghost to wear for one night—important enough to have an invitation, forgettable enough to vanish without triggering alarms.

You tracked him for days. Waited for the right opening.

3:12 a.m., smoky bar in a dead part of Seoul. Seojun sat hunched in a booth, halfway through his third glass of whiskey. He didn’t even register your presence until you sat across from him and smiled like you belonged there.

Two drops of a sedative. Colorless, odorless, effective.

Three minutes later, his head hit the table. You slip the invitation out of the man’s coat pocket. “VIP access. Kim Taehyung’s Birthday Gala. 9PM. No weapons. Dress to impress.”

Perfect.

You left the bar.

The woman at the counter didn’t make eye contact. Just another customer in a leather jacket, nursing a drink. But you recognized her. One of your own—disguise specialist, cleanup crew. She brushed her hair behind her ear when you passed. That was the signal. She’d take care of the rest.

And now you’re here.

The gates of Taehyung’s mansion open slowly, iron groaning like the jaws of something old and hungry.

You hand the guard the invitation. The chip scans green. The man barely nods before letting you through.

You step into a world built on silk and blood.

Music floats through the marble hall. Strings, soft and sinister. Guests drift between towering columns, drowning in champagne and secrets. You don’t stare. You don’t slow.

You blend.

You take a flute of champagne from a passing tray. Sip without tasting. Smile when needed. No more, no less.

The mission is simple: get to Taehyung’s private office. Retrieve the files. Get out.

You approach one of the hallway guards, all calm ease.

“Sorry,” you say smoothly. “Where’s the restroom?”

“First hallway on the right,” he replies. “Past the sculpture.”

You thank him. Then you walk past the sculpture... and keep going.

Deeper into the west wing.

Each step takes you farther from the ballroom—farther from eyes, music, safety.

You don’t know exactly where the office is.

No floor plan. No insider tip. Just a sliver of intel suggesting Taehyung keeps his most sensitive material close—likely on the second floor, away from guests, behind walls no one’s supposed to see.

You climb the stairs quietly, slipping into a side hallway as music hums faintly below. The air here is colder, quieter. Every expensive painting and antique vase screams untouchable wealth. And underneath it all, that crawling tension in your spine—that you’re walking in a place you absolutely should not be.

Halfway down the corridor, you spot two guards standing idle near a door.

You don’t hesitate.

Your hand slips into your pocket. The cloth is already damp with sedative—strong enough to knock a man out in seconds.

You move fast. Silent. One down. Then the next.

Two quiet thumps hit the marble.

You drag them behind a curtain—messy, but good enough.

Then, just ahead—

A door.

You try the handle.

It opens.

You’re in.

It’s a study. Expensive, but understated. Walls lined with shelves, a sleek desk near the window, low lights glowing in the corners. The place smells like leather, ink, and faint traces of expensive cologne.

You shut the door behind you. Time is short.

You begin to search—eyes sharp, hands fast. The desk drawers. The cabinets. A console with a biometric scanner. A silver laptop left sleeping on the desk, humming faintly.

Somewhere in this room is what you need.

But you don’t know that behind you, just down the hall, footsteps are approaching.

Slow. Intentional.

He knows.

⋮

└── ⋆ ⋆ ── 𖥔 ✧ཐི ྐ❤︎ ཋྀ✧ 𖥔 ── ⋆ ⋆ ──┘