Jack woke up for his night shift. Got dressed. Walked out.
The gas station looked untouched — like the shooting yesterday never happened.
Clean floors. Empty lot. Same flickering light above the pumps.
He grabbed a car magazine from the rack and dropped into the chair behind the counter.
Hours passed. It was calm. Silent. The way nights were supposed to be.
1:55 A.M.
The door opened. Black woman, late 20s. Walked in without looking around.
Grabbed a few things — Red Bull, aspirin, bag of chips. Dropped them on the counter.
Jack raised his head from the magazine. Got up. Grabbed a pack of Newports and placed it next to her items.
While scanning, he spoke.
"Stopped on your way home, Renee?"
She looked at him, deadpan.
"Rare moment, hearing you talk. Yeah, I stopped."
"How's MJ?"
"You talk to him more than I do."
Jack gave a small nod.
"Yeah. Just talked. Wasn't tryna pry. Sorry."
He bagged the items. She paid in cash. No small talk. No thanks.
She turned and walked back to her car.
Jack watched through the glass.
"She's one cold woman," he thought. Tough, silent. All edge. MJ's sister. Two jobs. No breaks. Ever since their mom got locked up seven years ago — this had been her life.
After she left, Jack stepped outside.
Pulled out a Marlboro Gold. Lit it. Watched the Detroit sky — dull, bruised, flickering in the cold.
A black sedan rolled up. Tinted windows. Quiet engine.
Passenger window slid down. Two men inside. Black suits. Earpieces. No words.
The passenger handed over a sealed folder.
Jack took it. The sedan pulled away.
No talk. No signal. Just the drop.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the rusted ashtray by the door and walked back inside.
Tossed the folder on the counter. Looked at it for a second.
He was about to open it, thumb under the seal — then stopped.
Didn't put it in his bag either. Just stood there, staring.
"I'll read it at home," he thought.
7:00 A.M.
Shift ended. The sky was still dark, but light crawled in behind the clouds like it didn't want to be here either.
Jack walked home — like always.
Gunshots somewhere nearby. A scream behind a fence. An addict folded on a sidewalk bench like a dying swan.
Usual.
He lived in Dexter-Linwood. Cheap rent. High crime. Empty lots. Drug corners. It was perfect — for a ghost.
Then: footsteps.
Fast. Small.
From around the corner — bam — someone slammed into him.
Jack staggered back, rubbed his forehead. Looked up.
A girl. Asian. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Brunette. Face pale, eyes wide.
She looked terrified.
Jack stood. Offered a hand.
"You must be in a hurry."
She kept looking over her shoulder. Breathing faster.
"Help me, please. They'll kill me."
Jack didn't move. Listened.
Footsteps. Three, maybe four. All male. One dragging his feet. Another can't keep his pants up. Probably armed.
"Should I help? Walk away? How much does this matter?"
Living in a place like this meant seeing shit. Hearing it. If he helped every time, he'd lose his shadow. He'd become something loud. Traceable.
The girl grabbed his arm, desperation in her grip.
"Please, I'm not asking you to fight. Just… somewhere to hide. Just a few seconds."
Jack exhaled.
Footsteps were getting louder.
He turned.
"Follow me then."
They moved fast.
Through the alley, past rusted fences, narrow lanes full of broken glass.
They reached his apartment building. Peeling brick. No lights in the hallway.
Jack pointed behind her.
"You're far enough. Go home. Take the bus. Subway. Something."
She looked at him. Eyes still wide. Still wet.
He turned away and walked up the stairs.
Little footsteps followed.
He turned.
"Hey. You gonna follow me home now?"
She nodded.
Jack shook his head and kept going.
Unlocked the door.
She shoved past him.
"Hey!"
She walked in like she owned the place. Saw the NES hooked up to the old TV. Dropped to the floor. Sat on a pillow.
"How do you turn this on?"
Jack sighed. Rubbed his face. Closed the door. Dropped his backpack.
"Thirsty? Hungry?"
"I haven't eaten in hours."
He grabbed a cup of instant noodles. Tossed it to her underhand.
Popped the fridge, pulled a Red Bull. Set it down beside her.
Turned the NES on. Static buzzed.
"Kettle's there. You can heat your water."
He walked to the window. Peeked outside. Nothing suspicious.
Then walked back.
Sat on the mattress. Picked up the folder.
Finally broke the seal.
His eyes scanned the pages. Orders. Objectives. Deployment timelines. To anyone else, it'd be a career. To Jack, it was a shackle. One last burden before he could vanish — maybe overseas.
But Gantz wasn't letting that happen. Not without leverage.
Jack needed a special clearance to leave the country — and only Gantz could greenlight it. No family abroad. No fallback plan. He'd seen it coming. Always knew the favor would have strings.
"Who even names himself Gantz?" he thought.
He finished the folder. Just as expected — a mission. But not a hit.
Espionage.
Embedded deep.
Inside the U.S. military.
More specifically: the Marine Corps.
Legally. Paperwork. Boot camp. Uniform.
He had to infiltrate like he belonged there.
And for the first time in years… Jack would've rather killed someone.
He stood. Pulled a dented metal trash can out from under the sink. Opened the window.
Took the bottle of Jack Daniels off the counter. Poured it into the folder — soaking every page.
Behind him, the girl was still on the floor, slurping noodles and watching him like he was TV static.
He dropped the folder into the can, slid it near the window, lit a match, and flicked it in.
Flames caught fast.
Just like the last line of the orders said: "Destroy after reading."
She spoke, mouth half full.
"You're weird."
Jack didn't turn.
"Finish chewing first. And aren't you gonna go home yet?"
No answer. Just chewing.
He glanced at her. Watched the shift in her body language — just a flicker — when he said "home."
"Runaway," he thought. "Kids still do that, huh. Can't imagine running from family… Then again, not every family's worth staying for."
He stopped thinking.
Dropped onto the mattress.
Then spoke again.
"You ran away?"
She didn't respond.
Jack kept going.
"Hey, all this help — least you can do is give me some answers. Who were you running from?"
She exhaled, set the noodle cup down, cracked open the Red Bull. Drank half of it in one go.
Then burped.
Jack frowned.
She spoke, deadpan.
"Just some weirdos."
"Weirdos? At 7 A.M.? Following you? In Dexter-Linwood of all places? What were you even doing here?"
She lowered her head. Voice smaller now.
"Visiting a friend."
"Friend around here? You need better people in your life."
"She was… a good person."
"What happened?"
"That doesn't concern you, does it?"
"Maybe not. But you're eating my noodles and drinking my Red Bull, so humor me."
She sighed, defeated.
"She took care of me. For a couple weeks. After I ran away."
Jack nodded slowly.
"She's gone?"
She gave a soft nod. Eyes down. Grief tucked under her breath.
Jack didn't press harder. Not yet.
"And the people chasing you?"
"Just… people. Told you. Weirdos. I don't know them."
"But you know what they want."
"Isn't that enough for you?"
Jack could see the weight behind her words. Could tell when someone was smiling through trauma. Dodging pain with jokes and shrugs. He'd done it himself.
"Okay," he said. "Finish your noodles. No more questions."
Then the door buzzer rang.
She flinched — hard. Almost dropped the cup.
"Relax," Jack said. "Nobody followed us."
He walked to the door, checked the peephole.
MJ.
Jack opened it.
"Marcus. Still suspended?"
"Yeah…"
He stepped in, dropped his backpack next to Jack's, headed toward the TV — then froze.
Asian girl on the floor, munching noodles, staring at him. He stared back.
Turned to Jack.
"Yo, who's this?"
"I really don't know."
"Why's she here?"
"Don't know that either."
Marcus squinted.
"She looks young, man. Are you like…?"
"No!" Jack shot back, way too fast. "No. No, no. It's not like that."
She giggled.
"I'm Lena," she said, raising her hand toward Marcus.
He shook it awkwardly.
"Marcus. You can call me MJ."
"Like Mary Jane?" she grinned.
"I mean… yeah, I guess."
"You know any games on this?" she asked, nodding toward the NES.
"Hell yeah. Let's play Contra."
He dropped down next to her like they'd known each other for years. Fired up the game. No more questions.
Jack stood off to the side, watching them. Arms crossed. Eyes distant.
"Guess he's just happy to meet someone his age," he thought.
Then looked around at his bare-ass apartment — mattress, old TV, two teens laughing over an ancient console.
"How the hell did this turn into a high school hangout?"
A couple minutes passed.
Then came the knock.
Hard. Sharp. Not MJ's usual tap. Everyone in the room went still — even Jack.
He stood up slowly, walked to the door. Another knock, this time louder. Impatient.
Then the voice.
"Jack, I know you're in there!"
Jack froze. So did Marcus.
Lena just looked between them, confused.
The voice again — louder:
"Open this damn door, Jack!"
Jack exhaled hard, palm to his face.
"Renee."
He opened the door.
Renee stormed in, fire in her eyes.
Marcus stood up fast, but said nothing.
She didn't even look at Jack at first. Just zeroed in on her brother.
"So this what you've been doing? Ditching school to hang out with this motherfuckin' punk?"
"Renee, it's not—"
She spun on Jack, finger in his face.
"And you. You ain't said shit to me? What, need a loser friend around to keep you company? You that lonely?"
"Renee, come on. It's not like that—"
Then she noticed Lena. Small. Quiet. Sitting on a pillow.
Renee's voice dropped, sharp and cold.
"Who's this? How old are you, girl? Where your parents at?"
Jack tried to defuse.
"Renee—let me explain—"
"Explain what?" she snapped. "What you say to her to get her in here, huh? Sick fuckin' loser."
She stepped forward, grabbed both Lena and Marcus by the wrist.
"Let's go. We're leavin'."
But Marcus pulled his arm back.
"Renee. I'm suspended."
She froze.
"What?"
"Suspended. For a week."
Silence.
Renee turned back, tension still hanging in the air.
"You couldn't tell me that?"
"No. 'Cause I knew how you'd act."
She looked at Jack again.
"You knew?"
He nodded.
"Yeah. He was just crashing here. Playing NES while I was sleeping. I didn't wanna step in between y'all."
Renee exhaled deeply, rubbed her tired eyes. Her voice came out calmer this time, directed toward Lena — without even looking at her.
"And who are you again?"
Jack answered flatly.
"She was being chased. Just been hiding her for a couple hours. That's it."
"Chased?"
Before anyone could process what that meant—
The door exploded inward.
Two men stormed in, machetes in hand.
Jack moved first — shoved Renee hard out of the way. She fell back against the counter just as the first man swung for Jack's neck.
Jack ducked low, stepped in, grabbed the back of the man's arm and yanked it across his body.
The second man charged.
Jack slammed a kick into the first guy's knee — from the side. It crunched loud. The man screamed as he dropped, grip loosening.
Jack snatched the machete mid-fall.
The second man swung, a downward arc aiming for Jack's skull. Jack caught it at the last second, deflecting with the flat of the blade — the impact throwing him sideways into the wall.
He swung the machete back at him, but the bigger man grabbed Jack's wrist — massive grip locking tight.
Too strong.
Jack snapped a knee into his groin.
The man grunted, faltered. Just enough.
Jack yanked the machete free and drove it straight into his chest.
Right through the heart. No hesitation. The man blinked — confused — then collapsed.
Behind him, the first man was already scrambling upright, balancing on his one good leg, using the wall.
He lunged.
Jack turned in time. One clean, deep horizontal slash — across the neck.
The machete sliced through like butter.
His head came off clean, bounced once on the floor.
Jack didn't blink.
The bigger man hit his knees. Dead weight.
Then Jack listened.
Footsteps. On the stairs. Four — maybe more.
He dropped the machete.
Jumped over the mattress.
Reached under it — pulled out the Glock. Racked the slide. Back flat against the ground.
Aimed at the doorway.
One beat. Two—
Bang. One man dropped, head-first into the apartment.
The others froze outside.
Jack rolled to his feet, pulled the gun close to his chest, combat stance. Moved slowly to the door.
Then, without a word—
He kicked the severed head out into the hallway.
The wet thunk echoed like a warning bell.
He peeked.
Three men. All staring at the head in frozen horror.
Jack didn't wait.
Bang — front man, headshot. Dropped instantly. Second man flinched, fumbled for his gun. Too slow. Two to the chest — dropped — one through the chin while falling.
Third man — frozen in place, blood-splattered.
Jack fired. Three shots to the chest. The man hit the floor like a rag doll.
Jack stepped forward. Kicked the gun from the body's hand.
Then put one final bullet through the man's face.
Jack aimed toward the stairwell. Focused.
Two more men had stopped halfway. He could hear them—one yelling something in Chinese. No reply came. Just silence.
More Chinese mumbled back and forth—then footsteps fading fast. They ran.
Jack turned back inside.
"Follow me!"
They all stood frozen, panic etched deep in their faces.
Jack snapped louder:
"No time to waste— move! Now!"
Renee flinched, then grabbed both Lena and Marcus by the arms and followed. Jack led them down the hall.
Renee's door.
"Get inside. Stay quiet. Stay low. Lock it—don't open for anyone but me."
Renee didn't argue. Just nodded and shoved the kids inside. The door clicked shut behind them.
Jack ran back.
The bodies still lay where they fell. Blood pooling. He scanned them fast. Neck tattoo—faded, snake coiling a dagger. Recognizable.
Triad.
His stomach dropped.
"Why the fuck are they after me now? It's been five years… did they finally find me? No. Doesn't make sense. Or… is it her? Korean. Running. Hunted. Could be coincidence. Could be karma. Fuck."
He stepped over the corpses, ducked inside his flat.
Pulled a burner phone from under the mattress. One spare mag. Tucked both in his waistband. Moved.
Up the stairs. Two at a time.
Roof door. Locked.
Boom— one kick. It burst open.
He stepped into the open air. Pulled the burner.
Dialed the one number saved.
Two rings. Then a voice.
"Jack? Missed me already?"
"Cut the bullshit. I've been found. You knew?"
"No."
"Don't lie to me. You were just here—don't tell me you didn't plant someone to watch me."
"No, I mean it. Nobody found you. They found the girl. Congrats, by the way. You've got a real gift for stepping into the fire."
"I'm not following."
"You walked right into it. Again. That girl's being hunted. Probably by every crime-connected player in the country. She's a hot potato. Pack your things. I'll send a car to bring you to a safe house."
"No."
"You've got a mission in two weeks. You think this is it? Babysitting a half-dead Korean runaway? You're not Superman, Jack. You've got a contract. A real one."
"She's just a kid."
"She's already marked. She may not realize it yet, but she is. And if you stay close, so are you. The Triad is only the beginning. She's on The Board now, Jack. Open contract. Dead or alive. If it's not them, it'll be someone else. Someone faster. Someone faceless."
"The Board? Since when?"
"Two weeks ago. Her name has been passed around like currency. There is no saving her—not unless you intend to take on every name that sees that bounty."
Silence.
Then Gantz continued, voice steady:
"You're capable. Trained by your father. Refined by us. But you are not untouchable. And I don't intend to see everything we've put into you destroyed over a girl you barely know."
"You don't control me."
"No. You're free to choose. But you still carry a debt. And if you die before paying it back, this entire arrangement becomes a waste. I don't waste time, Jack. You know that."
Jack exhaled slowly, knuckles tight.
"People die every day. You've known that since you were sixteen. You are not the exception. Stop pretending you are."
A pause.
Then the final line, cool and mechanical:
"Your apartment will be handled. There's a car waiting below. Step in. Disappear. Or stay, and deal with the consequences."
Jack didn't respond.
He stared across the rooftops.
Then, quiet and final:
"Fuck off."
He yanked the phone away from his ear— and hurled it off the roof.
Jack got back downstairs and knocked on Renee's door.
No answer.
"It's Jack."
Renee opened it, hesitating.
Jack stepped inside. Lena was sitting on the ground, tucked behind the kitchen counter.
He walked over, crouched down in front of her.
"Who were they?"
Lena didn't answer.
Jack spoke again.
"I think we're way past the runaway-kid-who-doesn't-talk-to-strangers phase."
"I don't know. People have been after me for weeks. I really don't know."
She started sobbing.
Jack stood, turned to Renee.
"You got anywhere else to sleep?"
"No, Jack. We don't."
"Alright. I'll figure something out. Do what you usually do. Go to work, come back, sleep. Don't break routine — if they see anything change, they'll think you're involved."
Renee narrowed her eyes.
"So we just pretend none of this happened?"
"You will forget this day even started. Marcus — that goes for you too."
Marcus nodded.
Jack continued.
"Lena should stay with you guys."
Renee snapped.
"Us? You lost your mind? You just said we need to stay invisible."
"You will. And she will. They won't know she's here."
He turned to Lena.
"Now — tell me everything. From the start."
Seoul, South Korea – 2.5 Weeks Ago
CEO of Daehan Global Holdings, Han Jae-sung, descended the staircase with his usual calm.
A house worker waited at the bottom, handing him his leather briefcase.
He raised his voice toward the second floor.
(Translated from Korean for clarity)
"Lena, aren't you ready yet?"
Lena rushed down the steps.
"I'm ready, Dad. Let's go."
The front door opened.
They stepped outside the mansion, where a black luxury sedan was already waiting.
A driver opened the door. They got in.
A few minutes passed on the road before Lena asked:
"How long are we staying in Chicago?"
"Just a couple days for business. Then we'll take the first flight to Hawaii."
Lena frowned.
"Okay…"
"Sorry, dear. Business came up last minute. I promise I'll wrap it quickly so we can enjoy our holiday — just us two."
They reached the airport not long after.
Boarded the private jet.
Hours later, they landed in Chicago.
They hopped into another car toward the hotel.
On the way, Lena spoke:
"Chicago's cold."
"Yes… sorry, dear. I should've known."
"It's okay. I might go buy us a couple things to keep warm."
"Sounds like a plan."
As he said that, a truck from the opposite lane veered and slammed into the side of their car.
The car flipped violently, rolled across the asphalt, and crashed hard into a wall.
Lena's vision blurred.
She woke to her father shaking her hard.
"Lena, wake up. Lena!"
"Dad? What… what happened?"
"Accident. Don't worry. Are you hurt? Anywhere?"
She blinked, disoriented. Saw his face — blood streaming from a deep cut at his temple.
"I'm okay… Dad, you're bleeding—"
"Don't worry about me."
Before they could react, two black vans pulled in behind the wrecked car.
Men in full black, faces covered, SMGs at the ready, stepped out. Silent. Calm. Coordinated.
Jae-sung spotted them through the shattered back window.
He shifted toward Lena.
"Lena. Listen carefully. I'm going to open your side door. You're going to get out and run."
"What? No. We both get out."
He showed her his leg — mangled, bleeding heavily.
"I can't."
"I'll pull you out. We'll call an ambulance—"
He cut her off, firm:
"Lena, for once, stop and listen. You must run. See that alley? Get to it. Do not stop. Do not call anyone. Do not go to the hospital. Do not go to the police. You cannot use your ID. You cannot go near an airport. Leave your phone. Take my wallet. There's cash. Get to Detroit. In Dexter-Linwood, find a woman with a scar on her face. She runs a bar. Find her. Trust her. You don't have to understand why. Just do it. Can you do this for me?"
The men in black started closing the distance to the overturned vehicle — slow, controlled, weapons up.
Lena half-yelled, panicking:
"Dad, what are you talking about?!"
His voice softened, almost breaking.
"Please. I'll explain later. Just go."
With his remaining strength, he kicked the bent passenger door open.
Lena scrambled out. She glanced up, froze — saw the armed men closing in.
She ran. Bolted into the crowd like he told her.
Blended into the shadows.
Cautiously, she reached a bus terminal. Paid in cash. No ID. No phone.
A ticket to Detroit.
Hours later, she arrived in Detroit. Wandered. Looked. Asked quietly.
Finally found the bar, tucked deep in Dexter-Linwood.
The entrance sat deep in a trash-filled back alley, old-school neon lights flickering overhead.
As Lena stepped closer, a hand suddenly yanked her from behind.
"You're a long way from home, princess."
She screamed. A rough hand clamped over her mouth.
Two more men stepped out from the shadows. One of them grinned.
"Bingo. She's our ticket out."
"Hell yeah. But let's stash her for a while. Let the price go up."
The bar door creaked open.
A woman in her 30s stepped out. Asian-American. Scarred face. Cigarette dangling from her mouth. Lighter in hand.
Her eyes locked with Lena's.
Recognition hit instantly.
She spoke, calm.
"Leave the kid, and I might give you a discount next time you crawl through here."
The men laughed.
"Bitch, walk away before I carve you up too."
The woman let the cigarette fall to the ground. Walked toward them slowly.
The first man swaggered forward, cocky grin in place.
The next second, he was face down in the dirt, arm twisted behind his back.
A crack. A scream. His face driven into the asphalt by a boot. Out cold.
The woman stood over him.
"You leave now, I let you live. But the discount offer's gone."
The second man lunged.
"Crazy bitch!"
A wild haymaker swung wide.
The woman ducked smoothly. One left cross straight to the jaw. She snatched his wrist, spun, and tossed him over her shoulder.
The man crashed onto the pavement.
Foot to face. Out cold.
The third man panicked, pulled a knife, pressed it to Lena's throat.
"I'll cut her! Don't come any closer!"
The woman froze.
Lena met her gaze. A wordless exchange.
In a blur, Lena twisted, grabbed the man's wrist, yanked it, and bit down hard.
The man screamed, grip faltered.
He staggered.
Then he too hit the ground.
Dazed. Disoriented.
One last boot crushed down on his face. Lights out.
The woman pulled out her phone, tapped a quick number, spoke briefly, then hung up.
Within minutes, two silent men appeared from the alley, dragged the bodies off without a word.
The woman turned to Lena, voice flat.
"You hungry, kid?"
Lena, shaking, nodded. Eyes already watering.
They went inside.
Detroit — Today
Jack asked:
"So who was she?"
"I don't know. She knew my father. She said they worked together for a few years. She remembered me from when I was a kid."
"What happened next?"
Lena went quiet. Then snapped, voice sharp.
"I don't want to talk about it. She died, okay?"
Renee stepped toward Jack, placed a hand on his shoulder.
Jack got the message.
He softened.
"Lena, I know it's hard to talk about. But sooner or later, you're going to have to—if you want to keep breathing. I'll stop for today."
He stood, turned to Renee.
"Keep an eye on her. No going outside. No windows."
Renee frowned.
"So she's a prisoner now?"
"Better than being six feet under."
Renee couldn't argue with that.
Jack stepped outside.
Two men sat quietly inside a black sedan. One was the same man who had handed him the sealed folder earlier.
One of them smirked.
"You nearly hit me with that phone earlier. Try to be more careful, Jack."
Jack ignored it.
"Where's the bar?"
"Couple blocks back. Filthy alley. You can't miss it."
Jack narrowed his eyes.
"I take it you're not going to help me?"
"We're not interfering either."
Jack shrugged.
"Better than nothing."
Ten minutes later, Jack stood at the entrance to the bar.
He thought:
"They could be inside waiting for Lena to come back. Or maybe not. Either way, no risks."
Jack pulled the Glock from his waist. Checked the mag. Loaded.
Opened the door slowly.
Inside was carnage.
Bodies everywhere. Pools of blood. Walls peppered with bullet holes. Tables overturned. Broken glass across the floor.
"One hell of a fight."
Jack moved with precision, clearing every angle, every blind corner.
Room by room.
Bar cleared.
Back rooms cleared.
Nothing moved.
He walked back to the main area, scanned the bodies.
All men. All Asian. Some with pistols. Some with machetes. Others with crude blades.
Jack thought:
"Triad."
The wounds varied wildly.
Some had clean bullet holes. Others had deep slashes. One was missing an arm entirely.
"Whoever she is… she's something else."
He kept searching, expecting to find the scarred woman's body.
Nothing.
No woman. No facial scars.
"Maybe she escaped? Lena was sure she died… or maybe she just thinks she did. No way to know."
Jack spotted something. A blood trail.
It led behind a wall.
He stared.
"No way… that's too cliché, right?"
Jack stepped up, ran his hand across the surface, feeling for a switch, latch, anything.
Solid. Fixed. No buttons. No lever. Nothing.
Jack stared at the blank wall.
The blood trail ended there. No door. No gap. No seams.
Too clean. Too intentional.
"They'd never put an exit at eye level. That's where everyone looks first. If this place was built for fast escape, it has to be low."
Jack crouched, scanned the floorboard alignment along the baseboard.
Worn wood. Random scuffs… but then—
He froze.
Two boards side by side. One worn down by chairs dragged over it. The other? Almost untouched.
"Bar stools never scrape here? No foot traffic?"
He knelt lower.
Measured the distance. Exactly four inches wider than any other plank seam in the room.
"Wide enough for a pressure plate."
A familiar voice broke the silence.
"Hi Jack. Still love doing puzzles?"
Jack turned sharply, stunned.
"Liv? This is the first time…"
"I know. Miss me already?"
"I missed you a lot."
She laughed softly.
"Don't you have a puzzle to finish?"
"Yes… sorry, I was just…"
"Happy to see me? You know I'm not real, Jack."
He swallowed hard. Turned his focus back to the floor.
He tapped lightly with a knuckle.
Solid. Moved three feet down. Tapped again.
Hollow.
Jack frowned.
"Too deliberate."
Olivia's voice came again.
"Or they want you to think that way."
He stood, eyes scanning along the baseboard above the hollow spot.
There. Barely visible under layers of paint: an old brass nailhead, positioned awkwardly like a bad repair.
Not standard hardware. A subtle trick. Old-school fieldcraft. Something only an ex-intelligence or military operator would set up. Manual. Quiet. Reliable.
Jack's eyes narrowed.
"Scarface lady…who is she, really? She knew exactly what she was doing."
Olivia smiled faintly.
"You always won every game we played."
"What can I say? I like winning."
Jack crouched again. Placed his boot onto the hollow plank, applied weight. Grabbed a knife from the ground. Used the tip of the knife to hook under the brass pin.
Click.
A soft lock disengaged.
The floorboard flexed slightly beneath him. A faint whine of shifting metal followed.
Then part of the wall cracked open along a vertical seam—silent, but there.
Jack smiled grimly.
"That's more like it."
Jack stood and stepped toward the newly opened entrance.
Inside: weapons, cash, canned food, stacks of files. A single desk with an old, beat-up computer. Every inch planned for survival.
And against the far wall— the body.
The scarred woman.
Olivia's voice came soft, almost sad.
"Well… guess the kid was right."
Jack stared.
"Yeah. But why here? Did she think she could hold out? Or was she trying to protect something… destroy something… send something?"
Olivia's tone stayed distant.
"That's for you to figure out."
Jack approached the body carefully.
Multiple deep slashes. Two clean gunshot wounds. Blood soaked into her shirt, hand clutching her stomach in a final reflex. Pistol lying loose at her side. No sign of movement. No struggle. She died where she meant to.
Jack scanned the room again. Everything felt staged. Prepared. Like she knew they were coming.
He stepped back toward the desk. Sat down in front of the dusty old computer.
Time to find answers
Jack stared at the old monitor. Dust coated the casing. A cracked "Samsung" logo barely clung to the frame.
He hit the power button. Nothing. He reached under the desk, flipped the secondary switch Sonya had wired in. The system hummed to life.
Old-school. No internet. Air-gapped. The kind of rig built by someone who trusted nothing and no one.
The terminal blinked.
ENTER PASSWORD:
Jack exhaled through his nose. Sat back in the chair. Scanned the room again.
Blood. Files. No photos. No names. Only the body.
His eyes drifted to her jacket — bunched beside the chair.
He reached for it. Felt inside.
Fingertips brushed old fabric. Worn. Charred around the edge. He pulled it out.
A patch. Military issue. Letters almost melted. Only a fragment still visible:
"…RIS…"
He squinted. The rest was gone. Torn clean.
No help.
He turned back to the screen.
ENTER PASSWORD:
His fingers hovered.
Then paused.
There—on the keyboard. Dry blood. Smeared. Old. But two keys had clearer pressure marks.
"J" "R"
He leaned closer.
The blood trails curved—like she'd been reaching for the keys while slumped. Not random.
"J… R…"
Then—
A voice behind him.
"You're overthinking it again."
Jack didn't move.
"Liv."
She stood beside the desk. Calm. Familiar. Unsettling.
"Still playing chess in your head?"
"You're not real."
"Neither's peace. We work with what we've got." She nodded toward the keyboard.
"You already saw it. You just didn't know it mattered."
Jack didn't respond.
She walked to the jacket. Knelt. Touched the patch.
"Even burned, you noticed it. Because she didn't throw it away."
Jack stared.
"…'RIS'…" "J…R…"
The mountain. The posture. The readiness. The kind of woman who built exits before she entered.
Then something surfaced — from old training.
Gantz. Year one. Field modules. No names. Just flash locations.
Korean black sites. Mountain warfare programs. One word kept coming up.
"Jirisan." It stuck because it didn't sound like a codename. It sounded like a scar.
Jack whispered it.
"Jirisan…"
His fingers moved.
J I R I S A N
ACCESS GRANTED
"Let's see what you're hiding."
The screen shifted.
Old UI. Plain text directories. No OS, no network. Just code and folders.
Jack leaned forward.
One main directory:
OPS_ARCHIVE / PARK.S
He opened it.
Dozens of files. Half in Korean. Half redacted. Audio logs. Scanned PDFs. One folder stood out:
DETROIT // EYES_ONLY
He clicked.
Inside:
Surveillance photos of Lena
Intercepted messages
A file labeled:
CLIENT: H.J.S. / DAUGHTER RECOVERY INITIATED
Jack narrowed his eyes.
Han Jae-sung.
He scrolled through the report.
"Subject intercepted via vehicle collision, Chicago." "Multiple third parties attempted interference." "Initial extraction failed — target escaped." "Tracking terminated in Dexter-Linwood. Asset advised non-engagement."
Next folder:
BLACK CONTRACTS
Inside:
Pipeline charts
Shipment manifests
Korean & U.S. wire logs
Redacted weapons dealer listings
One line, bolded:
"PERSONNEL OF INTEREST: Park, S. — Targeted for neutralization."
Jack's jaw tightened.
She knew she was being hunted. Still stayed. Still kept the girl hidden.
He opened the final file.
Single page. Typed. No signature.
"If you're reading this — I'm gone.
This room was never about escape. It was about making sure someone saw the full picture."
"The girl — Lena — doesn't know what she's caught in. Her father, Han… I worked with him. Years ago. He trusted me. I saved his life more than once. When he sent her to me… I remembered her.
I said yes. I didn't need to say it out loud."
"I'd sworn off this life. But sometimes it comes back, and you answer."
"She's not just a runaway. She's a message. A bargaining chip. Or worse—an excuse."
"They're not after her for ransom.
They called her something else…"
"Board Material."
"**If you don't know what that means...
You will.**"
Jack leaned back in the chair.
Olivia was gone. So was the silence.
Just him. The weight of what someone else died trying to protect.
He looked at the wall where Sonya's body still rested.
Then back to the screen.
"You didn't build this room to survive."
He whispered.
"You built it for someone like me."
Jack sat still for a moment, staring at the monitor. The screen had gone dark. His reflection stared back.
Then he stood. Moved to the corner cabinet Sonya had tucked away — scratched, fire-warped metal.
It opened with a screech.
Folders. Dozens. Stuffed tight and uneven. Some charred around the edges, some water-stained. She hadn't organized them like someone planning to come back.
He pulled a stack and dropped them on the desk.
The first file was official — Korean military branding, faint beneath the soot:
REPUBLIC OF KOREA ARMED FORCES PERSONNEL FILE: PARK, S. / UNIT: JIRISAN / STATUS: SEPARATED
He opened it.
Translation notes were paper-clipped to the side.
"Assigned: Special Forces Recon / Mountain Warfare Division." "Specialization: Extraction, Joint Operations Liaison." "Operated under joint black directives with U.S. forces — high success rate."
"Incident report — classified." "Immediate psychological reassessment recommended." "Discharge status: Honorable (internal discretion). Not for reactivation."
Jack flipped further — found a photograph.
Sonya, in her twenties. Rifle in hand. Standing in snow. No smile. The same eyes. Watching everything.
Another paper. Smaller. Personal.
"They didn't call it failure. But they also didn't let me stay." "The wrong people died. That was enough."
Jack set it down.
Next folder.
Photos. Grainy. Seoul streets. Bars. Lounges. Cars with tinted windows.
One man kept appearing — older, suited, serious.
Han Jae-sung.
A page of handwritten notes, sharp and slanted:
"Client met through underworld circle — clean face, dirty money." "Protected him through three different attempts. Two from competitors. One from his own." "He never asked for loyalty. Just results."
Another photo.
A young girl at a table, drawing with a pencil — maybe seven or eight.
Lena.
Jack stared.
Another note:
"The girl was quiet. Always watching. Never asked questions. She'd sit beside him during meetings like she didn't belong there — because she didn't. He kept her close anyway."
The next document was shorter. Typed. Folded.
"After four years in Seoul's shadow, I walked away. Burned everything. Started over."
"He helped me disappear. One wire transfer. No goodbye. I landed in Detroit with a fake name and enough cash to vanish. He knew I didn't want to be found."
Final note, handwritten — newer ink.
Jack unfolded it slowly.
"She didn't come here because he called." "There was no call." "He gave her my name. That was all."
"And when I saw her that day… I remembered her. That little girl with the sketchbook who once stared through gangsters like they were made of glass."
"She didn't ask for help. I just didn't close the door."
Jack closed the file.
The panic room was quiet again. Just the hum of a dying monitor and the soft tick of cooling steel.
He looked at Sonya's body against the wall. Still slumped where she died. One arm over her chest like she'd meant to hold on longer than she did.
He whispered:
"You weren't a soldier anymore. But you still picked a side."
Then he turned off the light.
And left the room behind.
He stepped outside and opened the door.
There he found Gantz — smoking, waiting for him.
"You took your time. Enjoy reading those old covert files? Any good stories?"
"Just a soldier that got tired."
"Oh no—she's way more than that. But that part doesn't concern you."
"What do you mean?"
"You found reliable intel for your situation, right?"
"Not much. I still don't know who's hunting her or why."
"Well, you do. Open contract—remember?"
"Board stuff. Yeah, she mentioned that in the files too. But I still don't know what or who the Board actually is. Every time I asked you, you said I didn't need to know yet."
"Well... you didn't."
"Now I do. What is this Board I keep hearing about? I know it's something the underworld uses—contracts, assassinations, etc.—but I don't know fully."
Gantz took a slow drag. Exhaled smoke sideways.
"Use that exceptional noggin of yours. What could the Board be? You already know half of it."
Jack narrowed his eyes.
"You're no help sometimes."
Gantz gave the faintest smile. Tapped ash from his cigarette.
"I'm not here to help. I'm here to manage risk."
Jack stepped closer.
"She's listed as 'Board Material' in that file. What the hell does that mean?"
Gantz didn't answer right away. Just studied Jack like a chess piece that had moved too far, too fast.
Then finally:
"It means someone marked her valuable enough to make noise. But vulnerable enough to sell. And when that combination hits the right ears…"
He flicked the cigarette into a puddle without looking.
"…the Board takes notice."
Jack's jaw tensed.
"So it's not a group. It's a system."
Gantz nodded once.
"Think of it like gravity. You don't see it. Doesn't matter. It still pulls you."
Jack paced, hands on hips.
"And they want her dead or alive?"
Gantz tilted his head.
"Depends who places the marker. But once it's up… freelancers, traffickers, collectors—anyone looking to climb—can take the shot. There's no audition. Just results."
Jack looked out into the street.
"So I walk away… she dies in a week."
"If you're lucky," Gantz said. "Might be days."
Silence settled between them.
Then Gantz stepped forward.
"You've got ten weeks until you're shipped off. Use it wisely. Burn the girl out of your story—or burn yourself for good trying to keep her in it."
Jack didn't answer.
Gantz buttoned his coat.
"There's no honor in staying in the fire, Jack. Not unless you plan to become it."
He turned.
"See you soon."
Then walked off into the dark, his footsteps soft against the wet concrete.
Jack stayed there for a while.
Listening.
Thinking.
Olivia appeared beside him.
"Detroit's working wonders on your paranoia."
Jack didn't look at her.
"I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore."
She watched the street with him. Quiet for a moment.
"You came here to disappear. Now you've got a Triad hit squad, a runaway Korean girl, and a corpse in a panic room."
Jack exhaled hard.
"I didn't ask for any of it. But I couldn't just… leave her."
"Why not?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared past the alley's end.
"You could've walked. No one would've blamed you," she said. "But you didn't."
Jack's voice dropped, bitter.
"She was terrified. Bleeding through her voice. Like she hadn't slept in days. Like the world already decided she doesn't get to survive."
Olivia studied him. Softly:
"She reminds you of Sophia."
Jack tensed. The name hit like a bruise he didn't know was still there.
"No," he muttered.
"You sure about that?"
His teeth clenched.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know everything you know, Jack. I'm just your brain giving itself a voice."
Jack shook his head. Voice raw now.
"Sophia wasn't like her."
Olivia tilted her head.
"No. But the way you felt when you saw that girl… that was the same. You saw someone slipping under. And you couldn't let it happen again."
Jack's hands curled into fists. The pressure behind his eyes sharpened — like the beginning of a migraine.
"Enough."
"I'm not real. I'll leave when you want me to."
He turned away.
She was already gone.
And with her, the pain.
End of Chapter II: The Room Behind the Wall