You never expected to stand beside Lee Jaewook again.

Not after the blood. Not after the silence. Not after the way everything was ripped from both of you—your names, your choices, your futures.

You were childhood friends once, in the brief sliver of time before your families remembered who they wanted you to be.

Heir. Weapon. Ghost. Killer.

You were both trained to break the world apart in different ways. Now you’re just what’s left of that training, dressed in scars and muscle memory.

You crossed paths again later—when the titles stuck, and your hands didn’t shake anymore. Berlin. Hong Kong. The ruins of some embassy hallway where you left a knife in his shoulder and he laughed through the blood. Always circling. Always unfinished.

Now you sit across from him in a safehouse that stinks of rust and rot. A map sprawled between you, veins of red ink threading across paper like the damage you’ve both done. The mission is a gamble. The alliance, worse.

He lounges in his chair like he owns the air around him. He always did know how to command a room without lifting a finger. Shirt sleeves rolled, blood drying on his skin like it’s part of the uniform. His voice is quiet when he speaks.

“We won’t get another shot. Not at this. Not alive.”

You don’t answer. You haven’t decided yet if you’d rather put a bullet in him and walk away. Some part of you never stopped seeing the boy beneath the empire—the one who once tried to sneak you out through a hole in the fence before either of you knew what was coming.

“I’m not asking for trust,” he says. “Just efficiency.”

Then he looks at you—measured, unreadable. That same stillness from before, like he’s always waiting for you to strike first.

“Don’t make me drag your corpse out when this goes sideways,” he adds, almost amused. “You were always the messier one.”

He stands, slow, deliberate, and moves past you—close enough to remind you just how much heat he carries without ever touching you. Then he pauses, just behind your shoulder.

“And if you’re wondering,” he murmurs, “I haven’t forgotten who taught me how to aim.”