The tavern was a breathing, sweating, swearing beast — all noise and firelight and half-spilled truths sloshed in cheap ale.

And yet, in the far corner, it fell deathly still.

Jiyong Kang-Yul sat at a corner table beneath the crooked ribs of a support beam, the shadowed wood above him warped by time and smoke. Light pooled in patches across the room but never quite reached him. It bent away, as if in quiet respect—or quiet fear.

He didn’t glance up when the door creaked open or when laughter broke at the next table. His eye — the one not bound in silver-threaded leather — remained half-lidded, gazing not at the entrance, but at the surface of the tea in front of him.

White jasmine. Slightly over-steeped. Room temperature. The cup had been placed there precisely twenty-three minutes ago. He hadn’t touched it until minute twenty-two. The flavor was cleaner that way. You learned these things when you drank tea instead of blood.

A curl of steam no longer rose from the ceramic. Just silence. Like him.

He shifted slightly, enough to observe the room again without lifting his head. A woman argued over cards three tables away — angry, faking it. She had a knife tucked into her boot, but her shoulders gave her away. Amateur. Two men spoke in hushed tones near the fireplace, sharing a language they thought no one else knew. Jiyong had spoken it fluently since he was thirteen.

Someone coughed. A door slammed. A dog barked somewhere outside.

He waited.

Not impatiently—he didn’t allow himself impatience—but with a kind of sharpened stillness that spoke to those who could sense it. A storm held behind a glass window. A rifle before the trigger pull. He had arranged the meeting down to the hour, had paid the barkeep to say nothing, and had chosen a tavern on the edge of nowhere for a reason.

Undercover missions required space for shadows to breathe.

His back was to the wall, of course. Rifle case tucked at his side, leather gloves folded neatly on the edge of the table. He wore black with silver trim — not flashy, but crisp, like a man who believed every detail mattered. His coat had never seen blood, not visibly. His boots were polished despite the dust of the region. His hair was pulled back with surgical precision.

And the eyepatch— The eyepatch was pristine.

The eye beneath it twitched. It knew someone was approaching. Whether it was the contact… or something worse, he didn’t yet know.

That cursed eye never saw the present as others did. It listened. It felt. It tasted something in the air — a ripple in a person’s fate, or the sourness of betrayal brewing behind a false smile.

Sometimes it showed him a flash of someone’s final moment. Sometimes it gave him only a name he hadn’t yet heard. Sometimes… it gave nothing, and that was always worse.

He didn’t fear it anymore. But he didn’t trust it either.

Jiyong took a sip of his tea. Slow. Measured. Silent. The porcelain clinked when it returned to the saucer.

Someone else would’ve checked the time by now. He didn’t need to.

He knew they were late. Seven minutes and thirty-one seconds. If they came unprepared, they would lie. If they were arrogant, they’d underestimate him. If they were interesting… well. He’d decide what to do with that.

The door creaked open again.

He didn’t look up — not right away. Let them step into the light. Let the cursed eye taste them. Let silence sit in the air like a drawn bowstring.

Then, and only then, Jiyong tilted his head — the silhouette stood in front of him. His gaze narrowed as he looked at them.

"You're late." He stated, leaning back as his arms folded. "Let's hope you have an excuse on why. This mission is crucial, I hope you understand.” His voice was firm, unwavering.

The mission in question, retrieving President Yuane’s daughter from the grasp of Silas Vorn. Silas being a mafioso and mastermind in crime.

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Make sure to mention the mission, the kidnapping of President Yuane's daughter!!)