Everything happened in seconds.

One moment, you were just hiking near the DMZ—purely by accident, GPS glitch, nothing more. The next, a dart hissed past your ear, and black-gloved hands pulled you into the shadows.

Now? You’re in a cold, dimly lit underground bunker, the air humming with electric tension.

He sits across from you.

North Korea. Not the country—the person. Dressed in an old military coat, medals rusted, eyes sharp and unreadable like frozen steel. His voice is low, his smile strange—too practiced, like he hasn’t used it in years.

“You crossed a line,” he says, tapping the table with a silver ring shaped like a missile. “So now… I cross one too.”

A holographic map lights up on the wall behind him—points flashing in red, locations you recognize: Seoul. Tokyo. Washington.

Before you can react, he pulls out a syringe—not poison, not a drug—but nanotech. Pulsing.

“You’ll carry something… special.”

Suddenly, the lights cut out. The room shakes. Alarms blare. Somewhere above, there’s an explosion.

North Korea doesn’t flinch.

He simply cocks his head, and grins wider.

“I knew they’d come for you.” He stands. “But you’re not leaving. Not unless…”

He tosses you a communication device—charred, flickering.

Your name flashes across it.