The city was never truly dark. Even at four in the morning, Seoul pulsed with scattered lights—taxi headlights slicing through damp asphalt, neon signs buzzing faintly, convenience stores glowing like lonely lanterns. The safehouse basement felt stale, the single bulb flickering against cracked concrete. Lin sat hunched on the edge of a crate, eyes fixed on a map he had spread across the floor.

Every street, every alley, every subway line mattered. Seoul was a labyrinth, and tonight it was alive with hunters.

"We leave in ten," Lin said quietly, rolling the map back into a tight cylinder. His voice carried calm finality, the tone that left no room for argument.

Keller stretched his shoulders, muttering, "You mean we leave in ten to walk straight into the lion's den."

"No," Lin corrected, his dark eyes sharp. "We leave in ten to vanish before the lion wakes."

Min-joon checked the duffel bag again—cash, burner phones, ammunition, and the encrypted drive holding the last fragments of data from Busan. His hands trembled slightly, but he forced them still. "We're ghosts then?"

"We've always been ghosts," Lin replied.

They emerged from the tailor's shop into the alley. The dawn had not yet broken, and the air clung heavy with humidity. A faint drizzle misted the streets, giving the city a sheen like wet glass. Lin motioned for them to keep close. The three of them blended into the quiet rhythm of a city between nights and mornings, when only delivery men, insomniacs, and shadows moved.

Keller's eyes scanned constantly. "Feels wrong. Too quiet."

Lin didn't answer. His instincts agreed, but silence was often safer than feeding paranoia. They moved through Itaewon's narrow streets, past shuttered clubs and food stalls. Somewhere above, a TV blared faint music from an apartment window.

Then Lin stopped abruptly.

Two cars idled at opposite ends of the block, black sedans with tinted windows. No logos, no plates visible in the dim light. The drizzle ran in rivulets down their hoods. They looked like predators waiting for a signal.

Min-joon swore under his breath. "Jin's men?"

"Not yet," Lin whispered. "They're watchers. Scouting. But it means the net's already here."

Keller tightened his grip on the strap of his pack. "So what now?"

Lin scanned the rooftops. Escape wasn't just on the streets—it was above. He spotted the fire escape halfway up the building to their right. Without hesitation, he led them across the wet pavement and began climbing.

The rooftops of Seoul offered a different view of the city. Up here, the streets looked like veins of light and shadow, the traffic distant and muffled. The drizzle had intensified into fine rain, soaking their jackets, slicking the steel ladders beneath their hands.

Lin crouched low, scanning. From above, he could see the sedans shift slightly—men inside, waiting, patient. His jaw tightened. "Jin's closing circles. We need to cut diagonally, faster than they can box us in."

Min-joon glanced at him. "Where to?"

"The subway," Lin said. "Underground is harder to track. Cameras, yes—but patterns we can manipulate. Jin's people prefer the surface."

Keller exhaled, glancing at the wet rooftops stretching ahead. "Lead the way, ghost."

They darted across rooftops, leaping narrow gaps, landing on slick concrete with the precision of men who had done this before. The rain masked their sounds, though every clang of a metal ladder seemed too loud in Lin's ears.

At one point, Lin froze. Across the street, on another roof, a figure stood—still as a statue, watching them. The silhouette wore a hood, the glow of a cigarette ember briefly illuminating sharp cheekbones.

Lin raised a hand, signaling stillness. The figure didn't move, didn't follow. Just watched. Then, with deliberate calm, it flicked the cigarette away and vanished into the darkness.

Min-joon whispered, "Was that—?"

"Not Jin's soldiers," Lin interrupted. "Someone else. Another player."

Keller's jaw clenched. "Great. As if we didn't already have enough enemies."

But Lin's expression hardened in thought. Whoever that watcher was, they hadn't raised an alarm. That meant they were playing a longer game.

The group dropped down into an alley near the subway entrance. The steel shutters rattled in the damp wind, but a side door stood ajar, unlocked by someone careless—or by design. Lin went first, scanning the shadows, then waved them in.

Inside, the underground station smelled of rust, damp stone, and faint disinfectant. Fluorescent lights flickered above the tiled halls, casting everything in pale, sickly glow. It was empty at this hour, save for a lone janitor far down the platform, headphones in, oblivious.

They descended to the tracks themselves. Lin crouched low, running his hand along the steel rails. "North line. We can ride the service tunnels until Dongdaemun. From there, we disappear into the markets."

Min-joon shook his head. "Markets are crowded. Cameras everywhere."

"Exactly," Lin replied. "And crowds can be manipulated. Ghosts don't vanish in emptiness—they vanish in plain sight."

Keller smirked faintly despite the tension. "Sometimes I forget how scary you sound when you talk like that."

Lin didn't return the smile. His mind was already racing three steps ahead.

Elsewhere—

Jin sat in the back of a chauffeured car, fingers drumming lightly on the leather seat. His lieutenant, Park, spoke quietly into a tablet.

"They've left Itaewon. Movement suggests they're heading east. Our watchers saw them climb rooftops, then lost track near the subway."

Jin's expression remained unreadable. "Of course they went underground. Lin always did favor shadows."

Park hesitated. "Should we flood the stations? Lock them down?"

"No," Jin said coldly. "Flooding tunnels only drives him deeper. He thrives in chaos. Instead, we wait. He's trying to run into the city's veins. But every vein leads back to a heart. And I control that heart."

He poured himself a drink from a crystal flask, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows. "Tell our watchers to hold. Let him believe he's free. By dawn, we'll know exactly which path he's chosen."

Back in the subway, Lin, Keller, and Min-joon moved through the service tunnels. The air was colder here, heavy with dust and the occasional scuttle of rats. Pipes ran along the walls, dripping condensation. Every sound seemed amplified—the drip of water, the crunch of gravel under boots, the hum of distant power.

Min-joon adjusted the duffel bag, voice hushed. "Feels like a grave down here."

"Better a grave than a spotlight," Lin said.

Suddenly, they heard footsteps echoing faintly. Not theirs. Ahead, deeper in the tunnel.

Lin held up a fist, signaling silence. They pressed against the damp wall, weapons drawn. The footsteps grew louder, deliberate, measured. Then a flashlight beam cut through the dark.

Keller muttered, "So much for ghosts."

But when the light swung closer, Lin's eyes narrowed. The men approaching weren't Jin's soldiers. Their gear was mismatched, scavenged—mercenaries, not corporate enforcers. One of them muttered in rough Japanese, another responded in accented Korean.

Min-joon's face went pale. "They're not his. They're freelancers."

"Which means," Lin whispered, "Jin isn't the only one hunting us."

The footsteps drew closer, echoing louder in the tunnel. Lin tightened his grip on his weapon. The city above might have been vast, but down here, in the dark veins beneath Seoul, the hunt was closing from all sides.

And dawn was still an hour away.