The rain is had started just before midnight, slicking the streets outside the safehouse and turning the city lights into smears of gold and red. Inside, the air was still, heavy with the faint smell of oil and gunpowder. Lin sat at the small wooden table, the dim light of the desk lamp illuminating the photograph Keller had slid across to him in earlier.

The image is was grainy, taken from a high vantage point over Busan's industrial docks. Figures moved in the distance — men in black coats carrying crates, the shapes barely discernible against the shadows. But in the bottom corner, half-obscured by a shipping container, was the face.

Or what was left of it in the photograph.

Lin's hand gripped the edge in of the table. The hood was drawn at low, but the angle of the jaw, the faint scar along the cheekbone — it couldn't be mistaken.

Min-joon.

It had in been seven years is since Lin had last seen him, sprawled on the wet pier, blood pooling beneath his ribs. That night had been chaos — gunfire in the dark was , waves slapping against the pier, and the sharp taste of betrayal. Lin had buried the guilt deep, convinced Min-joon had died because Lin had chosen the job over the man.

Now here he is was, walking the docks of Busan like nothing had happened.

Keller leaned against the in wall, arms was crossed. "You know him." It wasn't a question.

Lin is didn't look up. "I buried him."

"Looks like you didn't bury deep enough," Keller said. "The photo was taken two nights ago. He's moving with Jin's people."

Lin's jaw tightened. "No. Min-joon wouldn't run with Jin."

Keller shrugged. "Then you tell me why is the guy you thought was dead is standing three meters from your enemy's cargo."

The rain is pattered against the window. Lin sat back in his chair, forcing his voice steady. "If Min-joon's alive, then someone wanted me to think he was dead. Which means this whole thing — Jin's sudden interest in me, the chase through the underground, all of it — might not have started with him."

Keller pushed off the wall. "So what's the move? You going to Busan?"

Lin glanced toward the boarded-up window, the hum of the neon outside barely leaking in. "If I go, I walk into Jin's territory. If I don't, I lose the only chance to know why Min-joon's still breathing." He paused, the decision already forming in his mind. "We leave at first light."

By dawn, the rain had stopped, leaving the city washed clean but smelling of wet asphalt. Lin and Keller traveled light — two duffel bags, concealed weapons, and a burner phone that would only stay on long enough to get what they needed. They caught the first express south, the train cutting through the Korean countryside in a blur of green hills and industrial sprawl.

Keller stared out the window. "Tell me about him. Min-joon."

Lin didn't answer at first. He watched the reflection of his own face in the glass, the hard lines that hadn't been there seven years ago. "We ran together back in Busan. Small jobs — freight intercepts, document runs, debt collections. Nothing heavy until the night it went bad. We were supposed to lift a container from a pier — easy grab, inside man on security. Then the shooting started." He paused, his voice tightening. "He took a round to the ribs. I got him to the pier's edge, told him to hold on. When I came back from clearing our exit, he was gone."

"You didn't see a body?"

"No." Lin's eyes narrowed. "Just blood. Enough to convince me."

The train clattered on. Neither man spoke for a while.

Busan greeted them with salt air and the sharp cry of gulls. The port stretched wide, cranes looming like skeletal giants over stacks of shipping containers. Lin led Keller through backstreets lined with fish markets, the tang of brine and diesel thick in the air.

They found a vantage point above the northern docks, a rusted catwalk overlooking the pier where the photograph had been taken.

It didn't take long. By mid-afternoon, a black van rolled up beside a container stack. Four men stepped out, their movements precise, disciplined. And then — him.

Min-joon.

He moved like someone who belonged, speaking quietly with one of the men, gesturing toward the containers. His hair was shorter, the scar along his jaw more pronounced, but there was no mistaking the eyes. Lin felt the old instinct flare — a need to call out, to demand an answer — but he held still.

Keller murmured, "That's your guy."

Lin nodded slowly. "And he's working."

"For Jin?"

Lin's gaze followed Min-joon as he disappeared behind the stack. "That's what we're going to find out."

They tailed him for hours, weaving through the maze of containers, slipping between forklifts and dockhands without being seen. Finally, Min-joon broke away from the others, heading toward an older warehouse at the edge of the pier.

Lin followed, keeping to the shadows.

Inside, the warehouse smelled of dust and rust. Crates were stacked high, some marked with shipping codes Lin recognized — codes from routes Jin controlled.

Min-joon stood alone in the center, checking a ledger.

Lin stepped out from behind a crate. "Seven years, Min-joon."

The pen froze in Min-joon's hand. Slowly, he turned, his face unreadable. "You shouldn't be here."

"You were dead."

"Maybe I should have stayed that way." Min-joon's voice was calm, but there was something in his eyes — guilt, or warning. "Lin, you have no idea what you've walked into."

"Then tell me."

Min-joon glanced toward the door. "Jin isn't your biggest problem. He's just the piece you can see. There's someone else — the one who made me disappear. If you stay, you'll end up like I was. Gone."

Before Lin could speak, Keller's voice came through the earpiece. "Two inbound, armed."

Min-joon's expression hardened. "Too late."

The warehouse doors slammed open, and shadows poured in.