Hellscape (17)
"It's a virus."
"What?"
"Virus. A COVID variant, but dozens of times more contagious and way deadlier. It was originally from the Wuhan lab, but they snuck it here to dodge the COVID investigation team. As the pinnacle of modern biotech, its value's beyond imagination. And that's not all—it's proof China unleashed COVID, so it could blackmail the Commies too."
"..."
"Sorry I didn't mention it upfront in the contract. Let's amend it right here. Wait for me, we'll grab the virus together on the way out, and I'll pay an extra 10 billion. Cash."
"..."
"Oh. Obviously gotta kill Team Leader Im. He'll just keep nagging to bail."
"..."
Cheol-woo's words trailed off sharply. Only then did Han Sa-jang realize something was seriously off. She looked downright pissed—what the hell was the problem? The amount? Was that it?
"My bad. Make it 20 billion."
"Is money the issue right now?"
"Then what is?"
"While we're pulling this virus or whatever, kill Team Leader Im and Lee Joo-eem. And just leave the 2nd team back at the hotel—and all the survivors—to die?"
"So? They're GeumMyeong Security grunts. Those survivors? They tried to kill us once."
"..."
Cheol-woo's mouth clamped shut again. Every time she gave him the creeps, he'd wondered if she was nuts—and now he knew. Han Sa-jang wasn't crazy. She'd been born that way. Born without a shred of human empathy. That clicked everything into place, all the unease from her words and actions suddenly crystal clear.
"Do I look like your fucking hitman? Shoot on command, kill on order?"
"No, Cheol-woo-ssi, that's not—"
"I followed your orders 'cause they stuck to the contract. Virus? Not in there, far as I recall. I said it plain: hide shit on purpose, deal's off. We're done here."
"W-wait! Sorry! I didn't hide the virus deliberately—I didn't even know till we got here! H-here's your ID... not cash, but 500 million in promissory notes..."
As Cheol-woo and Yuri turned on their heels without a second glance, Han Sa-jang felt her heart plummet. Grasping the situation in a flash, she lunged at Cheol-woo, clinging desperately. She shoved passports from her inner pocket and the notes into their hands, her voice quivering.
In a crisis, a shaky, stammering voice made you seem cowed—boosted odds of mercy... or so she'd read.
"No time. Let go."
"Ah...!"
Pocketing the passport and check, Cheol-woo slapped her hands away. His stance was ironclad, unyielding. Amid it all, Han Sa-jang reeled in confusion—how the hell had it gone so wrong? She'd assumed he was cut from the same cloth, ready to sell the recipe worldwide if cornered. Or had she skimped on sincerity?
"30 billion! 30 billion each! Last offer, Cheol-woo-ssi!"
"..."
"Stop looking back, sis."
Ignoring Han Sa-jang's pitiful slump on the floor, Cheol-woo strode briskly back the way they'd come.
People see what they wanna see—did she think everyone's as money-mad as her? Figured I was a psycho like her? What a joke.
Truth was, past billions, the sums felt too abstract to grip. And her "money fixes everything" bullshit grated too. Thinks my gutter life means I'll roll over like a dog for scraps? He'd drowned plenty like her back in Korea.
No more dealing with Han Sa-jang.
"Team Leader Im. Job done?"
"Yes! Just wrapped up!"
"Set the timer for 1 hour 30—no, make it 1 hour 30 and activate."
Chinese say shelling in 3 hours—really 3? Might pull it forward an hour. Blind faith in chink word was dumb. Even a half-breed like Han turned your stomach; couldn't underrate purebred scum.
"1:30. Got it. Timer started. What happened?"
"Shelling drops across Hong Kong right around then. Chinese broadcast it on the radio."
"...!"
Im Team Leader's eyes bulged. Shelling? Whole damn Hong Kong? Their radio was the only one—hotel had zero clue.
"So hustle back, evac everyone to the basement."
"Yes, sir. Understood. But the Oriental Shipping president...?"
"Don't give a shit."
"Ah. Roger."
Cheol-woo's curt snap had Im dropping his gaze, minding his own.
Used her up, offed her? Had to be. Best erase the whole convo from memory—knowledge hurt.
"Emergency exit—open."
"Opening!"
Crunch—weld beads ripped free, door burst wide. Beyond stretched a long, endless corridor and stairs. Twisting countless corners, climbing and descending, Cheol-woo's mental GPS spun. Rough bearings: they'd pop out on the mountainside facing the hotel.
"Huuuuh!"
Far door flung open—and sheer cliff face. Im lurched forward on momentum, only yanked back by the NewTontonMan's grip.
No gunshots. Stalemate?
Lab entry: survivors scrapping like mad. Now dead quiet. Ammo, manpower, grit burned out. Capped by the shelling broadcast—they'd all bolted underground by now.
"Why's that?"
"Huh!?"
Far off, hotel direction: smoke curling lazily. Incident while gone?
Hearts raced. Jetpacks on—go.
Straight-line skim over downtown: no gunfire.
Hotel shelled?
Entrance barricade: total wreckage. Shells? Nah, blast marks screamed direct rocket hit.
"High chance intruders inside. Drop on roof."
"Yes, sir."
Roof touch: Yuri sring—sword out, leads. Cheol-woo sights HK-417 over her shoulder, advances.
Floor by floor, swift but cautious clears—Cheol-woo's ears caught zilch. No fights, nothing.
Just trashed barricade, botched break-in?
Then basement plunge: rat-tat-tat! Bullets hailed.
"You dumb fucks! It's the boss! Shoot to kill, assholes!"
Im's roar halted fire. 2nd team grunts and locals peeked out.
Intruders hit, but repelled clean? Relief.
"S-sorry, sir! Thought attackers back!"
"What went down?"
"Some bastards sped over by fast boat from sea, hit the hotel. Outmatched hard, fell back to basement for defense—they looted gear and grub, bounced."
"Gear and food? Fuck it. Anything else swiped? Casualties?"
"No casualties. Except... that short lady with you got snatched."
"Ah."
Cheol-woo's eyelid twitched. Gear? Food? Buyable. But a hexagon gem like Kim Mi-young—fights aside, aced everything? Irreplaceable.
Post-Han split, iffy if she'd tag along—but still worth the grab. If she stuck with Han after? Kidnap the bitch. Attackers brought fast boat too—jack it, instant evac.
Either way: hit 'em hard.
"Good. I'll snag us a getaway boat. Shelling incoming—hunker deep underground."
"Pardon? Sir? You mean...?"
Getaway boat? Solo sea-cross for one grunt? Vs rocket boat big force?
Im too awed to protest, just stared reverent at Min Section Chief's back.
...
"Hurry it! Pack fast! Chinese inbound!"
Hong Kong. Kowloon Peninsula. British-accented bellows boomed, masked bruisers hustled gear and supplies nonstop aboard.
Border artillery buildup screamed trouble—then the entry broadcast hit. Full alert.
Insane. Poured cash and blood, zilch to show.
HK gov plea: massive force poured, Kowloon seized fine. But no solid island foothold? Everything unraveled.
Island access: boat to docks round-trip or jetpacks. Pain in the ass.
Worst: botched the gov's "key" grab. Hong Kong op: total flop.
Antiair missiles, jetpacks, fast boats sunk—empty-handed? Loot something to dodge heat.
Hence interim raid on rival outpost for gear.
Harvest?...
"What the fuck's this bitch?"
"Mmph! Mmgh?!"
"Dunno. Hotel raid—all evacuated. She was solo wandering, nabbed her."
"Why wrap a nobody like cargo? Dump the cunt, shit!"
"Got it."
Guns, ammo, scraps of chow. One chick. Blood pressure spiked—apoplectic.
Nothing went right—for fuck's sake—muttering curses, boarding—
"What? Trouble?"
"Jetpack inbound."
"Withdrawal hours ago—late ass! Tell it to land!"
"Wait... any of our ops in that hazmat?"
"...?"
Jetpack neared, figure sharpened—ops froze, necks craned skyward.
Weird getup. Not issued gear. Like US EOD bomb suit bulked with plates. Chunky as hell.
"Sword? Longsword?"
"What ya waiting for! Fire! Fire! SHOOT!"
Sring—sword drawn mid-flight, ops blanched bone-white.
Flying tank + razor longsword. Bizarre combo, almost cartoonish—but no grins cracked. Visceral dread owned them.