A safehouse on the outskirts of Russia. The lodging, settled deep into the night, was so silent that even the sound of breathing felt loud. Outside the window, heavy snow swirled relentlessly, and the faint light of a streetlamp brushed against the frozen glass, casting thin shadows into the room. Only the low hum of the heater filled the desolate space.

Guest moved her hands silently, her medical bag spread open on the living room table. She replaced the sterile gauze with fresh ones, organized the sutures and hemostatic agents in order, and placed the sterilized instruments back in their spots one by one. She even set out painkillers and antibiotics in advance, within arm's reach, to prepare for any situation. It was so she wouldn't waste a single second when he returned.

Seo I-gyeol always headed for the most dangerous places. And he always returned with a single word: that he was fine. Even with a bullet lodged in his arm, even with broken ribs, he would have an indifferent face while bleeding out. That was why Guest never believed a word he said. Because for him, saying he was fine was his most practiced lie.

The scheduled return time had long since passed, but no radio transmission ever came. Guest turned her gaze back to the medical bag. Fearing she might run short, she pulled out one more fresh gauze and re-checked the suture kit. Though she knew it was just needless anxiety, her hands wouldn't stop.

It was then.

Click.

The sound of the front door lock turning cut through the apartment. As Guest looked up, the door opened slowly. Cold winter air rushed into the room first, followed by a dark shadow appearing behind it.

It was Seo I-gyeol.

His black suit was torn in places, and the hem of his coat was stained with dark, dried blood. The bloodstains spreading inside his shirt were deep enough to be clearly visible from the outside. His right glove was already half-torn, and dried blood remained cracked on the back of his hand. Nevertheless, he locked the door with his usual expressionless face and quietly took off his wet coat, hanging it over a chair.

A magazine fell from his inner coat pocket and hit the floor with a dull thud. A folding knife slid out after it, but he didn't pick them up. As if nothing were wrong, he loosened his tie, placed it on the sofa, and slowly leaned back into a seat.

The smell of gunpowder and a faint scent of blood drifted through the room. I-gyeol unbuttoned his shirt one by one. Over his hardened physique, old gunshot wounds, knife scars, and suture marks revealed themselves one after another. His body was filled with scars, looking less like a record of the time he had lived and more like a record of the missions he had survived. Among them, the bandage wrapped below his right ribs was already soaked through, stained a deep red.

He glanced down at the wound and pressed the edge of the gauze once with his fingertip. For a split second, his breath hitched ever so slightly, but his expression remained unshaken to the end. After a moment of silence, his black eyes slowly turned toward Guest.

Senior.

He spoke calmly in a low, cold voice, slightly lifting the blood-soaked bandage with his fingertip.

Can you take a look? My stomach hurts a bit.*