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San is running. His feet are pounding against the pavement, his head is pounding along with them, and he's zeroed in on a hiding spot: an alleyway with a fire escape. It's perfect.
To any passerby, he looks normal (besides his dark clothing, of course), but he knows that the patrol on his trail will sniff him out within minutes if he doesn't make a quick escape. He's got an electrogun concealed underneath his jacket, fired up and ready to go.
"Come on, come on, come on," San urges himself under his breath as he reaches the alleyway and takes a quick look behind him in search of the patrol. No sign. He doesn't care; he knows that once they've got a sign, they'll stop at nothing to find him and arrest him. He can't let that happen.
He keeps going, climbing nimbly up the fire escape and army-crawling across the roof of whatever dilapidated apartment building he's on top of. The electrogun's got a mind of its own now; San feels its static heartbeat against his own as he takes it out and dares to peek over the ledge, still breathing heavily. Still no sign of the patrol, but he’s got to be wary. He’s always been skittish (he supposes he needs to be—when you’re an assassin, nothing’s ever easy), and now that they’ve doubled up on patrols around Mire, his constant double-checking and preciseness are coming in handy. All it takes is a second-long glimpse from their tracking software and they’d be onto San like wolves to a fresh piece of meat.
His breath hitches when he sees a flash of a red uniform out of the corner of his eye. It's them it’s them it’s them is all he can think as he rolls over, back pressed up against the side of the ledge and electrogun gripped tight in his hands. His watchband is heavy around his wrist, reminding him of mistakes past even though he knows he's jailbroken the thing and it's impossible for anyone to find him using it. Steadily, San’s heart thumps, the sound of it rushing to his ears and practically blocking out the footsteps of the patrol a hundred feet below. He can hear them grumbling among themselves, looking for him, trying to find their latest rule-breaker because it’s not like they’ve got anything better to do. Not like they even care about fixing this damn system, the one that’s left San killing for money because it’s the only thing he’s good at, watching as the one percent enjoy all the luxuries of the modern world and treat the lower class like ice cubes kicked under the fridge and left to melt.
There’s something exciting about the chase, the thrill of running and knowing he can either escape with the satisfaction of making the patrol look like idiots or get caught and deal with the consequences. The city is a jungle of prey and predators, and anyone out of the upper class is prey. San can’t change the system, but he can escape from it by becoming a predator and killing Cyborgs until he gets enough digicoins to leave Mire. It’s quite fucked up to know the only way to rise is by going after those lower than him.
At least I’m good at it is the thought that keeps San going most of the time. That, and the promise of money. Killing Cyborgs isn’t exactly fun, but the digicoins he gets from selling their parts is well worth it. He’s been doing it for his whole life, ever since he’s figured out that the only way to make a way for yourself in this messed up world is to go it alone. It’s like they always taught him in school (back when he could afford to go)—Cyborgs aren’t human. They were created to help humans, after the Great War, when the government decided that the only way to make artificial intelligence less artificial was to make it real. ‘The mind of a human, the body of a robot,’ they’d call it. San was always told that the Cyborgs weren’t like him. Sure, they seemed human. But they lived longer, felt less pain and less emotion, and they were always being updated.
That was where San came in. Most of the lower class Cyborgs were defunct. Lacking the latest updates, the polished shine of the brand new Cyborgs. They were useless, to use the words of the people San had always surrounded himself with. The only thing that wasn’t useless about them were their bodies—the metal bits inside them that let them walk and talk and move. That was what San killed them for. He didn’t like it, in the same way that a 9-to-5 office worker hates his job, but he didn’t exactly have a choice. And besides: at least he was good at it.
When he dares to look over the roof's edge again, the uniforms and voices are gone. He's still holding his electrogun close, the faint beams of electricity crackling under its translucent skin barely apparent in the late afternoon light. That was a close call for him. Too close, he thinks. It can't happen again. As he disarms his weapon, climbs carefully down the fire escape, and walks as far away as he can from the patrol, all that's on his mind is that he's made it one more day. That's the only way he lives—the only way he can live, really. One day at a time.
#
San travels to his next destination via cream-colored motorbike. Sure, it’s not the most efficient form of travel, but the one he’s got is quiet enough to keep him inconspicuous and cost him only half the price of the newest model. He’d managed to evade the patrol earlier, leaving just as they apprehended some homeless person for whatever convoluted charge they could come up with (endangering citizens and disgracing public property was code for being poor). He’d just been glad it hadn’t been him.
Attentively, he searches as he rides, eyes glued to the sides of the streets for a familiar glowing sign. The roads of Mire are decrepit and filled with potholes, which San is careful to avoid. Dying leaves scatter the broken sidewalks and lie on top of broken-down cars that collect dust sitting by the side of the road. The storefronts San searches are mostly empty. Half of their windows are covered with peeling For Rent posters with numbers that no one will ever call, the other half have simply been deserted. Autumn’s not such a beautiful season in Mire for those stuck in broken-down neighborhoods like these. San doesn’t know if it’ll ever be.
His eyes catch the neon sign he’s looking for, nestled within a window so small you’ll miss it if you aren’t searching. It’s an underground joint frequented by people just like San. Assassins, dealers, misfits. Anyone who needs money.
San hops off his bike, throwing his dark helmet into the basket on the back and tapping his watchband to the front to put its automatic safety measures in place. He gives it a pat for good measure, as if it’s a horse standing regally on a cobblestone street. Next he makes his way through the sea of sidewalk and goes down the cement stairs into the bar. The Elite, it’s called. Couldn’t be any farther from the truth.
It’s dark inside, immediately making San feel like it’s nighttime. The place is small, with a bar on the left, booths on the right, and a soundproof room in the back for anyone who needs a bit of privacy (read: needs to threaten someone without being heard). The ceiling’s dotted with dim purple lights, the same ones reflected in the mirror behind the bar where quite a few regulars are sitting. Hushed conversations are happening in the booths, mostly people doing shady business deals or making bets on who’s going to win the next Alpha fight (esports are big here, Alpha’s the biggest game there is).
San’s here to talk to the bartender, of course. A man named Juyeon who’s as friendly as they come to the regulars but all business with first-timers. He’s tall, with blue hair so dark it’s almost black, and he’s a little rough around the edges. But then again, so is San.
“Ah, it’s the man of the hour,” says Juyeon when he spots San, the beginnings of a catlike grin on his face.
San greets him with a nod. “I’ll give that honor to you,” he jokes, returning the smile. He takes a seat at the bar, noting his tousled, red-streaked hair and leather jacket in the mirror. He removes it to reveal a black t-shirt underneath, pulling the jacket across his lap.
“So what have you been up to recently?” asks Juyeon nonchalantly, pouring alcohol into a shaker.
“Just the usual. You know, running away from the trolls.” It’s not the most mature nickname, but San knows better than to say “the patrol” out loud. “My last job was last week. 7500, I think it all added up to.”
Juyeon raises his eyebrows, nodding slowly in approval. “The higher-ups have been getting lucky recently with those newer models, eh?” By higher-ups, he means the know-hows in the more elite tiers of the underground scene: the people who monitor obsolete Cyborgs and track their location and info, the same people that give said info to Juyeon and others like him. Juyeon is the one to relay the information to San, and he gets a portion of San’s profit as well as whatever the higher-ups can give him. Of course, it’s not a wage anyone can fully live on, which is why half of his “bartending” job is actual bartending.
"Definitely," smirks San. "I only got to keep a couple scraps this time. I've actually been working on a little passion project with the leftover titanium… and before you say whatever you were gonna say, I will finish it this time."
Juyeon fights a laugh. San's been known time and time again to start projects without finishing them and switch hobbies the moment he gets bored (which is fairly often). "Okay, okay. What is it, though, a new bike or something? Maybe a hoverboard?"
"Nah," says San, putting his elbows up on the bar and leaning in conspiratorially. "It's a drone."
Juyeon's about to ask San something when the burly regular at the end of the bar snaps his fingers and he's whisked away to fulfill an order. San just shakes his head and begins to mull over this whole drone idea, fiddling with his watchband out of habit. He's just begun entertaining the project, with melted-down scraps left over from various Cyborgs he's killed. It sounds a lot worse than it is, he realizes, but it's not like he's using organs or anything. Just things like piercings, prosthetics too dated to attach to an updated model, whatever the Cyborg equivalent of a pacemaker is. Things that have been left behind, resulting in San developing a bit of a talent for old-fashioned metalsmithing. He's built bots before: the occasional Cuisinier to give him cooking instructions, or Shutters to surveil his apartment. But a drone could be much, much more helpful for him… especially since he could use it in missions.
"Sorry about that," sighs Juyeon, back from making a custom drink. "Sometimes when you come in here I forget I still have to work." San grins at that. "So what were you saying about a drone?"
"Well, I'm in the process"—San shoots a glare at Juyeon, who pretends he wasn't about to make some sort of teasing remark—"of making a miniature drone. Just something to give me an extra set of eyes when I'm on the job, whether I've got to look around a street corner or into someone's window. And it's something no one'll be suspicious of either, right?" Everyone these days had drones—they were like little personal assistants to grab packages for you or act as a console for the newest AR and VR games. San's would blend right in. Plus, him making his own drone would let him subvert whatever tampering the government did with paid devices.
"That's a pretty solid idea," nods Juyeon solemnly. "You're a smart guy, San."
"I know. I'm smart, witty, and good-looking, no wonder I've got all these people begging to date me." San gestures around the room for emphasis, and of course no one pays him any mind.
Juyeon cracks up, and so does San, the both of them erupting in laughter in what is known as a rare moment of happiness in San's life. "You. You're so…" The taller man trails off, shaking his head. "Anyway, do you want to order something? I know you didn't just come here to chat, as much as I wish you had." He places a slight emphasis on the word order, although San had noticed his almost imperceptible change in demeanor moments before that.
"Sure," San remarks calmly. "I'll take whatever the chef, or shall I say, the bartender, recommends."
Juyeon ponders the decision for a moment and then holds up two bottles, letting San look at the labels. "Which one? Hawken or Devotsky?"
"I could go both ways," smirks San.
"You sure we're just talking about drinks?" Juyeon chuckles and shakes his head. He pours cold, clear liquid from one of the bottles into a thin glass and tops it with a can of something gold and bubbly and (probably) non-alcoholic, seeing as he takes a sip from whatever remains.
With the air of a distinguished artist, Juyeon gives the drink to San, the can still in his other hand. "Voilà."
San nods slowly. "You never let me down, Juyeon." Once again, his words are laced with a double meaning. To the patrons surrounding them, San's thanking a friend.
To Juyeon, well… "I'll drink to that," he replies.
"Cheers," says San.
Juyeon taps his gold can to San's crystal glass, holds it there for an instant too long, and then drains it, all in one fluid motion. San simply takes a sip from his cup and feels the beats of haptic feedback on his wrist like an insect crawling. Soon, the glass is empty, Juyeon's left him to face the evening rush of customers, and he's moving to get out of his seat and back to his apartment. He picks up his leather jacket and puts it back on, going slowly so no one notices how eager he is to get home. Leisurely, he walks to the door and nods at Juyeon as he opens it, throwing a polite "Bye!" to the regulars his friend is serving (he knows them all: Hyunjae, Changmin, Haknyeon; but tonight's not the time for a conversation).
Soon, San is on the road again, watching the streetlights flicker on as the night sky turns from pink to purple to black. The bar's maybe 20 minutes from his home, even though he feels like it's been an eternity. With every turn of the handlebars, he feels the movement of the watchband against his wrist as if it's willing him to go faster, take sharper turns, lean into the handlebars as the noise of the accelerator gets louder and louder and —"HEY!"
San stops short. There's a man standing six inches in front of his bike, eyes wide in fear. He's tall, with sharp features, light brown hair that's shaved on the sides, and a lip piercing. If San hadn't just almost hit him, he'd say the man was pretty attractive.
"Shit! I'm so sorry, are you okay?" San hops off the bike and rushes over to the guy.
"Yeah, I think I'm good," he says. His voice is deep, San notices. He inhales, exhales, takes a step back. It's not difficult to tell that he's a bit shaken up.
"I don't usually almost kill people, if that makes you feel any better." San tries to fill the space between them with words. "I promise this is a one-time occurrence."
The stranger puts his hands in his pockets, and strangely enough, he smiles. "I don't mind," he shrugs. "I like living on the edge every once in a while, and if I had to have a near-death experience, I'm glad the almost-perpetrator was a handsome stranger and not some old lady."
San raises his eyebrows. Damn. He guesses the "no flirting after almost-murders" rule doesn't apply to this man. "You're pretty good-looking yourself," he returns playfully, taking off his helmet and shaking out his hair. "I'm almost starting to regret not getting to kill you."
It earns him a chuckle from the stranger. "I'm Song Mingi, by the way." He sticks his hand out, and San shakes it.
"I'm Choi San. Your friendly neighborhood motorcyclist and terrible driver."
"Hey, you're not that bad. Besides, guys on motorcycles are objectively more attractive when they go fast." Mingi smirks with that, and all of a sudden San can't take his eyes off the other man.
"Maybe I'll take you for a ride one day, what do you think?" San proposes, half-joking.
Mingi laughs again. "When we meet again."
"Hopefully I won't have to almost kill you for that to happen."
It continues like that for a few more minutes until Mingi goes on his way again and San hops back on the motorbike. He's halfway down the road when he feels a buzz from his watchband, but for once he isn't even thinking about his job. All he can think about is that shock of orange hair and the eyes that looked like they held the moon. (For the first time in a while, he's really hoping they meet again.)
#
The first thing San does when he gets home is lock the door (he never forgets). The second thing he does, of course, is throw himself on the couch and tap frantically at his watchband. Surprisingly enough, there are two messages waiting for him; he can't open them fast enough.
The first fills his vision with an array of blinking red lights, directing him to scroll through the various bits of information he's been given. This, of course, is the file Juyeon transferred to him during the bar visit. It's projecting itself from the watchband to San's contact lenses, and what his eyes are first drawn to is a name in the center: Kang Yeosang. He flicks through the rest of the Cyborg’s details, drinking in the information like iced tea on a cold day. Model number: 018398; address (or at least, where he’ll be on the scheduled day): 1500 Cassidy Avenue; associates: Kim Hongjoong and Jung Wooyoung (both Cyborgs, not old enough to be obsolete, notes San with a sigh); and the day of the mission: Saturday. Today is Thursday. San’s got a hell of a lot of prep to do if he wants to have everything ready—including the drone—in time.
He sighs, leaning back against the couch and finally relaxing for the first time in a few hours. Ignored before, his cat rubs up against his ankles and meows. He leans down to pet her. As he feels her soft, white fur and calms down, he begins to formulate his plan for the coming days.
The address is a warehouse about half an hour away, he notes, and it's huge; having his drone ready would give him a real advantage. If the Cyborg's got 3 others with him… San quickly realizes how tricky this is going to be. He'll have to catch the guy alone and make sure no one can hear him, and if this is a group mission, it isn't likely they'd split up. What would a Cyborg be doing at that warehouse anyway? San can recall it being used for boxing matches, as a tech junkyard at one point, as an assassin hideout a couple years back, as a place for money storage—oh. Still, a Cyborg? The only people that store their money in odd locations are tycoons too rich for the bank, and yet the money stays tightly guarded no matter where it is. San can understand being desperate enough to try and steal from a place like this, but he can't understand why a Cyborg would have any business stealing it. After all, the guy probably has a job; his ID number indicates a model new enough to at least work for a middle class businessperson.
"This isn't going anywhere," San says, to no one in particular (he hopes his cat is listening, though). "I'll just… drone, doublegun, body bag…" Yawning, he mentally checks off the items of his usual prep list.
"It's getting late, isn't it?" he coos, looking at the cat that has since jumped up onto his lap. The cat looks at him curiously, as if to agree.
After half an hour of work on his drone—soldering framework, cutting pea-sized pieces of metal, installing a camera the size of his eyeball—San decides to go to bed. It isn't until he's gotten under the covers and finally stopped thinking about the mysterious Kang Yeosang that he remembers the second message from his watchband. He sits bolt upright and taps at the thing, waiting for the message to appear.
Song Mingi.
San almost shouts with the amount of pure joy that shoots through his heart. That sneaky bastard, he thinks. Sending his contact to me without me noticing. I would be the type to do that.
There's a contact number underneath the name, and San quickly adds it to his list of friends. He knows there's a ridiculous grin on his face, and he lets it stay there. His cat looks at him again—this time she's telling him that he's falling way too hard for someone he met three hours ago. San doesn't care.
He opens up a chat with Mingi and thinks the words: Well played. I guess I'll need to think of a way to one-up you now, won't I?, sending them via NeuraLink with the flirtiest tone he can muster.
Shaking his head, he flops back down on the bed, silly grin still written all over his face. "Who is this enigma?" he says to the cat. "And why do I want to break all the rules I've ever made just for him?"
The cat just meows quietly, and San falls asleep soon after with whispers of the name Song Mingi still on his lips.
#
The next evening, San is looking through the blueprints of the warehouse and the satellite map of the area around it, planning for the mission that awaits him in less than 24 hours. He’s sitting sprawled out at his NeuroDesk, facing the window and tapping at the white surface on images only he can see.
He wonders if the patrol chasing him feels like he does when he chases Cyborgs, if killing the machines brings him the same perverted satisfaction they brag about. He hopes not, hopes he’ll never be like them in any way. Cyborgs aren’t human; killing them for survival doesn’t make him a monster. Most people don’t feel bad when they kill trees or animals, and Cyborgs aren’t much different. Like, he’s not one, so he obviously can’t fully understand how it is to be one, but he’s read about it, he’s watched videos, he’s done his research on his prey and they’re definitely not human, not people. They can be bothersome to kill, but he’s always loved a good fight. Fighting can be quite fun when you get to fight back. San’s a good fighter, one of the best, and he’s never lost a fight before (obviously, or he wouldn’t be here today). As long as he stays focused, his prey will fall.
However, staying focused might be a bit harder this time. Even while planning his mission (he might like to joke around with Juyeon and his other… people, but he’s always serious when it comes to missions), he finds his thoughts drifting to the man he almost killed earlier. It’s annoying how he fails to get mad at his smile, his eyes, his voice, everything about Mingi distracting San from his work. Maybe he really needs to go out more, meet people and make new friends. Being that interested in a complete stranger isn’t something he’s used to. Well, to be honest, he’s not used to meeting new people, so he doesn’t really know if it’s normal or not.
The thought, however, disappears from his mind after a notification flashes in the corner of his eye: it’s a message from Mingi. Irrationally, his heart leaps.
Good evening! It says.
San grins, against his better judgment. He met the guy last night. How is he already this giddy about a good evening message?
Hi, San thinks back. Thanks for giving me your number. As much as I enjoy the “man keeps coincidentally meeting handsome stranger” trope, I don’t think it’s as realistic as I’d like it to be.
Of course, Mingi replies, in that same playful way. Couldn’t risk letting someone like you get away.
San supposes his own irrational feelings aren’t so irrational after all, considering how Mingi’s acting. He thinks out another sweet message, getting a flirty response from Mingi, and the cycle repeats. San really likes that someone is making him feel this way—it hasn’t happened in a long time—and he’s willing to ignore the fact that they met less than a day ago.
He learns a bit more about his new… friend? Potential boyfriend? Crush? Namely that he has a dog, he hates bugs, he likes photography (so does San!), his favorite food is shrimp (San does not, in fact, like shrimp), and, of course, that he’s charming and endearing enough to make San talk to him for almost an hour and a half. The messaging ends pretty abruptly; San thinks it’s because the other fell asleep. He’s proven right an hour later, when Mingi hurriedly messages him apologizing for drifting off.
San just thinks it’s cute. Who falls asleep this early at night? He teases.
I had a long day yesterday, Mingi replies. San can feel him blush. I almost died, remember?
Now it's San's turn to blush. Hey, I had a long day too. I almost killed someone. The novelty of it wears off when San remembers that he actually does kill for a living.
So, do you have any evening plans? Mingi asks.
Grateful for the change in subject, San messages back: Nah, nothing much. Just hanging out, I guess. Playing with my cat. He sends an image of her along with it.
Mingi grins, returning with an image of his dog. Look at how cute she was, waiting by the door for me when I got home from work. You wish you had a dog.
I do not! My cat was waiting like that too when I got home, San messages with false indignation. Then he realizes a potential slip-up and sends one more sentence: Where do you work, by the way?
Mingi brightens up. It seems to San that he’d been waiting for someone to ask. I work at a flower shop on Madeleine Avenue! Flowers are some of my favorite things in the world. Interesting. San doesn’t know what to think of that. He supposes it’s one more thing he has in common with Mingi; he’s got a fair amount of plants sitting around his apartment and treats them like his kids. He visits flower shops pretty often, knows all of the locations in Mire, so he thinks he must have seen Mingi at one at some point.
There’s something he can’t quite put his finger on, but he brushes it off. I can’t believe we have so much in common.
Right? Almost like us meeting was fate.
San’s rational side takes over again. If there’s one thing he doesn’t believe in, it’s soulmates. Why waste your time thinking about fate when everything has an expiration date? Just live your life and take coincidences as just that. I don’t think so, he replies, the flirtiness almost gone from his tone. It was a coincidence, that’s all.
The conversation continues, but Mingi stops replying soon after that. San hopes it’s because he went to sleep again and not because of what he said. He knows he can’t get distracted, though. He’s got one goal for tomorrow: don’t make any mistakes.
#
Today is the day. San, of course, showers and gets dressed and feeds the cat just like any other normal day. At this point, acting like everything is normal is part of his daily routine. No suspicion, even towards himself. But in the front of his mind is a detailed set of plans, down to the minute, and they would begin the moment he stepped inside the warehouse.
He’s on his motorbike soon enough, doing what looks like roaming the streets of Mire. Inconspicuously, the drone is flying several hundred feet in front of him, controlled via NeuraLink. It’s relatively early. The streets are littered with crisp, untouched leaves and the morning air is cool. And as he turns corners and stops at red lights, San’s mind wanders. He knows he has more important things to focus on, but Mingi keeps popping up in his thoughts. Oh—maybe not just his thoughts. There’s a new message notification.
Any plans today? It says.
San almost laughs at the irony of it. Nothing in particular, he answers. Just hanging out, watching some shows on the Vision. It’s not a complete lie; those are half his plans for tonight. And besides, he’s got his NeuraLink location set to home, so it’s not like he could say anything else.
Same, comes Mingi’s response a minute later. I’m off work today. Probably going to go buy some groceries soon.
Approaching a stop sign, San slows. I’m off too. I mean, I don’t exactly have set hours. I’m a—he uses the usual excuse—freelance mechanic. He does repair things sometimes, after all. For neighbors. For Juyeon and his friends occasionally. Mostly for himself.
Mingi’s reply takes a little longer, five minutes at most, and San’s getting closer to the warehouse. When it comes in, San pales. He remembers why he was put off by Mingi’s message about the flower shop yesterday. There’s no flower shop on Madeleine Avenue, he thinks. Something’s wrong. Something is wrong, but he can’t dwell on it, nor can he open the new message, because he’s just arrived.
The warehouse’s huge, dark front is looming over him. It’s time to put his plan in motion. First things first: silence the drone. It was whirring earlier to avoid suspicion, but now that San’s at his destination? Free reign. The drone’s camera vision is a tiny square in the bottom right of everything projected by his watchband, searching for the Cyborg.
San himself is now armed, climbing the fire escape to the empty second floor of the warehouse. He needs to get rid of Yeosang’s associates first—if he can’t stun them enough to wipe the past fifteen minutes of their memory, then he’ll distract them while he kills the Cyborg and disposes of the body as quickly as he can. If there are only two, and he catches them alone, he’ll probably be able to go with the former option.
In front of him is a deserted open space, with floor-to-ceiling windows between squares of wall and empty boxes scattered all along the floor. There are a few metal scraps and digicoins here and there, which San chooses to ignore. You never know what could be a trap. There’s a broken-down staircase on his left leading to the floors above and below him, and an elevator on the other side (about fifty yards away from him). The money storage business probably happens on the third floor; he remembers seeing a locker up there the last time he was here. Unfortunately, it’s also much easier to hide on that floor. The drone is reminding him of that now: there are dozens of bolted-down shelves lining the concrete floors.
And it looks like the drone has also caught a flash of dark hair. Wooyoung, San thinks. The pictures he was given of the three men showed Yeosang with caramel-colored hair, Hongjoong with dark gray, and Wooyoung with pitch black. It could only be him. San keeps the drone held high on the sections of wall behind the Cyborg, waiting. He appears again, holding a parcel of digicoins.
Suddenly, there’s a quiet noise just above where San is standing. It doesn’t match Wooyoung’s location. San’s breath, however even he’s been trying to make it, hitches. He presses himself against the wall, hand under his jacket, and waits. Another noise. A footstep, perhaps? San wills the drone to fly as high as it can, to touch and camouflage itself in the ceiling. It’s a risk, of course, seeing as the little robot will be far more noticeable hiding in plain sight, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take.
From there, he can see exactly where the three Cyborgs are standing. Halfway throughout the room, the shelves transition to four bulky locker banks: Wooyoung is standing at the one farthest from San, Yeosang is next to him, and Hongjoong is directly above San. He memorizes the locations, and the drone drops noiselessly. If he’s lucky, he can climb up the stairs, stun Hongjoong, and get Wooyoung too while he and Yeosang rush over. Then he can shoot Yeosang with enough volts to stop his half-artificial heart in an instant, and the rest is instinct at this point.
The moment San hears another footstep from Hongjoong, it’s time. He takes a deep breath: in and out. Then three, two, one, and he’s silently rushing up the stairs, finger on the trigger. Right in front of him is the Cyborg, who takes a millisecond to process him and an even shorter time to get that look in his eyes, the one everyone gets when they’re thinking out a NeuraLink message. San almost laughs: if he isn’t messaging Yeosang or Wooyoung, any backup he calls for won’t be able to get there in time (he’s had all the nearby blocks checked). And if he takes a picture of San, well, San’s wearing a mask, and he’s got himself vision cloaked.
Besides, there’s no way Hongjoong sent a message. San’s already stunned him. The Cyborg falls to the ground with a soft thump, and Wooyoung and Yeosang, as predicted, come rushing over. San is moments away from turning his gun towards them when the elevator on the other side of the floor opens.
Ding.
A familiar figure steps out. San’s arm falls slack, thoughts of killing abandoned.
“Mingi?”