HITMAN: INVICTUS

by Zevoros

The ICA continues to shape the world from the shadows, taking in contracts and using Agent 47 and his handler, Diana Burnwood, to achieve them. All the while, the rich and powerful battle for dominance as a peril threatens to engulf them and, soon, the world as they know it.

2. Song of the Lost

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~~(O)(O)(O)(O)(O)(O)(O)~~

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Authors' Note:

Zevoros: Trigger warning for homophobic slurs.

Once again, special thanks to MrRieper!

Triage: Death is inevitable. It comes for us all. It is only a matter of when, and how. And sometimes…just sometimes, the death that comes, is so well deserved. Enjoy the chapter.

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Chapter 2

Song of the Lost

---

Massachusetts, United States

The sniper scope focused on the young woman as she came to a stop on her vespa, unaware that she was being watched. As she parked the vespa at the university grounds and collected her books, Agent 47 adjusted the scope to clear the blurriness. His pale blue eye watching her every move.

In the weeks since he had last seen her, she remained largely unchanged. Her brown, nearly auburn locks swayed with each step she took. Pale, barely-there freckles dotted her face, and her green eyes remained, after all this time, filled with inquisitive wonder.

"You should talk to her," Diana's voice came from the nearby laptop. "I know she would appreciate it."

"She's not a part of our world," 47 responded. He turned away from his sniper rifle to look at his laptop and, in front of it, their chess board.

The people he had rented the apartment from had asked a few questions once 47 offered the money. It was almost entirely barren of furniture. He didn't need any as he never stayed long. The room was high up, two miles away from the university's campus.

For the purposes that 47 used it for, it was the perfect watchtower.

"But you are a part of hers," Diana said. Her tone was neutral, but 47 knew better.

Victoria had chosen to steer far away from the ICA after the Benjamin Travis debacle. As far as the ICA was concerned when it came to Travis and his projects, they were over. 47 had dealt with him and the rogue element had been terminated.

Victoria was not a part of the same world that 47 had been bred for. Though they came from similar roots, they remained unalike.

Same, but different.

"Is that a conscience you're developing, 47?" Diana remarked flatly. A joke, 47 knew.

"You know why," 47 said simply. He moved the queen on the chessboard two spaces.

Diana sighed. "Yes. I suppose I do."

Victoria could leave their world behind. 47 could not. He had learned that simple fact a long time ago. There was no escaping who he was.

Through his scope, he saw Victoria meet up with one of her friends. A young man by the name of Edward Bugg.

"Well, those people are gone now. The world is ever shifting. It isn't often that people in our line of work make connections," Diana said.

47 didn't take his gaze off of Victoria as Diana spoke. He contemplated what she said. He had made few connections over the years. Diana was his only current one. Vittorio flashed through his mind briefly. Memories of a man who had once given him a life after he had tried to turn away from what he was created to do.

"You left an impression on her," Diana mentioned casually. "Saving someone, in my experience, has a tendency to achieve that." A beat. "Rook to F4. Check."

A flash of something came through 47's mind. An impression long forgotten. His gaze strayed from his scope and he tried to hold onto the thought. But a building of pain behind his eyes forced him to let it go. It fell away, down into the recesses of his mind. His lips turned downward ever so slightly and he peered through his scope again.

Victoria's friend held the door open for her and they disappeared into the university together. 47 lifted his rifle and without any delay, began to disassemble it.

"The past is better left buried," 47 said at last. "Bishop to F4, checkmate."

Diana examined the board from across the laptop screen. "Nicely done," she complimented. "The Board has assigned us a new contract."

"Assigned?" 47 questioned. Their contracts were typically handpicked by Diana. It wasn't often that the Board of Directors assigned them.

"Yes," Diana confirmed. "They need a scalpel, not a hammer."

47 didn't say anything for a moment. "Who was this requested by?" he asked. There were always ulterior motives when it came to the Board.

He could practically hear Diana's smile through the laptop as she next said, "Midori Yasuda."

47 paused. He slid the pieces of his rifle into its briefcase. "What's the contract?" he asked.

---

Seoul, South Korea

Today was the day. The last show that they would have in a long time. He should have been relieved, but instead he was pensive. Mu-yeol had brought champagne as a show of victory for them to drink and treat themselves as soon as the show was over.

Ping In-sik couldn't wait.

Until then, he interlocked his hand with Mo Chae-young's and plastered a smile on his face. Across from the couch they were perched on was an interviewer, whose name had entered Ping's ear and left through the other. All Ping recalled was how he mentioned was a fan of SSF and that he worked for one of the national stations. Which one, Ping couldn't recall.

Mo smiled and answered another one of the interviewer's asinine questions. How does she do it? Ping wondered. He couldn't understand how she kept such composure. Especially on the anniversary. Today of all days. He felt like she was punishing him.

Ping's cheeks hurt from the fake smiling.

The room chosen for the interview was Mo's backstage chamber. And of course, it had been altered to her standards. Cushy velvet chairs and couches adorned the rooms. It was the only comfort of the evening so far. On the wall parallel to the door was a mirror and a desk for Mo to use. Or rather, for her to sit in while her stylists adjusted her makeup.

The walls were a cream peach color with puffy clouds painted over the main color reflecting a lighter shade, but not contrasting, creating a dream-like feel and bringing a sense of warmth, even love, to the room. There were tiny dolls or statues of realistic cats scattered or strategically placed around. This was to portray a mature-yet-cute woman's room, appealing to the teenaged to young adult audience.

While the interviewer sat across from them in a chair, his associates had carefully aimed a camera at Ping and Mo, with one other camera pointed at the interviewer. Mo's guards patrolled around the outskirts of the room, careful not to get caught on camera. The same went for Ping's guards. He felt as though he could barely breathe without someone keeping watch on him.

He tapped his foot at the velvet carpet beneath his feet, then stopped when he felt Mo squeeze his hand. Ping resisted the urge to wince. He glanced at Mo, but she gave nothing away. But Ping recognized the warning. A warning to stay in his place or face the consequences.

He adjusted his smile and nodded and whatever the interviewer said. He wondered how the world never noticed that his smile never reached his eyes.

Ping wondered how the world could so easily forgive someone for murder.

They didn't know that, of course. It wasn't publicized all over the place. The family of the victim, one Park Ha-yun, were silenced with bribes (as far as Ping knew) or threats. Not all of them were intimidated, of course. Their thirst for justice outweighed their fear of the Mob. So, little by little, word got out, mostly in the form of rumours and insinuations. Most paid it little mind.

When squeaky clean cutesy girls like Mo Chae-young were spoken about being involved in shady stuff from drugs, to porn, to outright crimes like robbery and murder, most swept such things under the rug. Everyone liked to imagine their heroine and her dashing hero boyfriend (allegedly) were perfect people.

Idiots.

Sheeple.

He might not have been involved in the incident, but his 'loving' family certainly got all over it when it occurred. Even back then, they were fast becoming the biggest cash cows, as Americans would call them, for the families. And they were prepared to protect that by any means necessary.

Any means.

"...In-sik?" the interviewer said, and his name snapped Ping back to reality. "May I call you In-sik?"

Ping gave the man a bow of his head. "Please," he said, speaking to the interviewer for the first time that night.

The interviewer smiled. "I know I keep saying this, but I'm such a huge fan of Seoul Snowball Frequency that it's hard for me to believe that I am talking with Mo Chae-young and Ping In-sik," the interviewer said with no small amount of awe.

Ping felt his smile strain. Mo cast a look of warning at him disguised as one of mirth.

After years spent with her, he could read through all her false smiles and sweet expressions for the true meaning behind them. It was a language all by itself.

"I only have a few more questions for the two of you," the interviewer told them. "Then I'll be out of your hair for tonight's performance."

"Fire away," Ping said. He couldn't wait for this to be over with. He had barely done any talking and he wanted to be as far away from here as possible. As far away from the little people, or their adoring fans.

Rabid hyenas, more like.

The interviewer cleared his throat, and Ping found himself struggling to recall his name. Eventually, he gave up trying. Hopefully he would say it again at the end of the interview, just in case Ping needed to add him to a blacklist.

"Well, I know this is something that has been wondered about for years now, and the fans would love to know if the mystery would ever be solved…"

Of course, was the bitter, annoyed thought. One of the most irritating aspects of the 'pairing', and the public image Ping had to participate in, lest he earn Mo's ire. And his family's. It was like his own family loved Mo over him.

"...So would either of you be willing to finally come clean one way or another? Are you two really romantically involved? An item? Is love in the air? There's an ever-growing assortment of ship names for the two of y-"

"Ship names," Mo said with a laugh. If Ping didn't know any better, he would have compared it to the jingling of bells. "I love those. Have you seen what the Americans call us?" she asked.

It took the squeeze of her hand for Ping to realize that she was talking to him. He leaned back in his seat and met her expectant gaze.

"I have not," Ping admitted. For that was what Chae-young wanted to hear.

Mo smiled. "Moping," she said. She shook her head with a laugh. "Americans are funny."

"That is funny," the interviewer said with a smile of his own. Ping knew he would be drawn in by Mo's charm. Who wouldn't be? The public was so easy.

Though even Ping privately thought that summed up his mental state right now. He felt most like moping all the time.

"But, to answer that question, sort of…" Mo said, turning her head down ever so slightly, while peering out at the man across from her through her lashes, portraying her famous look of purity, innocence, cuteness and yet, possessed of an allure she knew she had, "...we care deeply for one another, and what we have is good, and everyone likes it, right? Why change a good thing?"

A relatively non-committal response, and something Mo was good at dishing out. He usually preferred to let her do the talking. Let him be the tall, dark and mysterious maybe-boyfriend.

"Quite the non-answer," the interviewer remarked, wagging a playful finger at Mo, who shrugged innocently. "Maybe we'll get a different answer out of In-sik?"

Ping resisted the urge to sigh.

Mo tilted her head in thought and looked at Ping. "Maybe you will," she said. Her expression was joyful, but Ping could see her promises of agony if he tipped a toe out of the narrative.

He sometimes wished she could spontaneously combust...along with half of the world.

"Well…" Ping almost tried to say the man's name, which he couldn't remember, and instead, he reached out for a glass of water on the table between them. He took a long sip, buying himself time to come up with a creative reply. Just before the silence dragged into awkwardness, he placed the glass back down and looked right at the man possibly for the first time ever.

"...our story began since childhood. We've been the best of friends, and continue to remain so."

He then turned to look at Mo, softening his expression and putting on a look of adoration he did not feel for the woman before him.

"Chae-young is my world, and I wouldn't trade that for anything."

He could practically hear the collective sighs and 'awws' coming from the audience.

Mo for her part, smiled dotingly at him, batting her eyes, and bent her head just swiftly enough to look like a single nod, or she was being shy at his declaration. But her maintained eye-contact conveyed a message: she was satisfied by his response.

"And you stuck with her through her darkest moments," the interviewer said.

Ping hesitated and he could see Mo narrow her eyes slightly out of the corner of his gaze. "Of course I have," Ping said. Was the man suicidal!?

The interviewer nodded. "That is admirable," he said softly. "I have one more rather serious question," he told them.

"The date of our show?" Mo asked with an expectantly raised eyebrow.

The interviewer chuckled. "It must be hard to get anything past you," he said. "You're right. We wanted to inquire about why you chose today. You mentioned once that it was in memory of Park Ha-yun? Can you tell us more about that?"

Mo hummed as she debated how to answer the interviewer's question. Ping put on his most concerned face as he looked at her.

"When I was young, I did something horrific," Mo started, putting one hand in her lap as she spoke. "I hurt my friend and I regretted it ever since. I don't want to go into the details, if you don't mind. You can find them online if you look." She sniffed and ducked her head. The interviewer took on a look of sorrow.

She was truly a master manipulator, and for all the facade he put on about how he truly felt for her, he begrudgingly acknowledged that she was unparalleled in front of the camera. She bent the will and the hearts of the audience, even this nameless interviewer, around her little finger, and not only did they now know it, they were always ever-drawn closer, with a look of adoration that would remain even as she smiled at them and drove a knife through their backs.

Repeatedly.

"Sorry," Mo apologized as she wiped at one of her eyes with her finger. "I just hope to earn the forgiveness of the Parks one day. Everything I do with SSF, especially on this tour, is for Ha-yun."

"That's very noble of you," the interviewer complimented. "That's all we have for tonight. I'll let you go now."

He turned to one of the cameras and signed off the interview, saying, "This is Seo Haem-teo, from Jok Jebi News, and you heard all the latest here first!"

Well, now Ping had a name to place with this man, though he wondered why he bothered. Seo was likely to be permanently removed from existence if Mo was furious enough.

Seo and his staff packed up their equipment and he said, "I just have to say again how much I love you two."

"Thank you! You're too kind!" Mo said. She stood up, finally pulling her hand away from Ping's as she did so.

"Can we expect to see you in the audience tonight?" Ping asked. He didn't care for Seo's answer, but it helped to keep up appearances.

Seo made a clicking noise with his tongue. "I would love to, but I can't." He bowed. "I wish you all the best."

Mo and Ping bowed in return. "And to you as well," Mo said.

Seo beamed at them, before finally departing from the room. As soon as the last person left and the door shut, Mo's smile dropped.

"I thought you vetted him?" she questioned one of the guards.

"I did," the guard stated. "We did."

"And yet you heard the question he asked tonight," Mo said. Her beautiful face twisted into an ugly sneer. "Park Ha-yun. Even from beyond the grave she haunts me."

She circled their seats and went to her mirror. Ping watched her as she went. "Add him to a blacklist," he said without looking at the guard.

The guard bowed his head and started to walk to the door. Just as he was about to leave, he said, "Your father called, Mr. Ping."

This time, Ping didn't bother to hold the sigh. From her reflection in the mirror, he saw Mo look at him. "What does he want?" Ping asked.

"Just that you call him," the guard said. Then, without another word, he departed from the room. One by one, every guard filed out of the room after him.

It was just him and Mo. She turned in her chair so that she could look at him directly. Ping held his breath, awaiting her judgement. Without the quiet murmurs of the cameramen, Seo and the guards, the room's quiet was overwhelming and Ping almost felt a building pressure in his head. Mo's gaze pierced him and he couldn't help but think that she knew his thoughts just by looking at him.

"You were too quiet," she said eventually.

Ping released a breath. "I-" he started to say.

"Shut up," Mo interrupted. Her chair squeaked as she stood up. "This doesn't work if only one of us is playing our part," she scolded. "You can be as dark and brooding as you want when people aren't looking." She stepped forward. "Do you understand?"

Ping swallowed. "I understand, Chae-young."

Mo walked forward until she was right in front of him. Despite her shorter stature, Ping felt his nerves prick at him. He knew what Mo was capable of. And he knew what his family would do if they heard of a falling out between them.

"Do you, really?" Mo asked. "Because, to me, it feels like I'm the one doing all the work, while you do nothing, therefore sabotaging this pairing…is that it? You want to go your own way? Just say it."

Ping looked at her as though he had been slapped. She had him by the proverbial balls.

"You…" he tried, but his voice choked.

A smirk crept up Mo's lips. "Except you can't, can you? Or did you forget that you're stuck with me, In-sik?"

Ping stepped back. "Can we not have this conversation again?" he asked.

"Fine," Mo said. She turned away. "I'm looking forward to this," she said as she approached her mirror. "I hear that Heidi Santoro is coming."

Ping shook his head, somewhat in awe of the audacity of the woman before him.

"How would you keep that from being discovered?" he said. "And you know how quickly it takes for one's reputation to fall, as opposed to how long it takes to build it."

Mo's reflection glared balefully at Ping, but he went on, his voice taking on a mockingly aspect as he said, "With today's age of media availability, it won't take long for the internet to be full of images of you shacking up with another wom-"

"Finish that line and we'll have to see how well you perform without a tongue," Mo warned, her tone promising pain.

Ping clicked his mouth shut. He knew better than to egg Mo on. What happened to Park Ha-yun showed him that. He eyed Mo fearfully as he retreated from the room.

"In-sik?" Mo called just before he exited. He stopped at the door and glanced at her. "Call my staff in for me. I need some touch-ups."

Ping didn't answer verbally. Mo already knew that he would do as she asked. He opened the door and stepped out.

---

"This is Pam Kingsley reporting directly from the Geum Complex, showcasing the final concert in the SSF World Tour, in their own home!" Pamela Kingsley beamed at the camera in front of her, perched on Jay's shoulder. "Behind me is a ravenous crowd, just dying to see-"

Pam swallowed her words and felt her blood boil when a bald man walked between her and the camera. A scowl adorned her face at the interruption. "Cut!" she called to Jay before looking towards the retreating bald man, yelling, "Watch where you're going!"

"What a dick," Jay said. "How does someone not see the massive camera on my shoulder?"

Pam glanced away from the bald man to look at Jay. "He did, he's just an asshole." When she finished speaking to him, she looked back towards where she had last seen the bald man, only to find him gone. She sighed. "What are we even doing here?"

"Covering the SSF finale?" Jay asked, confused.

"No, I mean why are we covering it when we could be covering current world events?" Pam complained. She thought she had been doing well. But when she requested to cover more important topics, she had been stonewalled.

"I don't know," Jay admitted. "Hey, should we move to somewhere less crowded?" he asked.

"How's the shot?" Pam asked, annoyed. She rubbed at the bridge between her eyes and sighed.

"Got you and the entrance in frame."

"Good. No, let's stay here," Pam told him.

She hadn't noticed as the bald man entered the crowd leading to the entrance of the complex. It was a large circular building, designed for a multitude of events and to hold thousands of people in audience as well. While built mostly for stage events, it was possible to hold sporting events too.

"Good evening, 47," Diana chimed through his earpiece as 47 stepped into a line. "Welcome to the Geum Complex, the largest concert stadium in Seoul. Tonight, they host Seoul Snowball Frequency - commonly abbreviated to SSF - as they wrap up their world tour. A Korean pop band, they have climbed the charts as one of the most listened to bands throughout the northern hemisphere.

"Your primary target is Mo Chae-young, lead singer of Seoul Snowball Frequency. To the public, she is an enamoring young woman who, to the youth, is a symbol of purity and innocence. An icon of Korean pop culture, she has successfully distanced herself from her troubled past.

"Seventeen years ago today, Mo was found with her hands around the throat of assumed best friend, Park Ha-yun. By the time Ha-yun's mother intervened, it was too late. What followed was a grueling trial that left the Park family distraught as Mo convinced the court that she was not of sound mind. When Mo was sentenced, it was to rehabilitation. A slap on the wrist in the eyes of the Park family.

"By the present, the murder that Mo committed has left public memory and any media attempts to light that fire, so to speak, have been silenced by the family of your secondary target, Ping In-sik. The son of an infamous mobster in the Korean underworld, Moon Jae-seong, Ping grew up as a close friend to Mo and, by all accounts, saw her as the only person he could trust.

"This relationship would not last, and following the murder of Park Ha-yun, their friendship deteriorated rapidly. It can be presumed that Ping, at his father's behest, reacquainted with Mo, beginning SSF together. Publicly, their story is heartwarming and hopeful while the truth is anything but.

"Our client, the Park family, has given up on appealing for justice for Ha-yun from the legal system, Leading to them turning to us to eliminate those they believe responsible. Additionally, they have offered a substantial bonus if Mo is eliminated through the use of a type of berry, which the family have named after Ha-yun.

"Consumption of this fruit can cause illness which is treatable, but I'm told that if you finely cut the fruit's skin and extract the fine hairs from it, placing the hair fibers in a drink makes it undetectable by any means, and the result after consumption is a several days-long death that is described to be excruciating and incurable.

"I know how much you enjoy poetic justice, 47. Good luck."

The excitement for the concert was palpable. 47 had seen the tents outside in and around the parking lots surrounding the stadium even the day before. He had opted to stay in a nearby run-down hotel that had false security cameras and a receptionist that didn't ever look up at the people.

When he awoke that morning, his first thoughts had been on Diana, Victoria, before then cycling through his current assignment's targets. As the concert was being held in the evening, he had time to prepare some supplies he would take in lieu of his standard weapons and gear. Due to Ping In-sik's mob connections, there were much more stringent security guards who patted down each entry.

Guns, knives, even pens, and drugs were all subject to scrutiny.

He brushed past a journalist as she interviewed a fan of SSF, then crossed through the entrance threshold. For once, he made little effort to mask his presence, locking eyes with anyone that deigned to look at him, causing most to avert their gaze before too long. This let him reach the entrance unchallenged.

The gate guards eyed him suspiciously, and one of them curtly held out his palm, indicating he should place his ticket in it. 47 did so, and the guard examined the ticket as the other guard beckoned 47 through a metal detector. When he passed through and the guard found nothing amiss, he patted 47 down while he held his arms apart, and the guard asked him to remove his shoes and socks.

Grudgingly satisfied, the ticket guard handed the paper back to 47 after clipping it. Putting back on the socks and shoes, 47 made his way inside.

The entrance branched into two corridors. One that obviously led to the backstage crew areas. From the harried people going back and forth through that corridor, he could see caterers, what looked like technicians, security, and back-up performers and even one or two guest performers.

He headed through the corridor leading to the stage and the audience seats first. He wanted to get a look at the stage and its setup. It was no challenge finding the well-marked paths to various seats. He made his way to the seats where most of the crowd was trying to claim, as it was facing the front of the stage.

47 took his seat and began to examine his surroundings. At the stage in front of him, musical amateurs performed their hearts out for the opportunity to gather an audience of their own.

"Taking in the sights, 47?" Diana asked. "What are you thinking?" She knew 47 well enough to not expect an answer.

While the stage itself was mostly barren, 47 could see how the amateur band's equipment was set for a full live performance and plenty of space for the performers to move around.

He took note of the seven metal struts that acted as pillars around the stage, supporting the overhead rigs that held the lighting and overhanging giant speakers to project the music and voices of the performers clear across the entire stadium.

47 had done his research. He had studied the layout of the stadium. He knew that there were numerous offices, changing rooms for performers, and even luxury suites if performers wanted to stay in the stadium itself. Otherwise, it would be the managers, staff, and entourage to use them so they had less of a commute to get things set up in the stadium.

He scanned the faces of the warm-up band. He didn't recognize any of them and he could tell easily how their nerves betrayed them. This must have been their first big gig.

He noticed a booth high up where he could see people in expensive clothing mingling. He filed the information away for later.

"Can you believe we're here?" a woman said to a man from a few seats away from 47. Her voice was giddy with excitement and when 47 glanced in her direction, he saw that her hands were balled.

"No!" the man said, just as excited. "In just a few minutes, we're gonna see SSF perform live! How many people can say that?"

"Everyone here," the woman pointed out with a grin.

"Yeah yeah."

"Who's your favorite?" the woman asked.

"Hmm," the man hummed. "I know everyone always says Chae-young or In-sik, but I have a soft spot for Lu-dae."

"Lu-dae?"

"Yeah!"

"I wasn't expecting that. Why him?"

"I don't know. I like his style. He's not too loud, but not too quiet. He's like a side character, you know?"

"Sure," the woman answered.

"Excuse me," 47 spoke in perfect Korean and the duo looked at him in surprise. "Do you know when the performance starts?"

"A foreigner who knows our beautiful language?" the woman asked. She grinned. "That's how you know someone is a true fan of SSF."

"Myung," the man chided. She looked at him and shrugged. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to check his screen and said, "About thirty minutes?"

"It's closer to fifty," the woman, Myung, said as she glanced at the man's phone.

"Let's meet in the middle and say forty-five," the man amended, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

"Thank you," 47 said. He bowed his head.

"You're a fan of SSF?" the man asked. "I didn't know our music was so popular outside of Korea."

"He's lying," Myung said with a smug smirk. "He knows, he just wants a foreigner to say it."

47 ignored them. It wasn't useful intel. He looked skyward at the girders that ran from one side of the ceiling to the other. Speakers and lights hung from them.

He already had a plan for eliminating Mo. The Ha-yun berries provided by the Park family had given him it. He had already extracted the fibres and placed them in a small sealable plastic bag. 47 had made sure to prepare it long before he approached the stadium. The only thing he needed to figure out was how to pour it into Mo's drink.

Ping, however, would take a more intricate plan.

47 stood up, brushing past a group of people who came to sit down.

"Look what you did, Gyung-hi! You scared him off!" 47 heard Myung complain.

"I do believe you garnered yourself another fan, 47," Diana quipped rather uncharacteristically in his ear.

That prompted him to take a glance from his peripherals and noted that Myung was still looking wistfully at him. He turned his head away and focused on making his way back towards the branch of corridors.

People were gathered in front of food stands as they sought out snacks and meals for the concert. Patrolling security, dressed in white uniforms and blue caps, were in pairs with men in grey suits with a black dress shirts. The former always seemed nervous.

The mob security was not subtle. Their faces were steeled and vicious. As they walked past 47, he saw how the crowd moved around them. Was it a show of power?

47 waded through the crowd of people, past further stalls selling SSF merchandise. He noticed someone fishing money out of their pockets desperately for a hoodie with the autographs of every member of the SSF written on it.

A man moved in front of a cartoonish mascot of Mo Chae-young. "You don't understand," the man said to the mascot. "I will pay you for that outfit!"

The mascot tried to move past the man, but he pushed them back. Beneath the mascot, someone grunted at the force.

"Please!" the man said. "I'll do anything!" He leaned close. "Anything!" he emphasized.

"Sir," a security guard said as he approached. "Leave the mascot alone or we'll have to ask you to leave." Beside him, the mob guard stared at the man, bored.

The man looked between the guards and the mascot and 47 could see how his desire for the costume battled against his fear of being kicked out. Finally, the fear won out and he retreated from the guards and the mascot. "Sorry," he said, before quickly disappearing into the crowd.

The mob guard sniffed. "It's going to be a long night," he remarked.

47 moved on. The people here were desperate for anything related to Mo Chae-young. Perhaps he could find a way to use that to his advantage.

He turned around a corner and through the crowd, he saw an out of place, slightly harried, very well dressed man. He carried himself with the air of someone important, or at least self-important. The man wore an expensive suit, far from the attire of the majority of the people that had come for the concert. A flash of gold drew 47's gaze to the man's jacket pocket where he caught a glimpse of a golden card.

47 changed his approach and pushed through the crowd towards the man.

The man looked for signs on the stone columns that supported the stadium. With every sign he looked over, the more frustrated he seemed to become. He didn't notice 47 until they bumped into each other. The man was pushed to the side roughly and 47 twisted on his feet, catching himself easily.

"Hey!" the man said. His tone gave his anger away, although he tried to hide it. "Watch where you're going!" he admonished.

47 drew on an apologetic look. "Sorry, sir," he responded. And he really did look it. "How clumsy of me."

The man scoffed. "Yes. Extremely. Idiot."

47 looked downward in an expression of sheepishness and regret.

"Foreigners," the man scoffed again, before turning on his heel to resume his journey through the stadium.

When the man was gone, 47 turned around to continue on his own way. He pulled the golden card out of his pocket and looked it over, quickly viewing its contents.

An invitation to the VIP area.

47 slipped the card back into his pocket and slowly rotated himself around to go back the way he had come. When he saw the guards that had warned the man harassing the mascot, he made his approach.

The mob guard raised an eyebrow as 47 neared them. "Can we help you?" he asked.

Without a word, 47 showed the VIP card.

The mob guard straightened up. "Oh, of course, sir! Follow me!"

---

Mo was lounging on the curved super-long sofa, able to accommodate about ten people comfortably, with her left hand interlocked with Ping's. The room was large, with several tables lined with fingers foods and beverages of all varieties. Aside from the sofa she was sitting on, several more were strategically arranged with decorative potted plants and curving coffee tables to create an artistic positioning and colors reminiscent of the South Korean flag.

It was a pre-concert party for the rich and famous. A meeting of the elites, if one liked to be fancy.

The reality, however, was far more dull. It was just a hangout for spoiled rich kids and thirty-somethings approaching a mid-life crisis.

There was a champagne with Mo's name on it, and she was going to have a whole bottle to herself. She knew Ping often contemplated drinking himself to death, and Mo briefly entertained an image of Ping tied up, with a funnel taped to his mouth. She'd pinch his nose and pour the bottle down the funnel, drowning him in champagne.

That brought a coy smile to her lips. One of the partygoers looked at her in admiration, and her smile brightened a notch.

If only they knew. But they were just a bunch of maggots. Even Ping.

Especially In-sik.

Speaking of, Ping turned his eyes to her, and gave her a small smile, before resuming a hushed conversation with Kang Ye-sung, who was eagerly talking about the upcoming performance.

Mo dearly wished to be done with it, but she needed a drink of her own first.

That stupid Seo and those questions about Ha-yun threw her for a loop that both she and In-sik nearly dropped out there. Well, mostly In-sik.

She entertained some creative ways which she would like Seo to be punished with. It was fast fantasies at first. Dropping in from fifty feet right into a wood chipper. Then growing positively more sadistic, and slower, ensuring pure agony that would be dragged out first in hours, then she decided days of screaming in purest pain would be the best.

How sweet she'd make the pain. The Bronze Bull was an inspired thought. Where he would be slowly cooked alive and unable to escape the burning pain.

"Ms. Mo?" a female voice said, and Mo turned to look into the eyes of Heidi Santoro.

Trying to still her heart and ignoring the slight throb she felt at the sight of her current desire, Mo Chae-young for once wished she could clear the room and have her way with Heidi. Hang In-sik and the world's thoughts.

"Yes, Ms. Santoro?" Mo replied in a thickly accented English.

"Oh, do please just call me Heidi," she said politely. Mo privately admitted she loved Heidi's accent.

"Then, please call me Chae-young."

Heidi smiled. "Thank you," she said, "I was wondering, would you and Mr. Ping be performing together tonight?"

The way Heidi smiled at her made Mo's heart do flip-flops. The reminder of Ping made her chest throb with heartache. "Of course," she said, offering Heidi a smile of her own. "We always do."

Heidi nodded. "I don't listen to Korean music often," she admitted, "but yours has a way of drawing me in. It's made me pick up studying Korean. A challenge, but one I'm willing to undertake."

Mo felt her heart jump to her throat. "That is incredibly admirable," she gushed. And for once, she meant it. She paused as she glanced at her hand interlocked with Ping's. "Would you like to collaborate?"

Heidi's eyes went wide. "Collaborate?" she repeated in surprise. "You want to collaborate with us?"

Mo looked past Heidi at her companions. Quentin Moriarty stood at the bar, chatting to one of Mo's back-up dancers. She looked enraptured by whatever it was he had to say. At the other end of the room was Jordan Cross talking in low tones with his girlfriend, Hannah Highmoore.

No, Mo thought, just you. "Yes," she said instead. "You, Cross, and Moriarty. You call yourselves the Class, yes?"

"That's right," Heidi confirmed. She looked pleased that Mo knew the name of the band she was a part of. "You've heard of us?"

"Of course," Mo said. She wished Heidi's pleased look would never stop being directed at her. Mo savored the moment. "I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't."

Heidi's face twisted in shock. "You invited us?" she asked. She dropped her voice to a more quiet tone and said, "Truth be told, I thought Jordan's father got us them."

Mo felt her smile widen. She tapped the person next to her - a rapper called Jegal Im-soo - to get him to move. As soon as he stood up, Mo gestured for Heidi to sit down.

She joined Mo at her side, and despite the reminder of Ping's presence by their conjoined hands, Mo felt as pleased as she could possibly feel in that moment.

Mo had invited numerous people as VIPs, but the only one that she wanted to actively spend time with was Heidi Santoro. "No. Just me," she told Heidi, twisting herself slightly to get a better look at her. She really was beautiful. Mascara gathered around her eyes. Her red hair tucked beneath her brimmed hat. Black leather jacket that hugged her form. Plaid skirt that dropped just above her knees, where the rest of her legs were covered in black leggings.

Before Heidi could speak, however, a bald foreigner entered the booth. Mo furrowed her brow. She didn't recognize him.

"I think it's time we mingle," Ping suggested. He stood up and his hand disconnected from Mo's.

Fury built in Mo's chest. Ping knew how much she wanted this. It was so obvious that what he had just done was on purpose.

"Good idea," Mo said, standing up as well. She looked at Heidi. "I'll be back soon. Do make yourself comfortable."

Heidi offered a smile and pulled out her phone. She missed Mo's lingering look before she walked away.

Across the room, 47 leaned on one of the tables, his eyes fixated on Mo Chae-young.

She looked as though she hadn't stepped out in the sun in months. There was not a blemish on her porcelain skin. Around both of her eyes was light pink eyeshadow, and her left eyebrow completely shaved off. Her short black hair had been gelled and stylized, enough so that the light just barely gleamed off of it. Her black dress pants matched well with her corset, which she wore over a white button-up shirt that emphasized her curves.

"That is Mo Chae-young," Diana introduced through the earpiece. "Acclaimed pop star and murderer. She may not look it, but she kills just as easily as she sings."

47 regarded the smiling petite woman that was approaching. She was giving him a charming smile, which he returned with a false smile of his own. His reaction seemed to please her, who changed her approach slightly, seemingly turning to what was perhaps an attempt to be more alluring.

Mo put her arms on the table between herself and 47. "I know everyone here except you," she said. Friendliness exuded from her every word, but her eyes gave her away. She was skeptical.

47 bowed his head. "Joshua Kilgrave," he said, introducing himself. "In-sik invited me."

Mo's eyes slid away from 47 to Ping, who conversed with another man who relaxed on one of the couches. "Did he?" she asked. 47 could see her fury just beneath the surface.

47 looked away from Mo to Ping. He saw that Ping had metallic blue dye around the tips of his hair, with the front locks streaked in chrome silver. At present, he was wearing a comfortable pair of black pants, a metallic grey shirt and a black jacket designed to look like a suit jacket but made of softer, more flexible material. His posture was disguised as casual, but 47 could see that he wanted to be anywhere but here. Just like Mo, but with different reasons.

"That is Ping In-sik," Diana introduced. "Co-founder of SSF and son of one of Korea's most notorious mobsters. He only rivals his partner in terms of sheer personality."

Having gotten a close look at his targets, he now needed to find out how and when Mo would imbibe any drink. It stood to reason she wouldn't partake of any alcoholic beverages now, before the concert. Stress or temptation would be the only way, most likely, but given her rigid stature and ability to put on an act, she likely had the necessary discipline to resist temptations.

Stress, then.

"Care for a drink?" 47 tried. "My treat."

Mo looked back at him. "I can't," she answered sweetly. "I never drink before a show," she shared.

47 allowed a moment of pause to 'process' the information, and then he nodded and said, "After, then, maybe."

Mo smiled. "We'll see," she said. She tilted her head down and looked at 47 through her lashes in an attempt to look cute. "In-sik?" she called. She looked away from 47 and smiled at Ping. He turned away from his conversation to look questioningly at her. "We should get ready for the show."

Ping nodded. He cast a look around at the VIPs. "We'll return when the show is over," he announced. He bowed.

Mo moved across the room and interlocked her fingers with Ping's. With one more glance at Heidi, Mo and Ping left the booth, their march in perfect sync.

47 didn't move for a moment, surveying the VIP area. Each person here had been personally invited by Mo and Ping, it seemed. He knew a portion of them at a glance. Their fame preceded them.

But they were not the reason that he was here. After a lengthy pause, 47 retreated back the way he had come, with no one paying him any mind, as they had plenty of amenities to occupy them, or each other. He went down a short flight of stairs, past two men guarding the entrance of the VIP area. In front of them was a frenzied looking woman.

"I can pay!" she insisted. "I won't even be up there for long! Just for a moment! Just so I can meet Chae-young and In-sik!"

"And we've told you before that we're not letting you in," one of the guards said. He dusted off his grey blazer as he stared at the woman.

47 walked past the guards, who barely regarded him as he passed. The woman, however, donned a hopeful appearance.

"Sir!" she called fervently. "Can you bring me up there? I'll be quick! I promise!"

47 paid her no mind, brushing past her and slipping into the long corridor that went around the entirety of the stadium. Large crowds milled around and he could hear the consistent chatter about which member of SSF was their favourite, or which album they preferred. The staff working at the stands for memorabilia or food had a monotonous expression on their faces as they attended to orders, questions and dialogue from those standing in lines.

"Fine," the woman said, disappointed. "Dick," she muttered.

47 moved carefully-yet-unobtrusively through the crowd, keeping his head slightly lowered, as if moving towards a destination he knew well. While doing so, he studied the cameras lining the walls around every corner. Most were concentrated in the public sections, but it was the ones in restricted areas that he was interested in. They were likely to be in corners, preventing blind spots, and would restrict his mobility under such scrutiny.

There was an advantage with the large crowds, however, which enabled him to slip between the cracks with proper timing.

Just ahead, he saw a mascot tailored to resemble a cartoon version of Mo in her signature dress. The costume consisted of a bulky headpiece that mimicked Mo's features; the shaved eyebrow, pink eyeshadow, and black gelled hair. Her eyes were designed to have a wide expression with glitter in the pupils. A cheerful smile welcomed everyone close.

The outfit was her most popular one; a double-layered shiny white dress with a pearlescent rainbow-hue. The translucent outer layer flowed down to the ankles, whilst the white inner layer ended at the knees. The rest of the mascot's outfit covered the person in a fuzzy cloth that matched Mo's skin tone.

Two teenage girls posed in front of a camera - held by whomever 47 presumed was their father - as the mascot held two fingers between one of their masked eyes.

As soon as the father lowered the camera, the girls turned around to face the mascot, who raised their hands to give both girls a high-five.

47 unobtrusively moved to lean against the walls, separating himself from the moving crowds. His gaze remained fixated on the mascot as the teenage girls finally left them to go with their father. 47 trailed casually after the mascot, carefully watching how they moved.

The mascot clapped their hands together, then turned to continue walking down the corridor. They didn't notice that 47 followed them from a distance.

He glanced at each door that he passed, noting how each of them had a sign that read 'Staff Only'. They either had a member of security standing at the door or a keycard scanner. Either way, 47 would be unable to get inside without some maneuvering.

Ahead of him, the mascot stopped repeatedly for people to take pictures with them. And when they were done, the mascot continued on their way, bobbing their head from side to side and an eager pace of their steps.

Finally, the mascot reached a door and pushed through it. There was no keycard or guard standing beside it. 47 looked at the sign on the door before he headed inside, and it read, 'Men's Restroom'.

As soon as the door shut behind 47, the cacophony of noise that came from the stadium became muted. The only sound he heard was his own steps on the tiled floor and one of the stalls doors shutting.

47 gave the place a quick once-over. White tiled walls with a grey tiled floor. An island in the middle of the room had seven sinks in a row, with a long mirror in front of them. 47 had no doubt that the other side of the island was much the same. On the far side of the room were the urinals, presently unoccupied, and a door with a keycard reader. Each stall was blocked by a white door. There was no room for anyone to see beneath the stalls, 47 noted.

Other than the mascot that 47 knew was in a stall, the only other occupants were two men who stood by the sinks. 47 made his way over to one of the faucets so as to blend in. He turned it on and ran his hands under the running water.

"Did you see the security guys out there?" one of the men asked his companion as he leaned on the wall beside the sinks. His friend, just like 47, ran his hands beneath the running water.

"Yeah," the other man replied. "They looked menacing. I looked at one of them and I thought he was gonna punch me," he confessed.

"The ones in grey, right?"

"Obviously." He dispensed some soap into his hands. "Even their partners looked afraid of them."

"Why do you think they're dressed differently?" the first man asked. He pushed himself off the wall.

"I'm not sure." A beat. "Do you remember that rumor about Ping In-sik being connected to the mob?"

The first man shoved his friend slightly. "Don't even joke about that!"

The second man snickered. He reoriented himself and pulled paper towels out of a dispenser to dry his hands. "They're probably just added security for SSF. I'd want some if I were them. Did you see San Sae-hyeon's post about her fan mail? Some deranged stuff in there…"

The two men left for the exit as they talked. After a moment, 47 followed after, and pushed the door shut, twisting the locking mechanism.

He tested the handle. It didn't budge. Without another sound, 47 moved away.

He walked into the empty stall next to the one that he saw the mascot go into. And then he waited.

A minute passed.

Then a second.

Halfway through the third, 47 heard the door open and he crept out of his stall. The mascot had his headpiece tucked under his arm, and his head turned down at the floor.

47 leapt into action. He glided over the tiled floor and when he reached the mascot, he grabbed the man from around the throat, pulling him into a sleeper hold. The headpiece fell to the ground and the man's arms flung to 47's arms in an attempt to pry himself free.

When ten seconds passed by, the man slumped to the floor, unconscious. 47 wasted no time. He grabbed the headpiece in one hand and took the mascot's arm in his other. Then, he dragged him back into the stall.

He undressed the man of the mascot costume, leaving him in his underclothes. A t-shirt and jeans. 47 searched his pockets and pulled out a keycard and a flask. He brought his flask to his nose and sniffed. Alcoholic.

47 lifted the lid off the toilet and dumped the alcohol inside, then pressed the button to flush. He lowered the lid and propped the man on the toilet, and slid the empty flask into his hand.

The man looked as though he had fallen unconscious in a drunken stupor. If anyone were to stumble upon him, that was what they would think, as well.

From there, 47 pulled the costume on. Before he stepped out of the stall he put the headpiece on. His vision was limited but it took only a few seconds for him to adjust.

He shut the door behind him and walked to the exit at the back of the restroom. He put the keycard in the scanner and pulled downward. A light on the scanner blinked green and 47 entered through the door.

The people on the other side only spared him a glance as he started through the restricted area.

---

Ping stared at the man reflected in the mirror. He hated so much what he saw. It was all just a symbol of what a pawn he was to Mo.

As his stylists helped him into his white suit jacket, Ping wondered when it would end. When would Mo grow tired enough of him to let him go? Or would he forever be stuck to be her servant until SSF dried up?

Mo couldn't stay his family's cash cow forever. Sooner or later, her fame would dry up and she would have to move onto other ventures.

But until that day, Ping was stuck. And as he stared at the mirror, he hated how couldn't recognize himself. He wished that he could take the scissors off the desk and cut the chrome dye from his hair. It had been Mo's idea. Just like the outfit he was forced to wear was her idea.

White suit jacket. White dress pants. A black button-up shirt with a flowing white pattern that Ping didn't know what was supposed to be. His shirt opened up halfway up his torso. It was Mo's idea to have him show off his pectoral muscles.

Funny. Considering that she's a dy-

The sound of Ping's phone ringing cut that thought off. He ignored how one of his stylists ran gel through his hair in an effort to pull it upward and pulled his phone from his pocket. He sighed at the sight.

'Father' the caller ID read.

"Out," Ping called.

The four stylists looked at Ping in the mirror, each with a questioning look. They all wore burgundy shirts and dark blue jeans, with a black bag wrapped around their waists where they kept their supplies. On their shirt was their logo: a white pyramid split down the middle; one of their longtime sponsors, a couture brand by the name of Sanguine.

"Mr. Ping?" one of them asked, confused.

"Please leave now," Ping said impatiently. He looked up at them in the mirror.

Unlike Mo's dressing room, Ping had made no modifications. He had no plans to do any interviews and so he saw no point in changing the color of his surroundings. Velvet walls that were much like the couches. But other than that, there were no other differences.

"Of course, sir. Sorry, sir," one of the women said. She bowed and made for the exit, guarded on either side by men in grey.

The guards stepped aside to open the door and the stylists left one after another until the only people left were Ping and his two guards.

For a moment longer, Ping didn't move. He stared at himself in the mirror for a few more seconds before finally, he grasped his phone and answered.

"Mr. Moon?" he asked.

"Are you alone?" The rough voice of his father made Ping curl his hand into a fist.

"Yes."

"Then you will refer to me as your father," he demanded. "Just because your family name is different from mine does not mean you are any less my son."

Ping grimaced. His nails dug into his palm. "Yes, father."

His father made a noise of satisfaction. "How is my son today? You have a big show tonight."

Ping nodded to himself and he said, "I do. We start in twenty."

"And how is Chae-young?"

Ping's nails dug just a little bit deeper into his hand. "Mo is about to give all of this up," he said, hissing through his speech. "She was flirting with a girl today. A girl!"

"I am aware of Chae-young's preferences," Moon scolded. His voice took on a dangerous tone that set Ping's teeth on edge. "Even after all this time, you're still acting like a little boy. Jealous that she won't shower you with attention."

"That is not-" Ping started to snap.

"Do not take that tone with me, In-sik!" Moon interrupted. "I called you tonight to celebrate your victory with you."

Ping's nails broke the skin of his palm. "No, you're not. What do you want, father?"

"Your brother is in Mr. Kristo's care," Moon said.

Ping stilled. Everything went silent all at once. His brother…barely a boy. Why would Moon do that? Why would…how could he…

"Besnik Kristo?" Ping questioned. As though his father could have referred to anyone else. He knew the answer long before his father confirmed it.

"Yes. Besnik Kristo," Moon confirmed.

Ping swallowed. "Why? He's just a boy. You hand him over so freely to a damned human trafficker!?" His voice grew louder and more furious with every word.

"You might be my son, In-sik," Moon said severely, "but let this be a lesson that I am not afraid to discipline if you step a toe out of line."

Ping pulled his nails from his palm. He ignored the bloody marks he'd left behind. "Did Mo put you up to this? Did she tell you how I was faltering? If either of us were to falter first, it would be her! She's willing to-"

"Enough, In-sik!"

And despite it all, Ping still quieted when his father spoke.

"I will not tolerate any of these words spoken about Chae-young when she is unable to defend herself," Moon spoke slowly. "She's more of a son to me than you ever were."

Ping pinched his lips together. Silently, he seethed. He punched the hang-up button, ending their call. Then he threw it lightly atop the desk in front of him.

Fuck. You.

There were so many things that he wanted to do. As he eyed the scissors beside his phone, he decided he could do at least one of them.

Without any hesitation, Ping grabbed the scissors, took the dyed sections of his hair and started snipping away. From the reflection, he saw the wide-eyed stares from his guards as he went to work. He didn't care if it ended with his hair in uneven patches. At least Mo's mark of control would be gone. Ping watched as, bit by bit, the chrome-tipped ends of his hair was chopped off and drifted down onto the desk in front of him.

He turned his head this way and that, making sure that the specks of chrome were gone. Nobody would be able to tell his hair was uneven from how his staff stylized it. And even if they did, it could be dismissed as a fashion choice.

Dusting off the strands of chrome from his shoulders, he stood up. Ping smirked in satisfaction. Mo is going to be pissed, he thought.

Ping grabbed a towel to wipe down his shoulders and front for any stray strands, then turned around to face the door. Without speaking a word to his guards, he left his dressing room into the hallway.

Mo had demanded that they go through a rehearsal for the first number. The dancers somehow still struggled with it, even if the audience could never tell. It was one of the few things that he agreed with Mo on.

His guards fell into line behind him. They might have been his security, but Ping would rather they weren't connected to his family. He would have preferred hiring security from CICADA instead.

"Let me go again! Please!" someone begged from a room farther along the hallway.

"Do you have anything else to bet?" someone else asked.

Ping rolled his eyes. Gambling. He shouldn't have been surprised. He could make out an argument being made, but muted out the words being said. As he walked past a doorway, he saw a technician slumped in a chair in one of the stadium's break rooms. Three guards sat next to each other with grins splitting their faces. On the table between them was a pile of won and numbered cards.

Ping sneered. These people are pathetic, he thought. So greedy and willing to throw their money away in a futile attempt to make more. He scoffed and moved ahead until he reached the end of the corridor.

It wasn't long before he reached the rehearsal room. Designed to mimic the stage well enough so that there were no errors made during the actual performance. Ping saw all of the dancers, and with her back turned to him, wearing her dress, was Mo.

Privately, Ping admitted that she was beautiful. It was a shame that that beauty was attached to such a reprehensible person.

"Did I say that you could look at me?" Mo berated one of the staff members. A young woman in a catering uniform.

"N-No, Ms. Mo," the caterer said nervously. She dropped her gaze to her feet.

"Did I say that you could call me by my name?" Mo sneered at her.

"N-N-No, ma-ma'am," the caterer stuttered. She looked like she was on the verge of tears.

"Out of my sight," Mo demanded, and the caterer took off without a word. Mo put her hands on her hips and turned toward the dancers. "This is pathetic," she said. "Your inability to copy simple choreography is baffling. You've had months to perfect this and you can't do it."

The dancers clasped their hands together and, just like the caterer, gazed down at their feet. Lest they earn more ire from Mo. None of them noticed Ping's arrival, and so no one noticed as he watched Mo tear into them.

"You people want to be a part of SSF, then you have to earn it," Mo sneered. "The only one of you worth my respect is Sae-hyeon," she said, pacing back and forth. But even with the compliment, Ping saw how Sae-hyeon didn't look up. "At least she's capable. But the rest of you? Get this right and maybe you'll have a future in this industry." She stopped pacing. "One whisper from between my lips and your careers are over."

The dancers finally looked up, where they spotted Ping behind Mo. Their eyes went wide and Mo turned to follow their line of sight. When she saw Ping, fury etched into her face.

"What have you done?" she asked, her voice a hiss of anger.

"I thought it was time for a branding change," Ping said with a smug smirk. He tilted his head to show off his hair. "What do you think?"

"You moron." Mo seethed. She squeezed and released her fists over and over again. "You've just ruined billions in merchandising! You-"

"Please," Ping interrupted with a roll of his eyes. He lowered his voice. "This is all people are going to talk about now. No mention of Ha-yun. No mention of the Parks."

"Oh?" Mo asked, raising her single eyebrow. "You did this for my benefit? How noble of you, In-sik," she mocked. She shoved him roughly and as Ping staggered, she wrapped one hand around his throat.

Ping's heart dropped into his stomach. He didn't dare move. And when he glanced at his guards, none of them bothered to step in.

Mo grinned. "Look at your eyes, searching for an escape," she said. "So reminiscent of Ha-yun."

Ping stared at her, swallowing nervously. He didn't want to speak for fear of angering Mo further.

"You're an idiot, In-sik," Mo-said, her grin fading into a snarl. "Were you so stupid to forget our conversation? To forget that the woman you're stuck with…" She leaned forward to hiss into his ear, "killed Park Ha-yun?"

Mo pushed him away, releasing her grip on his neck. With one last look at him, she walked to join the dancers in the middle of the room. She took her spot at the center of the LED panel flooring.

Ping let out a breath. How he hated her. Slowly, he walked to his position beside her on the LED paneling, and his mind strayed as Mo started the rehearsal. What had Mo done to earn such care from Moon? That bastard has never cared for anyone in his life, Ping thought. No one but Mo.

A single promise settled in his mind. He needed to escape before Mo did to him what she did to Park.

Nobody noticed the bald technician watching the rehearsal from a corner in the room. Nobody saw how he carefully watched each of Ping's movements. And nobody suspected how he filed away each movement in his mind.

When the number finished, dancers struck a pose. They looked hopefully at Mo, who merely returned their look with one of mounting frustration. "Again," she said.

Without a word of complaint, the dancers moved into position, and the rehearsal began again.

Agent 47 turned around and went back out the door he had come through. He walked past a snack bar covered by a white cloth and carefully nudged the hand of an unconscious technician beneath it.

The technician outfit 47 had stolen was simple. Black jeans with a black hoodie, with the word 'Crew' in Korean written on the front and back in white. A tool belt had gone around his waist that held a multitude of useful items. However, the one that 47 thought most important, a screwdriver, was absent.

Next to the table was the discarded mascot uniform, and 47 nudged it underneath the table to join the unconscious technician.

47 made his way down the hallway, pausing only to look into a break room where guards had a pile of money on a table between them. One of them cackled as they held their arms out and pulled the money toward himself.

But that wasn't what 47 was interested in.

One of the guards twirled a lanyard around his finger. A keycard that 47 could see was different from his own by color alone.

He looked at the door and raised a questioning eyebrow at 47. "What do you want, baldie?" he asked, and his friends laughed.

"Nothing," 47 said. "Just looking."

The guard stood up, placing one hand on the table. "Go look somewhere else."

"Yeah. Go be a good boy and tinker with your electronics," another guard said.

47 stepped into the room. "What are you playing?" he asked.

The second guard scoffed. "Are you deaf? Go away!"

"Be nice, boys," the third and final guard spoke. He looked at 47 with a mean smile. "Are you here to lose, too?"

47 eyed the table. Cards and won were in the middle. The 'pot', he supposed. He walked closer to the center of the room, taking the opportunity to glance at the keycard around the neck of the first guard. 'Master Keycard' the letters read.

"We're playing Blackjack," the third guard said. He crossed his legs. "Do you know how to play?" He smirked. "Do you have enough to buy in?"

47 turned toward the third guard. The keycard would be useful in his possession. It would grant him access to the entire stadium. He was limited in mobility without it, but getting around without it would not be impossible.

"I'll be back," 47 said and he turned around to resume his walk through the hallway.

One of the guards said, "I'll bet you he doesn't return."

"You're on!"

47 resumed his pace through the hallway, navigating easily through each corridor. Each guard he walked past paid him no mind. He glanced at a clock as he passed it. Fifteen minutes, he noted.

He spotted a sign beside a door and he entered through as he reached. Just as it promised, on the other side was a storage room. There were lockers on one side of the room. Ones that, 47 noted, were large enough to hide two bodies in. The rest of the room was mostly made of shelves with an inordinate amount of supplies lying on them.

A guard in grey looked up at 47 as he entered. The guard was slouched in a chair and sighed. He was fighting the urge to sleep, 47 saw, as his eyes briefly shut, then opened again.

Opposite of the guard was a woman and man dressed in a catering uniform. They examined the shelves for something and 47 quietly moved past them to the back of the room. A small tech station sat in the back corner. Bottles of water laid on top of the table, beside a toolbox with a portion of its items strewn about.

"Should we play rock, paper, scissors to decide?" the man asked his companion. Stress seeped from his voice and he touched a hand to the back of his neck.

"No, I learned my lesson playing that with you," the woman said in return. "You're such a sore loser."

"As if you're not," the man said while the woman circled around one of the shelves. The man spoke to her from between the bars and through the items. "I don't think I can take another yell from her," he moped.

The woman looked at him with something akin to disgust. "And you think I can?" she asked incredulously.

The man sighed. "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant. I just…" He trailed off.

47 eavesdropped silently. He didn't make a noise so as to not spook them. His fingers drew invisible patterns over the tech station table, as though searching for something. His gaze, however, was glued to the screwdriver in the toolbox.

"I know," the woman said comfortingly. "I don't feel like getting yelled at either. But look on the bright side!" she added with a grin. "After tonight, we won't have to see Mo again for who knows how long!"

The man let out a short laugh. "Yeah. Until next time SSF performs, right?"

"You really plan on staying here for that long?" the woman asked. "Ah, here it is," she remarked, pulling a bottle of champagne from a box. She cast a glance at the sleeping guard, and opened the bottle.

"Speaking of, if Mo gets stressed…" the man said. He looked hungrily from the woman to the bottle as she took a long sip.

When she pulled the bottle away from her lips, the woman said, "If Mo can get served when she's stressed, then so can we!"

That confirmed 47's theory. Mo would call for a drink if she were stressed enough. Causing that stress would be easy enough.

He grabbed the screwdriver and went to leave. His movement startled the two caterers who looked at him with wide, fearful eyes.

"Oh, I didn't s-see you there…" the man remarked nervously. 47 saw how his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

The woman's hand curled around the neck of the champagne bottle. "You…uh, you won't tell anyone about this, will you?" she asked. There was fear in her eyes.

"They'll fire us if you tell them," the man added, nodding to himself rapidly. "This is all we've got right now. Please…"

47 looked between the two of them. Were they afraid of Mo or were they afraid of the fallout that could happen? Worry broke out on their faces the longer that he remained silent, and he finally simply said, "No, I won't."

Relief replaced worry and the woman sighed. "Thank you!" she said. "Thank you so much!"

47 didn't say another word. He walked past them and the sleeping guard, disappearing out of the room. He slid the screwdriver into place on his belt.

"Fascinating," Diana said. "It seems that the staff working under Mo are among the few people afraid of her."

"A negative comment from someone like her is enough to destroy careers," 47 said as he mirrored his previously taken steps, navigating back in the direction of the rehearsal room.

"Indeed," Diana agreed. "Well, as it is, it seems you've found a way to have Mo ingest the client's special request."

47 said nothing more. He passed the break room, and he could feel the guards' eyes on him as he went by.

It didn't take long before he returned to the snack bar and crouched down beside it. Swiftly, he pulled the cloth to the side, then went through the unconscious technician's wallet. He emptied it of won before tossing the wallet underneath the table and let the cloth drop.

47 flipped through the won, scanning through the amount he had. It was enough to cover the buy in, with a small amount left over.

He stood up and made his way back to the break room.

---

Hwan felt good. He hadn't been on a winning streak like this in years. And even if the stakes weren't too high, and the opponents were his friends, it couldn't beat that simple fact. He grabbed another stack of won and drew it towards himself.

He grinned at the sulking faces of Dan-woo and Ido. "What's wrong?" Hwan asked. He held up a wad of won. "Jealous."

"Rub it in," Ido said. He eyed the won enviously. "Your luck will run out sooner or later."

Dan-woo grunted in agreement and tapped his own won against the table. He seemed to be silently debating whether to continue or not.

"My luck doesn't need to run out," Hwan gloated. "Just need you to give up first."

"Yeah?" Dan-woo asked. He laid his money on the table. "You're buying dinner."

Hwan grinned. "Don't get ahead of yourselves," he said. He held out his hand for their cards back.

"We should change games," Ido said as he handed the cards back. "Something that prevents you from cheating."

Hwan's grin grew. He shuffled the cards together skillfully. "You wouldn't be saying that if you were winning."

"Damn right I wouldn't," Ido agreed.

"How about…" Dan-woo started, but stopped as someone new entered the break room. It was the same bald technician from earlier. His expression remained as severe as it was from last time Hwan saw him.

Hwan's smile dimmed slightly. He really did not want to play against him. He didn't want to develop new tactics for a new person and he certainly didn't want to take the time to learn what his tells were.

Dan-woo cursed. He reached into his pocket and handed a smirking Ido a small amount of won.

"You here to play, baldie?" Hwan asked. "Or just to watch?"

"I'm here to play," the stranger said. He sat down in the empty chair closest to Hwan and looked right at him. "I play to win."

Hwan frowned. The pleasant buzz that flowed through him ever since his winning streak started dissipated. "Yeah? So do we."

"Do you have enough to buy in?" Ido asked. It was the second time he had asked and his smirk told Hwan of his amusement and satisfaction.

The stranger produced a neat wad of won and placed it in front of himself. He looked at Ido. "Does that suffice?" he questioned.

Ido's smirk grew and Hwan's frown became deeper. "It is. Welcome to the game."

The stranger sat back in his seat. Almost relaxed, by Hwan's trained eye. He might have liked to gamble, but he was where he was for a reason. And that reason was simple: he was good at his job.

Hwan let out a near silent sigh and flung two cards to each person. The stranger glanced briefly at his. A three of spades and a ten of clovers. Not a good hand. Hwan's grin returned.

"How do you know Korean so well?" Dan-woo asked as he collected his own cards. His lip quirked upward when he saw what he had. On the other side of the table, Ido's brow furrowed in annoyance.

"I get around," the stranger said simply. "Adapting is part of the craft?"

"Really?" Dan-woo asked in surprise. "How long have you been with Ms. Mo?"

"Not long," the stranger said. "I speak from prior experience."

"Ah," Dan-woo said with a nod.

Hwan put his elbow on the table and his palm on his face. Already, Dan-woo had warmed up to the newest arrival. "How much are you betting?" he asked, breaking up further conversation.

"Twenty thousand," Ido said first, planting his money on the table.

Hwan scoffed. "Chump change."

"I'll do the same," Dan-woo said, copying Ido.

Hwan looked expectantly at the stranger. "And you? Mr…"

"Twenty thousand," the stranger said, depositing the money on the table without answering Hwan's second question.

Hwan nodded. He looked at Ido as he put his own two cards face up in front of himself. Seven of hearts and three of diamonds. He resisted the urge to grin.

"Hit me," Ido said.

Hwan drew a card and laid it in front of Ido, who cursed.

"I went over," he said and he pushed his money into a pile in the middle of the table.

Hwan chuckled. "You're next, Dan-woo," he prompted.

Dan-woo examined his cards, tapping his fingers rhythmically as he thought. What will he choose? Hwan wondered. He glanced at the stranger from the corner of his eye, only to find him staring down at his own cards.

"Hit me," Dan-woo said nervously. He bit his lip as Hwan slid a card across the table and flipped it over. "Shit!" Dan-woo cursed.

"Unlucky!" Hwan said. He grabbed Dan-woo's won and moved it into the center of the table. Slowly, he turned his full attention to the stranger. "And now you."

The stranger stared at Hwan with pale blue eyes. For reasons indescribable to Hwan, his nerves began to pick up. The piercing stare of his adversary set him on edge. There was no reason for it. And yet he felt it.

"Hit," the stranger said and Hwan eagerly tossed him his card. A queen of hearts. The stranger's expression failed to give away his thoughts and Hwan could feel his mounting frustration. "I'm out," the stranger said.

Hwan guffawed and he placed his own cards down. Not that they mattered. He had won again! "Sorry, new guy!" he said, not feeling so in the slightest.

"Lucky bastard," Dan-woo muttered. He sighed as he slipped his hand into his pocket to produce another wad of won. "I'll be empty-handed by the time I leave here," he bemoaned.

"Is that your last?" Ido asked as he pulled out his wallet. Just like Dan-woo, he was running low, with only a few wads of won left.

"You can always admit defeat now," Hwan pointed out. Taking his cards back, he shuffled them back into the deck, then reshuffled the stack again. Not that it would help them much. Hwan didn't intend on losing. There was always luck when it came to gambling, but he made sure that the odds of him losing was minimal.

"Yeah. Right," Ido mocked, as though the very idea was ridiculous. He slammed his remaining won on the table. "Give me my cards."

"All in?" Hwan asked with a smirk. You're so easy, he thought. He looked at the stranger, who hadn't moved since his defeat. "That's all you've got, friend," he said. His smile was all teeth. Moving back in his chair slightly, he shifted his suit to show off his sidearm.

A clear threat.

A threat that the stranger took clear notice of. His eyes went to Hwan's weapon, then rose to meet Hwan's gaze evenly.

"All in," the stranger said. He dumped another stack of won on the table. It wasn't a lot, but it was more than both Dan-woo and Ido's bet.

Hwan licked his lips greedily. Dan-woo and Ido watched in interest from the sidelines. "Are you that determined to lose?" Hwan questioned.

"I don't intend on losing," the stranger intoned, his voice even and without inflection.

"You see," Hwan said as he passed two cards out around the table, "gambling needs planning. And if you don't strategize, then you're going to lose."

"I am all about planning," the stranger said. His fingers slipped over the cards in his possession, before laying them on the table for them all to see. An ace of spades and a four of hearts.

Hwan smirked. He glanced at Ido and Dan-woo's hands, but neither of them were any good. His own was fine. Five and three of clovers.

"I think I've just lost all of my money," Dan-woo griped. He threw his cards down on the table and leaned back in his chair.

"You're not the only one," Ido said, grimacing at his own cards. He put them down in front of them and bounced his leg up and down anxiously.

"Ido?" Hwan asked.

Ido stared at his cards in concentration. As though he would come to an epiphany that would solve all of his issues.

The stranger, however, spoke up first, "Are your friends aware of how you mark your cards?"

Hwan's eyes went wide. He could have heard a pin drop.

"What did you say?" Ido said. He looked at the stranger, then at Hwan.

"What are you talking about?" Dan-woo asked, but his eyes were focused not on the stranger, but on Hwan.

Sweat marred Hwan's brow. "Marks?" He scooted back in his chair as his mind was thrown into a whirl. How did- he started to wonder.

"No, he's right," Ido said. He felt along one of his cards before tossing it down and picking up another one. "There are markings on these."

"I assure you, there are not," Hwan protested. He pulled his cards closer to himself instinctively and Dan-woo glared at him.

"That's just our imagination, then?" Dan-woo asked incredulously. "Of course the only way you win is by cheating. Can't win normally, can you?"

"You cheating loser!" Ido said, standing up from his chair. It was as though a dam had shattered. "That's the only reason you've been winning tonight! That must be why you wanted to use your own cards, huh!?"

"Now it makes sense!" Dan-woo said, joining Ido. He grabbed another one of the cards and felt around. Hwan could only watch, helpless as Dan-woo found the mark that Hwan had created with his fingernails. "Give us our money back!"

Hwan shook his head. "You lost! It's mine now!" he said. He shot to his feet and leaned over to grab the won at the center of the table.

But everyone jumped into action at once. Ido and Dan-woo lunged, knocking the table to the side as they latched their hands onto Hwan's body.

"Give it back!"

"Cheater!"

"Get off!"

Nobody paid 47 any mind as he fingered the keycard dangling from Hwan's throat, then pulled it free without any issue. The trio fell into a heap on the floor, their instincts forsaken in place of animalistic rage.

"What else have you been lying about!?" Ido questioned furiously.

47 departed from the room silently, and the argument between the three guards quickly became faded as he went down the hallway. He didn't waste a second when he reached the door to the rehearsal room.

"-gain," Mo said to the dancers. They each rotated back into their initial position and 47 could see how Mo's previous frustration had given way to ecstatic sadism. "Do you know what happens when you're too tired to continue on stage?" she asked.

Across the room, 47 made his way around the perimeter. Nobody batted an eye at the sight of a technician circling the room. He walked casually to the door at one side of the room with a keycard scanner connected to it.

"Your reputation is done," Mo continued. "Nobody will want to take their chances with someone who fucked up their performance on stage," she mocked. She stepped into position beside Ping. "We'll keep going until you get this right or it's time for us to perform."

47 reached the keycard scanner and pulled the master keycard from his pocket, and swiped it through. The light on the machine turned green and 47 pushed the door open.

On the other side was a staircase that led both downward and upward. At the top of the stairs, 47 saw a camera pointed directly at him. He stepped into the stairwell and let the door shut behind him.

The stairwell was quiet, blocking out the sound of the SSF's rehearsal in the next room over. 47 started up the stairs and avoided leaving his gaze to linger on the camera for long.

He went up the flight and didn't fail to notice how there were cameras at the top of each stair. 47 ignored each door he passed until he reached the top floor and moved out of the staircase.

Upon exiting, he found a long curved corridor where he saw a technician disappear around the corner with a guard dressed in grey. On one side of the corridor were empty offices that could be seen through by windows. However, the other side was decorated only by paintings.

47 walked forward, past the office and opened the next door he saw, revealing a restroom on the other side. Occupied by a man and a woman as they made out with one another. The man had his lips attached to the woman's neck and the sound of her moans were interrupted as the door opened.

They looked at their intruder with alarm and 47 recognized the man from the VIP area as the lead singer of the Class: Jordan Cross. The woman, however, was most certainly not Cross' longtime girlfriend, Hannah Highmoore. 47 recognized her as one of the SSF backup dancers.

"Sorry," 47 said flatly, shutting the door in front of them.

"Lock it," Cross told the dancer, his voice muffled through the door. Then, 47 heard the telltale click of a lock.

47 continued on through the corridor, checking each room he came across. Most of them were empty offices, while others held technicians working on all kinds of different equipment.

Eventually, he spotted a sign that read, 'Security' next to one of the rooms. 47 passed over it for the time being.

He opened another door to reveal the top of the stadium. 47 gazed down below, watching as the people down below moved about and got into their seats. The show was going to start soon.

Ahead of him were a series of steel girders and railings that held up further equipment above the stage. It was shrouded in darkness by design. No one was meant to see what was above them.

47 stepped out onto the girder and maneuvered himself forward. He wasn't the only one there. He saw a few technicians doing their final touch ups before the show began, fiddling with lights and cords. One of them plugged two cards together and shot his partner a thumbs-up.

47 looked over the railing to the ground below. Nobody looked twice at him as he went, too focused on their own job and work.

The stage was made of LED panels, divided into squares. 47 had made sure to remember which one Ping would be standing on when the show started. Which panel he would stand on throughout the entirety of the first number.

There were several large speakers arranged by the pylons of each pillar, and there was one right over where Ping would be standing for most of the start of the performance. Though it had not been specified in the contract, Ping's death would be more public, to send a message to his mob family.

No one was untouchable.

He crouched down beside one of the speakers and examined the stage again. Carefully, he lined it up with where the speaker was positioned and 47 got to work.

Taking the screwdriver from his belt, he inserted it into the first screw and twisted. In seconds, the screw loosened and the speaker became moderately loose from its position. 47 swiftly moved onto the next one.

The approaching footsteps of two technicians made him cease. 47 ceased his actions and held the speaker in place, preventing it from moving an inch.

"I can't wait until this show is over," one of the technicians said as he walked past with his co-worker.

"Yeah," the other technician said. "Those new guards have me nervous. I know they're here to protect SSF but how much security do you need?"

"Wasn't one of them threatened?" the first technician said as they reached the door at the end of the girder.

"I think so…" the second one said, before their voices faded as they left.

47 lifted his hand and resumed loosening the screws that connected the speaker to the railing. It strained against the metal and 47 knew that all it would take was a brush to knock it loose.

47 stood, leaving the removed screws where they were on the floor, then walked back the way he came. Retracing his steps until he found the security room, with another keycard scanner beside the door.

He slipped the master keycard into the scanner and cracked the door open far enough that he could peer inside.

Two guards in grey had their backs to the door, with one of them leaning against an island at the center of the room while the other looked out of the window to the stadium below.

The room was lit up by screens and the blinking lights that came from computers. On the island in the center was an assortment of weapons. From batons and pistols to pump-action shotguns and automatic rifles. To the left were lockers and 47 could see how one of them was large enough to hide someone in. The rest, he could see, carried weapons similar to the ones on the table. Next to the window was a machine that 47 recognized as the camera's recording device.

He crept low and ducked into the room, planting himself firmly against the island.

"47, the show is starting," Diana warned him through his earpiece.

"And there they go," the guard closest to the window said. "Without a hitch," he commented.

47 grabbed the baton off the island.

"I just wish something would happen," the guard closer to the island said. He propped his elbow and rested his face in his hand. "It's been so boring!"

47 acted.

He darted out of the corner and struck decisively, landing a blow with the baton to the back of the first guard's head. The man was unconscious before he slumped to the ground. Before the man's collapse could alert the second guard, 47 hurled the baton at him, watching it connect violently between the man's head and neck from behind, and he fell face-first onto the station desk, before slipping off the chair to join his companion.

In mere seconds, both of them were unconscious.

47 approached the computer that operated the camera footage, glancing out through the window to the stage below. He saw as the stage formed a pyramid made from the LED panels. Each layer was a different color. The bottom layer was red, and six dancers stood, frozen in a pose atop them. Then the next layer was violet, with four dancers. And on the final one, atop a blue platform, stood Mo and Ping.

The audience cheered loudly for them, and the music began.

47 tapped quickly at the computer, quickly finding the recording software and, with a click of his finger, he ended it. With another click, he deleted it. His gaze flickered past the screen to the show below. Mo held her hand out in front of the audience, a wide smile on her face.

"Today is a day that means a lot to me," Mo said with a sweet smile. She held her microphone close to her chest, and the stadium went silent at her words. "I lost my friend today, seventeen years ago," she said.

From the screens that projected her face, 47 could see the crocodile tears forming in her eyes.

"This tour has been dedicated to her," Mo said and she took a breath. "Thank you all for being there with me through this awesome journey!"

The audience cheered even louder and the music increased in volume with it.

As the concert began in earnest, 47 turned away to drag away the unconscious guards one-by-one to place them in the lockers.

It was as he was dragging the second guard, and Mo had started singing the first line of the song that something happened.

"47," Diana said, "there seems to be some kind of external attack on the computer firewalls in the stadium. Someone is hacking all controls."

Moments later, the music and Mo's voice died away.

After placing the last guard away, 47 walked over to the booth's windows and watched as the large display screens set in the four corners of the stadium and the central jumbotron above the stage began airing old news articles about Park Ha-yun's murder.

Even through the booth, 47 could hear cries of dismay from the crowds. Below, on the stage, Mo had pressed her palms to her lips and shook her head. Ping, however, just stared at the large screen ahead of them.

"Well, this is an interesting turn of events," Diana commented.

A third party was getting involved in bringing down SSF for some reason.

Shortly after, a pair of images appeared side-by-side after all the articles were showcased with the words 'murder' and 'betrayal' being highlighted. On the left was an image of Mo in her teen years, and on the right was a picture of Park Ha-yun.

And then the stadium was filled with what sounded like a damaged audio recording.

The two images began to slowly enlarge, seemingly reacting to the audio as it sounded like two people kissing audibly and making out.

Below, Mo shook her head even more frantically.

And then the kissing noises stopped, and the conversation began. The volume was raised so that even over the clamour of voices from the crowd, no one would miss a word of the conversation.

"Chae-young…" Ha-yun began, and the image of her pulsed with a faint yellow light, "...I want to tell my family about us."

There was a long gap of silence at that declaration, and 47 could see several people in the audience all leaning forward, either staring at the screens, or looking down at Mo, who was shouting for someone and pointing at the screen frantically.

"What?" Mo said in the recording, "I thought we agreed we weren't going to do that! You know how my family would react!"

"I...I don't think they'd react like you think!" Ha-yun defended.

"You don't know that!" Mo snapped.

"Chae-young. Just trust me on this! I've thought about it a long time. We've been together for a year now, I'm sure my parents suspect, and In-sik knows, we can tell th-"

"Ha-yun, stop! Put that phone down, now!"

As the conversation went back and forth, the images pulsed with light and the image shook a little to indicate who was speaking. 47 noted that at the stage, some men were talking to present-day Mo and trying to explain to her what was happening. The men were shaking their heads whilst Mo was stamping her feet and jabbing her finger at the screen behind her.

Ping clasped his hands in front of himself and stood still in a relaxed posture, seemingly enjoying the show.

"Chae-, HEY! Chae-young st-what are you doing? It's going to be okay I promis-"

The rest of Ha-yun's words were cut as the audio began to fill with choking noises, and what seemed like Ha-yun's attempts to call Chae-young's name and pleading, but it was too garbled.

A moment later, there was a sound of an older woman screaming for Mo to get away from her daughter. And a minute later of desperately calling Ha-yun to get up, and it was obvious to everyone that Mo had murdered Park Ha-yun...over their secret relationship.

The images of Mo and Park faded from the screens and the jumbotron, to be replaced with a image of a raven, turning its head left, then right, cawing loudly, and a disguised, mechanized voice said, "The rich and entitled cannot hide forever, no matter how much money they throw at their crimes. Absolution only comes in revelation and confession. I see all."

The raven in the screen flapped its wings and let out an ear-piercing screech.

47 looked at the speaker hanging over Ping. The vibrations from the screech had shaken it loose.

As the crowd began shouting and booing at Mo, they were shocked into silence as the speaker slid noisily from its position and fell right on top of Ping, flattening him completely. The crunch of bone was earsplitting.

Finally, the screaming started.

"Target down. Next up: Mo Chae-young."

---

Mo stood in disbelief, touching a hand to her face where a splatter of blood had met her. Her ears rang and she could barely hear the screaming that had broken out around her.

"In-sik…?" she called. She looked up at where the speaker had fallen, then at Ping's crushed body.

Ping's body twitched once, then fell still. His once attractive features had been crushed underneath the weight of the speaker, leaving little in place of where his head once was. Blood and bone spilled across the flickering LED lights.

As his blood pooled on the floor, Mo stepped back so as to not stain her shoes. Around her, the ground shifted to lower her back beneath the stage. But even as it was, Mo couldn't take her eyes off of Ping's corpse.

As the stage above her sealed, Mo started to smirk. Then she grinned. A laugh escaped her throat and she cackled loudly. "All your…your bluster!" she said between breaths. "This…is how…you die!?"

She couldn't stop herself. The laughs spilled out of her and she slammed her foot into Ping's side. She had expected him to be killed after displeasing his father. Not from a fallen speaker. She had expected to have to be forced to be by his side until they died together.

How romantic, she sneered to herself. Above her, she could hear the shouting of her former fans. Calling her name so that she explained the audio they had heard. She couldn't think straight.

Where did that audio come from!? Mo hadn't even known that something like that existed. The Parks couldn't have, either, or they would have used it in the trial.

She gritted her teeth and she kicked Ping's corpse harder. Japan had been miserable. But it was better than the alternative. Mo knew that it was. Ha-yun never should have tried something so stupid. If she hadn't, she would have still been alive.

Sentenced to reformation. And her parents had chosen the worst they could have. A reformation school owned by a German in the middle of Japan. The mere recall of it made her kick Ping's corpse harder.

Mo let out a breath. She spun on her heel and left the stage behind. The dancers who had remained on it while it lowered looked at her fearfully.

My life is over. Mo Chae-young is dead, she thought to herself. There was no coming back from this. Whoever that was…that damn raven…they had exposed her to the entire world. They had shown the world who she was and there was no moving forward from that.

"Shit. Shit!" she cursed. She pointed at a nearby stylist. "You! Give me your phone!" she demanded.

"Ms. Mo-" the stylist tried to protest.

"Give it to me now!"

The stylist swallowed nervously and dug her hand into her pocket. She held it out for Mo to take.

"Unlock it," Mo ordered her.

The stylist turned the phone back to herself, typed in a code, then held it out again, only for Mo to snatch it out of her hand. Without another word to the stylist, Mo stormed from the room into the corridor.

She punched in a number she had learned and held the phone to her ear. It rang and Mo bit her lip. Pick up, pick up! she thought desperately. As she made her way down the corridor, her two guards joined her and kept pace.

Her life as she knew it was over. Irreparably damaged. This was too big for Ping's family to cover up. Their kindness only extended so far, she was certain.

The phone clicked and before the other person could even speak, Mo said, "Ms. Vetrova!"

"Ms. Mo?" came the voice on the other end. One that carried an accent close to Heidi's.

Mo mourned the loss of Heidi. She would never be able to see her again. Never able to collaborate with her and her band. "Yes. You told me to call you if I were to ever need your services," she said. She turned the corner in the hallway and walked speedily in the direction of her dressing room.

"And now you need my services," Vetrova said knowingly.

Mo nodded to herself. "I need a new identity," she said. She had to get the information out immediately. There was no time to beat around the bush.

"That is…unexpected," Vetrova admitted.

"Do people call for any other reason?" Mo questioned. She had vacationed at the Haven Resort once, before she knew of their secretive prospects.

"We will need to discuss it when you arrive," Vetrova said. Her tone took on a business aspect that set Mo's teeth on edge. "Which luxuries-"

"Private hut," Mo said immediately. "You have my card on file?"

"We do."

"Then bill it."

"Certainly."

Mo discussed further details with Vetrova as she walked. She didn't care if her bodyguards took in her every word. Vetrova informed her that her appointment would be in ten days.

"I need a closer date," Mo said, annoyed. She entered her dressing room and threw herself into one of her chairs.

"We have nothing else available," Vetrova said. Her business-like tone gave way to sympathy. "Our clients are-"

Mo hung up. Ten days. She had to withstand ten days. She tossed the stylist's phone away and walked to her dresser, opening one of the cabinets and taking her own phone. Stifling a sigh, she looked out at her bodyguards and said, "I need a drink."

One of her guards pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt and radioed in her demand. At the same time, Mo turned her phone on and opened one of her apps to scroll through her social media.

It was as she expected. Fans of SSF were posting all about the audio clip they had heard. Others had posted recordings of the audio to let an even wider audience hear it.

Her true relationship with Park Ha-yun was revealed to the entire world.

Other posts mentioned concern for Ping's condition. Some even expressed sympathy for him. Mo smirked darkly. If only you knew, she thought. It was the only thing to bring her solace.

She clicked onto her own profile and debated on what message to shoot a post into. A defense of herself to try and soften the blow.

Her phone rang suddenly and Mo read the caller ID before quickly picking up. "Jae-seong!"

"Are you safe?" Moon asked. He sounded concerned for her. A good sign.

"I am," Mo confirmed. "I'm protected by my guards. In my dressing room."

"And In-sik?"

Mo hesitated. Would he be horrified if he learnt that his son was dead? "He's dead," she said.

Moon didn't respond for a moment. When he finally did, all he said was, "I see."

"I don't know what happened," Mo said. "That speaker crushed him and-"

"I am going to have my men run damage control," Moon said, interrupting her. "Then, I am going to find the hacker that caused this. He had that speaker dropped on my son. This was a message."

Mo latched onto the opportunity presented to her. "Then I'm going to take a vacation. The Maldives."

Moon made a humming noise. "Enjoy it. When you come back, we need to discuss business."

Mo grinned. She had no intention of returning. "I plan to enjoy it."

Across the room, the door opened and a bald guard stepped in. He held a small glass with ice in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.

"I'll see you soon, Jae-seong," Mo lied. She hung up and looked across the room, squinting at the newest entry. "You look familiar," she commented.

"I have one of those faces," the bald man said. He turned his head away from her slightly as he laid the bottle on the table. Mo took note of the barcode on the back of his head.

Mo lounged in her seat, taking her eyes off of the man to return to her phone. The online posts lit up her face as she scrolled. People in the stadium were begging for her to explain the audio clip. Some people were in her corner, dismissing it as fake.

She paid no mind to the bald guard filling the glass with champagne. Moreover, she didn't notice how he produced a small, sealable bag and dumped the almost invisible contents inside.

Mo debated on what to say. If she should say anything. She paused in her thoughts as the bald guard approached her and offered her the glass.

"Ah, another good thing to come from this," Mo commented as she took the glass in her hand. She ignored the guard walking away, pausing at the door as she lifted the glass of champagne to her lips and gulped the contents down.

Agent 47 left the room.

"Target down. Excellent work, 47. You have effectively eliminated her without so much as touching her. Now, head for an exit," Diana told him.

Nobody cared as 47 made his way through the corridors. The guards that he passed instead stood in tense silence. As though they were afraid for the fans of the SSF to try to break down the doors to get to Mo.

They never tried, however.

47 returned to the restroom that he had once locked and, after pulling off his guard uniform and leaving himself in his suit, he undid the locking mechanism. Without any hurry, he made his way towards the front of the stadium. Each person he passed were in conversation about what they had heard from the audio clip.

"I don't believe for a second that was real!"

"Did you see how she was acting! She was scared!"

"Chae-young murdered someone?"

"That's what it looks like. I can't believe it…"

"Why did that speaker fall on In-sik?"

"...been reported that Ping In-sik, co-founder of Seoul Snowball Frequency, has been killed by a falling speaker…"

47 passed an American news reporter and her cameraman as he reached the entryway and passed through without incident.

"Excellent work as always," Diana complimented as he stepped out of the stadium. "The money has been wired to your account."

---

THE END OF SSF?

Seoul Snowball Frequency appears to have come to a tragic end.

After shocking evidence by a hacktivist known as 'Raven' interrupted the concert just as it was beginning, it was revealed that Mo Chae-young, the co-founder and one of the two stars of SSF, was in fact complicit in the murder of Park Ha-yun, rather than a bout of insanity.

Previously thought of as just friends, 'Raven' revealed an audio clip where Mo and Park Ha-yun talked of their romantic entanglements. After Park Ha-yun told Mo that she wished to come clean to their families about their relationship, Mo murdered Park in a desperate bid to keep her quiet.

But that was not the only death that the public was shown that night.

Investigations were quick to follow when a speaker fell from its position in the stage rigging above and crushed the co-founder of SSF, and the second of the two stars, Ping In-sik. Initially believed to be a warning to come from 'Raven', who had infiltrated the Geum Stadium, where the concert took place, investigators placed Ping's death as a horrific accident.

Once loyal fans took notice of Ping's enjoyment of Mo's exposure, leading them to believe that the relationship they had in public was not real. Other fans theorize that Ping himself was 'Raven', and had broadcast the audio clip that exposed Mo in order to create a way out from their relationship.

Following the reveal of Mo Chae-young's past, SSF staff and crew came forth telling their own stories of abuse and mistreatment at Mo's hands and, to a lesser extent, Ping. These stories include demands that staffers and employees were encouraged not to make eye contact with Mo without her express permission.

Mo Chae-young never made any comments on any of her social media platforms, even as her fellow performers turned against her. A petition was started online by fans of SSF to remove Mo from the brand completely, and anyone who had previously defended her quickly turned silent.

However, five days after the disastrous concert and SSF's fall from grace, former fans had arrived outside of Mo's mansion to demand answers directly. After a day and a half of no responses even from staff, the gathering grew into a mob who eventually broke into the manor. No injuries were reported, and Mo Chae-young was found in her bed, recently deceased.

Preliminary reports by first-responders divulged that there were no signs of foul play externally, though some of the first fans to discover Mo's body have noted that her eyes were completely red from acute petechial hemorrhaging. Her lower lip, arms and body bore deep nail marks and lacerations indicative of self-inflicted harm of an extreme degree.

The eventual toxicology and post-mortem result stated that, due to unknown reasons, Mo Chae-young experienced internal bleeding due to internal organ and tissue evisceration the likes which defied logic or explanations. Expert pathologist, Dr. Gochida, ruled out conventional poisoning, as well as most other means that could cause the woman's death.

As of now, her death has been tentatively ruled as accidental from unknown causes, until new evidence comes to light. Investigations continue.

"What I can say is," said Dr. Gochida, "Mo Chae-young suffered intense, incurable agony. There were no signs of drugs, though generous amounts of alcohol were prevalent in her system, perhaps in an attempt to alleviate her pain. But it was not quick, nor painless. The marks on her body and her brutally shredded lower lip indicated her desperate attempts to try anything to distract herself as she was torn apart from the inside."

"It was karma," said a former fan identified only as 'Angry Dad', "and very well deserved! My daughters used to love Mo Chae-young. They used to."

Some theorize that Mo committed suicide after she was exposed, and was too cowardly to deal with the aftermath. Others thought that 'Raven' killed both Ping and Mo, ensuring that Mo died in great pain.

Witnesses and fans in the area of her manor reported hearing screams of agony.

When questioned on their opinion of the exposure and even the deaths of Mo Chae-young and Ping In-sik, the Park family offered no comment…

PRESIDENT RICE DISSOLVES THE FBI

Last year, President Clyde Rice signed an executive order to release the files on former FBI director, Alexander Leland Cayne. These files revealed his misuse of resources and abuse of power, including but not limited to his involvement in the death of the first Vice President within the Stuart administration, Spaulding Burke.

In an address to the nation, President Rice showcased his disgust with the FBI and questioned if they could be trusted. He cited Cayne's influence through having President Tom Stuart's second Vice President, Daniel Morris, elected shortly before his assassination.

President Rice declared that if the FBI were to go rogue, then it could not be trusted to help the American people. And it was with this statement that he had signed into law the abolition of the FBI, and its employees were to be questioned.

Critics of President Rice were alarmed at this action and have declared that he is overreaching. Others have called for his impeachment. Experts claim that the dissolution of the FBI will increase cybercrime and organized crime, along with the fragmentation of law enforcement.

Furthermore, experts decry that the abolition of the FBI will result in a hindrance in civil rights and social justice without the FBI's oversight in enforcing national security efforts.

Supporters of President Rice, however, have been noted for their belief that the hammer of justice has struck the FBI down, with some even celebrating the inability to enforce civil rights.

This comes at the lowest point in President Rice's approval ratings, which took a hit following his decision to repeal President Stuart's pro-cloning initiative, which prevents citizens from access to replacement organs.

Historians warn that President Rice's actions and policies are despotic…

EMIL MARMONT'S TRIAL UNDERWAY

Between Worlds with Emil Marmont has paused filming as the paranatural TV personality, Emil Marmont, stepped into court yesterday, and pleaded 'not guilty' to charges of desecrating a corpse and tampering with evidence.

Charges were brought to Marmont following his encounter with the parents of the recently deceased Jeremy Huntley. A nine year old boy, Jeremy Huntley passed away after an unidentified older man offered him candy, before proceeding to stab him over eighty times.

What followed was an investigation in which Emil Marmont was involved. Filming the deceased, he attempted to communicate with the dead before he was stopped by the parents of Jeremy Huntley.

After failing to find Huntley's killer due to Marmont's tampering, charges were brought against him. What complicated the case is the airing of the episode in which Marmont interacted with the corpse of Jeremy Huntley.

Marmont's show details his experiences with hunting ghosts and other paranatural entities. Self-described as an 'enthusiast of the supernatural', Marmont has gone down in infamy for his methods.

Initially a run-of-the-mill ghost hunting TV show with a late night slot on television, Emil Marmont was once a part of a team of investigators. The show earned national success through its cheesy acting and set decorations. Marmont was eventually promoted to producer and slowly pushed out his cast mates, successfully making himself the star of the show.

Reportedly, Marmont was dissatisfied with how the show had turned out and made changes that pulled him into the world of infamy. Marmont is under the belief that the more recent the death, the more active the spirit…

---

Massachusetts, United States

Victoria Bateson rode her vespa into her usual parking spot, keyed in the lock code and pressed the wheel-clamp lock that 47 helped install for her vehicle, ensuring that anyone who was not her wasn't going anywhere with her bike. Unlocking the lidded trunk on the back of her bike, she removed her helmet and placed it in the trunk, then locked it. She retrieved some books in the basket and checked her slingbag to make sure she had everything, and walked towards the university courtyard.

When she decided to enroll here, she was almost embarrassed by the sheer amount of scrutiny Diana and even 47 had applied to investigating the origin, history, and background of not only the university and its staff, but even the building structures themselves, and the architects, engineers and construction crew.

But then, they also checked on her thoroughly, to make sure she wasn't under some kind of influence and that this was a decision entirely of her own choosing.

The only reason she wasn't upset was because she herself wanted to be sure. As Diana had taught her; you could never be too paranoid in this world.

Given the things that happened to her in her teen years, she didn't blame them, and was even a little flattered. But if there was anything untoward about this place, it was too well hidden, or didn't exist. Which was the best she, Diana or 47 could hope for.

They even did a subtle background check on her roommate, Lizzie McDunnough. Well, she wasn't told that they did, but knowing them, they definitely investigated Lizzie. She hailed from a small town in Kansas, a farmer's daughter who got in on a scholarship. Her father ran the generational farm, and he had five sons and two daughters, all of whom had clean records.

Victoria never mentioned that she did her own research, too.

And she checked the background of her lab partner, Edward Bugg, or Ed, or Bug, as he liked to be called. Who kept a surname like Bugg?

You could never be too paranoid.

She joined a throng of other students heading into the building. Having lived a fair few years in isolation, or just Diana and sometimes 47 for company, crowds were something she was never fully accustomed to. Nevertheless, she had to learn to get used to it. Humans were social creatures, and it wasn't healthy to live alone.

Her mind strayed at the thought of her roommate and Blake Dexter flashed through her mind. Victoria shivered and hugged herself. She moved to the side through one of the corridors to rest her back against the wall.

The man who had kidnapped her and tried to harvest her DNA to sell for a quick profit.

Victoria breathed in and out and she tried to remember what Diana told her. Tried to remember her breathing exercises. Dexter is dead, she thought to herself. 47 saw to that.

He'd been dead for years and yet he still haunted her nightmares.

She clenched her hands together and she shook slightly as she breathed in deeply, then released. She had been safe for years. Victoria tried to remind herself of that fact. Nobody had tried to harm her since Chicago.

Furthermore, she'd spent her years since learning to protect herself, and learning to function and survive without the isotope necklace. The first year had been awful, and she was as helpless as a newborn. Diana was ever-patient with her, helping her to be able to sit up and function without it, to regain the strength to walk, then run.

She spent that first year as a home-schooler. But she was willing to bet her education syllabus was unlike anything anyone ever had.

Diana, and even 47, were involved in setting up a full course that taught her everything from the basic education system, to social studies, which included virtually all genres of films from as far back as the beginning of the media industry, and TV shows (she was willing to admit those were extremely fun), to physical exercises and self-defense lessons courtesy mostly of 47.

The year of weaning off her dependence on the necklace affected her physical growth somewhat and she was as a result much smaller than she should be when she reached adulthood, but all things considered, she was doing very well. Once she was well enough to function normally every day without becoming exhausted or abruptly tired, she enrolled in a school to finish her education.

That had been quite the experience.

But she found she liked running so much, now, she participated in track running. She was good enough to join the school team, but she demurred the offer, preferring to run only during phys ed.

She began to see less and less of Diana and 47 as she got older, and while Diana had tried very hard to establish continued contact, Victoria had heard less and less from 47. She didn't blame him. What he had done for her was more than almost anyone. But Victoria knew that his work was important and dangerous. She wasn't going to pry him away from that.

No matter how badly she wanted to see him again.

Diana took care of her, 47 protected her, and went through hell to rescue her from Dexter's clutches.

She thought back earlier, to that moment, when he was carrying her through the orphanage to escape the captors sent for her. She had been terrified and helpless. So weak. But his whispered words resonated within her: "No one will harm you ever again."

He'd said those words not with confidence, but an absolute surety, as if it were written in stone.

Drawing a deep breath, she opened her eyes and glanced to her right, where the corridor led to the lab. She took an interest in archaeology, exploration and history. Diana's ancestral home was a wealth of knowledge and history, all recorded in the many many books her personal library held, it was a combination of movies about dinosaurs and a series about a heroic explorer that set her on the path she now took. Archaeology, with a minor in Environmental Geography and History of Structural Engineering.

Today, she would be working on bone excavation with Bug. She liked Bug for his quietness and wealth of knowledge on the subject matter. He was quite possibly even more passionate about archaeology than she was. And he too, loved rewatching the Tony Dan movies with her. His hero was, obviously, Tony Dan, who wore a cowboy hat. Victoria thought it was rather amusing that the actor that played him was called Dino Bosco, considering the subject material.

Composing herself once more, she pushed herself off from the wall and made her way to the lab. Most of the other students hardly paid any attention to her, accomplished through a combination of her quiet nature and modest attire. She dressed and looked as forgettable as possible, wearing common spectacles, braided her dark hair, wore a pale green cardigan, a light brown wool jacket, loose pale blue jeans and grey sneakers.

She also wore simple brass earrings, and the spectacles were clear lenses that had a recording device, with the right temple housing a hidden earpiece and audio pick-up mic that she can activate with a specific series of blinks and the camera built into the middle of the bridge would send a video feed to her computer back home and attempt to contact Diana or 47.

You could never be too paranoid.

As she was early, most of the lab was still empty, save for Gemma Townsend, Roger Redmoore, and Bug. Doing a quick examination of the two exits, the lab equipment, the emergency equipment, the desks and the vents and windows, Victoria finally crossed through and settled in beside Bug.

"Hey Vicky," Bug greeted her without looking up from the large, four foot long femur he was gently cleaning with a small hair fibre brush.

Victoria shivered again. 'Vicky' was the name that Dexter's right hand, Layla Stockton, called her. Victoria wanted nothing to do with it, and she had told Bug that before. Repeatedly.

"Hey Bug. Please don't call me that," Victoria replied, setting her bag and books on the side of the table very carefully.

She picked up her own brush and took a look to see what Bug had already worked on, then began her work on the opposite end.

"Sorry," Bug said, and he truly did sound remorseful. Victoria sighed when she looked at him. The guilty expression on his face never ceased to make her mad for long.

"It's okay."

"How about Tori?"

"No."

They continued brushing over the bones for a while, and eventually, the Professor and the rest of the students had arrived to fill up the lab at their respective stations.

The Professor, Raymond John, saw that everyone was already at work, simply nodded and returned to whatever he was writing on a computer. Victoria learnt he loved writing fan fiction.

They continued for another hour, meticulously and patiently brushing off the dust, sand and clay from the bone, until they could make out better details of it.

"Juvenile Brachiosaurus or Megalosaurus?" Bug asked, again without looking over at Victoria.

She smiled, knowing that this was a test. Bug liked to see how sharp she was.

"Neither, it's a composite of plaster, glue and resin to create a replica of a dinosaur femur, made in China, imported over circa 2015, July 26."

Bug's lips quirked up and he struggled not to burst out laughing, but finally let out a small snort and lowered his head.

"Damn, Vic, not when I'm trying not to break a bone!"

She resisted grinning, and finished up her work, class was ending soon.

"In all seriousness, it looks more like the femur of the Therizinosaurus they found in the Gobi Desert back in 1954, you can tell by the shape of the joint here…"

She pointed at the end that she had been working on.

"...and the fact that everyone here is working on basically different parts of the same dinosaur at their stations, the big claw that Townsend and Redmoore are working on is clearly connected, and…" She looked over at another station. "Braxton and Brown are working on what clearly looks like the head."

Bug shook his head, smiling. "You gonna check out the fourth film tonight?"

He was referring to the last Tony Dan movie to come out, Il Brute, and she'd only seen it once when it came out in the cinemas, but she had not been feeling well that night. She missed most of the film. Watching it again would practically be watching it for the first time, for her.

"Wouldn't miss it, Bug, see you at Coffeeland."

She cleaned up her station, grabbed her books and bag, and left. Coffeeland was the rather straightforward café and diner that ran 24 hours due to its proximity to the university. There were always patrons at all hours. Sometimes, people hung out there to watch films in the walled and doored booths to keep the noise from disturbing other patrons, and there were windows on the door and walls so no funny business happened.

She sat through a lecture for the geography class, and participated in a small discussion class for history, and before her dinner and movie with Bug, she rode back to the campus to change.

When she got to her shared dorm, she found her roommate, Lizzie, already in there, reading a book. Victoria could also hear the TV play from nearby. When Lizzie looked up at the door, she smiled at Victoria.

"Hi," Lizzie said, and she stood up, grabbing an envelope off her table. "Did you hear what's happening in England?"

"No?" Victoria said. She shuffled into the room and glanced at the TV.

The news anchor, a woman called Pamela Kingsley, was in the middle of speaking, "...for the first time in almost four decades, a vote of no confidence has passed, expelling now former Prime Minister Vale from-"

Lizzie quickly muted the TV with a press of a button. "Uh, that's enough of that," she said with a shake of her head. Then she smiled again, offering the envelope to Victoria. "This arrived for you just after you left."

Victoria looked at the envelope and quickly noticed the foreign stamp on it. Excitement pooled in her gut and she eagerly took it from her friend. The only person who would send her something like this was 47, and Victoria loved getting anything from him, discounting the stipend he and Diana sent to her. As 47 was a multimillionaire from all the contracts he'd taken and completed successfully, and as Diana came from money herself, both of them were able to easily provide for Victoria and if she so chose, she could live off on the stipends alone so long as she didn't become lavish with her spending.

She sat down on her bed to get settled in, and Lizzie sat on her own across from her.

However, the more she looked at the envelope, the more she realized it wasn't from him.

47 always...had a style, a method, to his letters and envelopes. She didn't recognize any of it in this letter. And her disappointment replaced her previous eagerness as she cautiously pulled the paper apart. Inside was a black page with words written in gold.

It was extremely extravagant.

Her disappointment must have shown, because Lizzie spoke, "May I ask what it is? You seem...unhappy about the letter."

Victoria looked up, and gave a weak smile. "Not...well, I just thought at first that it's from...a dear friend of mine...but it's not."

She read through the letter and a frown formed on her face.

"Dear Victoria Bateson.

"We are pleased to invite you to the world's most exclusive university: Archangel University for Research and Advancement! The very same university to many of the world's most influential figures, such as Quantum Leap CEO, Jason Portman, Cross Holdings CEO, Thomas Cross, and current Colombian leader, President Antonio Hernandez.

"We offer you this spectacular opportunity by accommodating you with substitute classes to complete your degree. Provisions will be supplied by the university.

"Your studies in advanced geography will be covered by Professor Patrick Tanner, who taught previously at Harvard University under the same subject. An avid explorer, he charted previously unmapped parts of Greenland.

"Your studies in structural engineering will be covered by Professor Gerhardt Vichter, architect of a number of the most famous structures in the world. Including the currently under construction Burj Al-Ghazali.

"Your studies in archaeology will be covered by world class archeologists Professors Owen Drystan and Carys Maddox. Responsible for numerous archeological finds in recent years, most notably being an abandoned city buried below ground in Tibet.

"We look forward to your response.

"Sincerely, David Voltaire."

Victoria read and reread the letter, confused. It felt like an elaborate hoax. Or a joke that someone tried. The letter was typed and the only handwritten part was the signature at the end. But even then, Victoria had no idea if it belonged to anyone she knew.

"It's an invitation from a university in Cameroon, with a full provision and substitute classes to complete my degrees and even an opportunity to graduate early and begin an advance for a doctorate with field research!"

Her voice rose in octave and volume as she concluded what the letter was about.

Lizzie looked on skeptically. "Sounds like a scam. Like a new version of the Nigerian prince one."

Victoria drew her gaze upward to view Lizzie. "It has my name on it. And my classes. And there isn't a mention of anything monetary that I need to spend."

"I guess not…" Lizzie relented. "Do you think that's real, then?"

Victoria paused. The mention of Owen Drystan and Carys Maddox excited her. They were among the most famous archeologists in the world and if they were teaching a class at this university…

But she had to be realistic and careful before anything else. "I'm not sure," she confessed.

"What's your gut telling you?" Lizzie asked.

"That I want this to be real," Victoria answered. She looked over the letter again and eyed the QR code in the top right corner. Opposite of the logo of the university, which was a circle with two interlocked keys clashing as though they were sword blades. Victoria didn't doubt that the QR code would take her into contact with the university.

Victoria wondered why they didn't contact her directly rather than by letter.

"Is there a phone number or something you can use to contact them?" Lizzie asked.

Victoria nodded. "Yeah. There's a QR code."

"Maybe you should try that? And if they seem shady, you know to just ignore them, I guess?"

Or run away and change my name, Victoria thought. Her fingers dug into the paper and she let out a nervous breath. Dexter is dead, she reminded herself. Benjamin Travis is dead, she thought with scorn. Her creator. She shook the thought away.

Victoria pulled out her phone and scanned the QR code.