The first guard realized something was wrong only when she said "thank you."
Not for the help. Not in reply. Just like that.
"Thank you," she repeated softly, looking straight into his eyes, as if some conversation had already happened between them—one he couldn't remember.
He frowned slightly, trying to catch the meaning, already about to ask something routine—when everything stopped.
The metal slid under his jaw, sharp and precise. The skin gave way without resistance, and blood immediately spilled downward—hot, thick, carrying that heavy metallic scent impossible to mistake for anything else.
He jerked, choked, tried to pull away, but she held him in place, not letting him leave this moment too soon.
She always held the gaze.
She watched until the end.
Until the person understood.
Until that short, almost childlike realization appeared in their eyes—I'm being killed right now.
Only then did she let go.
The body slowly sank onto the carpet, leaving behind a dark stain that immediately began to spread.
"Where the fuck are you…?" came from around the corner.
She tilted her head slightly, as if listening to the voice, and the corner of her lips twitched almost imperceptibly.
The mansion lived its own life.
Music softly spread through the hall, laughter covered any awkward pauses, and glasses clinked a little more often than necessary—as if people were afraid that in the silence someone might hear too much.
She entered as if she had belonged there from the very beginning.
The black dress fit her flawlessly, accentuating the lines of her body without giving them away completely. In the slit, a tattoo flashed—thin lines weaving into a pattern that made you want to look closer… but not get too near.
She took a glass of champagne, held it to her lips, took a sip, and allowed herself to close her eyes for a second, as if savoring the taste.
In reality—she was checking.
Always checking.
Her walk changed almost immediately.
A little softer.
A little slower.
Enough for the gazes to become less alert.
"Do you know her?" one of the guests asked quietly.
"No…" the second replied, without tearing his eyes away. "But I'd like to…"
On the second floor it became quieter.
The music stayed downstairs, and up here every sound rang clearer—footsteps, breathing, the light creak of fabric. The space seemed to shrink, leaving only what was necessary.
Three guards noticed her at once.
She understood it by the way their gazes changed—slightly more focused, slightly more attentive.
Not alarm.
Not yet.
She stepped out from around the corner, brushing her shoulder along the wall and quietly humming a melody, missing every second note like someone who no longer cared how bad it sounded.
"Miss, you can't be here," the nearest one said, raising his hand.
She didn't stop right away, as if she first needed to understand what he had actually said.
"Really…?" she asked softly, tilting her head a little. "And I thought today I could do anything…"
He smirked.
And that was all she needed.
Relaxation.
Normalcy.
Mistake.
She took a step toward him.
He did too.
The distance shrank to something indecent.
"Wait, I—"
"Thank you," she said.
And at that exact moment his body betrayed him.
The metal drove deep and precise under his jaw, and blood burst out immediately—hot, dense, carrying that same scent that seeps into memory faster than any words.
She wasn't in a hurry.
She never was.
She held his gaze until it disappeared completely.
"Hey, you!"
The second one appeared faster than she expected.
She was already standing.
Too calm.
He froze for a second—and that second was enough.
Her movement was short, almost lazy, but precise. His voice cut off mid-word, drowning in the blood that sprayed sideways and slowly ran down the wall.
The third one lunged for his weapon, but his fingers obeyed worse than they should have.
She was beside him sooner.
Always sooner.
He didn't even have time to understand at what point everything had spiraled out of control.
Silence didn't return right away.
First—breathing.
Then—drops.
Then—nothing.
She ran her hand over her dress, wiping away the blood, and paused for a second, staring at the dark traces as if checking whether everything had gone exactly as it should.
Then she turned toward the door.
She entered the room without knocking.
The door closed softly behind her back, cutting off the corridor, the smell of blood, and the remnants of noise.
When she came out, she already had the case in her hand.
Silver. Cold. Covered in drops of blood.
She stopped on the threshold, slightly turned her head back, as if listening to the silence inside, and said quietly, almost politely:
"Thank you for the goods."
In the same tone.
With the same calm.
As if it actually mattered.
The car was already waiting.
She got in, placed the case beside her, and for a moment closed her eyes, letting her body switch.
Not relax.
Switch.
The city outside the window flowed with lights, fracturing in the glass, but she wasn't looking.
Inside, it was calm.
Too calm.
The residence greeted her with a silence that didn't soothe—it pressed.
Her heels echoed across the marble, the sound spreading through the hall, and somewhere far away someone perhaps lifted their head.
She walked straight, without slowing down, without looking back, like someone who didn't need to check who was behind her.
Park Jae-ho didn't look up immediately.
He was turning the pages of a book, running his finger along the lines as if he were really reading, though in truth he was waiting.
"This is a book by a great poet," he said lazily. "Do you understand what he's writing about?"
"I do," she answered.
He smirked.
"I doubt it."
A pause hung between them.
His gaze slowly dropped to the case.
And changed.
Immediately.
"Report."
"Mission completed. Target eliminated. Witnesses—also."
He tapped his fingers on the desk, as if counting something only he understood.
"Witnesses…" he repeated quietly. "Good. I don't like extra people."
He waved his hand.
"Come here."
She approached and lowered herself onto one knee.
The case opened.
The click sounded sharp, almost dry, and in this silence it seemed louder than it should have.
Park leaned forward.
Slowly.
With interest that held more greed than curiosity.
"Here it is…"
He ran his finger over the contents of the case, lingering a little longer than necessary.
"You know why I love things like this?" he said quietly. "They always smell like money… even before they're sold."
She said nothing.
"Stand up."
She rose.
"You work well," he added, already turning away. "That's why you're still alive."
A short pause.
"For now…"
She turned and left.
A few minutes later, Secretary So Min-jae entered the office.
He moved quietly, but not silently—just enough for his presence to be noticed.
"Got something to please me?" Park asked, not taking his eyes off the case.
"Yes. I found the scientists. They'll be able to reproduce the formula."
Park leaned back in his chair, placing his palm on the case as if checking that it was really there.
"Then it's simple," he said.
He paused.
A long one.
"The market will be ours."
And then, quieter, almost to himself:
"If no one manages to bite first."
So Min-jae held his gaze on the case for a second longer than necessary.
And in that gaze there was no joy.
Only calculation.
When he left, the office became quiet again.
Park took a sip of whiskey, grimaced, and chuckled softly:
"The old man won't even understand…"
He looked at the case.
"…when it's all over."