It wasn't just blood that stained the pristine white tablecloth that night; it was Sergei Kuznetsov's prestige, which vanished with every primal scream of pain he unleashed before enemies and allies alike. The hall, which minutes ago had been a playground for the Russian aristocracy, transformed in seconds into a theater of absolute chaos. The screams of women in silk dresses mingled with the shattering of crystal glasses under fleeing feet, and the clatter of chairs overturned in a desperate bid to escape the table of death.
Sergei, his mangled hand pinned to the table by Jinho's knife, had a face turned ashen gray. Cold sweat poured down his forehead, his bloodshot eyes tracking the phantom of his son, who was retreating with an unearthly coldness.
"Kill him!" Sergei roared, his voice choked with pain and humiliation. "Don't let him leave alive! Alexei... shoot him in the head! Now!"
Alexei surged forward alongside eight heavily armed elite guards, vaulting over the overturned tables. The muzzles of their assault rifles were aimed directly at Jinho's back and Jin's chest. But in that moment, the unexpected occurred: the "brute force" of the Sokolov family intervened, cloaked in malicious diplomacy.
With a massive frame towering at 210 centimeters, Ivan Sokolov stood in the middle of the main aisle leading to the exit. He drew no weapon and uttered no threatening cry; he merely stood like a human wall of black steel. Behind him, ten of his men deployed in the blink of an eye, forming a human barricade separating Kuznetsov's guards from the fleeing twins.
"Gentlemen, calm down, please!" Ivan boomed in a quiet but resonant voice, carrying an undertone of absolute authority that instinctively forced the guards to halt. He raised his massive hand in a "stop" gesture, staring at Alexei with a provoking coldness. "There are high-society ladies and senior generals in this hall. Any reckless gunfire here will be considered a crime against the state and a diplomatic scandal St. Petersburg will never forgive. We are here to protect civilians... aren't we?"
"Get out of the way, Sokolov!" Alexei shouted, his eyes gleaming with madness. "This is an internal matter for the Kuznetsov family! The boy stabbed my father!"
Ivan offered a toxic smirk, remaining rooted to the spot, casting a terrifyingly massive shadow over Alexei. "I see a young man defending his mother's honor, and I see overturned tables threatening the safety of my ministerial guests. National security protocols dictate we secure the evacuation of VIPs first. Among them is General Volkov, and my men will secure the exit. I do not want to see a single stray bullet hit a lady's dress or a general's uniform. Is that clear?"
This "tactical pampering" was the straw that broke Sergei's back. Bleeding, he realized Ivan was buying Jinho precious time to escape under the guise of "adhering to protocol." Ivan wasn't saving Jinho out of any affection for him; he was relishing Sergei's public humiliation, transforming him from a "victim" into a "threat" to the elite.
Meanwhile, the twins moved with astonishing military synchronization. There was no need for words; Jinho moved with his customary coldness, his blue eyes still harboring an unextinguished gleam. He walked with calculated steps, as if computing the physical angles of potential bullet ricochets, while Jin acted as the living "shield."
Jin moved in a combat dance; his back almost pressed against Jinho's, his twin submachine guns sweeping the corners in a 360-degree arc. Jin was boiling inside: a raging fury toward his father, an existential fear for his brother, and a wild urge to burn the hall and everyone in it. Yet, he remained disciplined, covering every blind spot a sniper might exploit.
"To the right... three steps... now," Jinho whispered in a robotic voice, as if the explosion he had just caused left him with nothing but absolute mental clarity.
They dashed through the side service corridor, while Ivan's voice still echoed in the hall, reprimanding Sergei's guards for their "unprofessionalism" in crisis management. The moment they stepped into the frigid air of St. Petersburg, the icy drizzle lashed their faces, anchoring Jinho back to physical reality, far from the fog of memories.
The bloodstains on Jinho's white shirt had begun to freeze, mapping a crimson chart of the end of the Kuznetsov era. They jumped into a black, armored sedan waiting in a dark corner, driven by an automated system whose route Jinho had pre-programmed.
The car surged forward in electric silence, piercing through St. Petersburg's neon-lit streets, leaving behind Sergei's screams and Ivan's twisted schemes. Inside the vehicle, a suffocating silence prevailed—a silence entirely different from the hall's; it was the silence of "the aftermath."
The journey took forty minutes of maneuvering through narrow alleys and unmonitored routes until they reached an abandoned industrial zone on the outskirts of the city. There, in front of a dilapidated old warehouse, the car stopped. Jinho stepped out, followed by Jin. They entered through a rusted iron door, revealing a hidden freight elevator behind it.
After the elevator descended three floors underground, the doors opened to the "Safe House."
The place was a physical manifestation of Jinho's mind: a vast space with polished concrete walls, dim lighting triggered by motion sensors, supercomputers distributed in the corners, and screens displaying thermal maps of the city alongside financial data streams. There were no decorations, no emotions—only absolute technical efficiency and utter coldness. This sanctuary was shielded against electromagnetic pulses and was entirely soundproof and thermally insulated.
The massive steel door sealed shut with a deep, mechanical "click," announcing a total disconnect from the outside world.
In that instant, Jin's mask slipped. His solid frame sagged slightly as he leaned his back against the closed door, breathing violently as if his lungs were trying to absorb all the oxygen they had been deprived of over the past few minutes. His hands trembled slightly as he placed his weapons on the metal table.
Jin looked toward his brother, who stood in the middle of the room, staring at his blood-stained hands with quiet bewilderment.
"We did it, Jinho..." Jin whispered, his voice carrying a mix of terror and relief. "You stabbed him... in front of everyone. You declared war on the devil in his own lair."
Jinho didn't answer immediately. He walked over to the metal sink and turned on the cold water tap. He began to wash his hands slowly, watching the water turn from clear to pink, then to crimson red, before returning to clear again. He watched the bloody runoff fade away like a physical equation that had been solved and erased from a chalkboard.
"It wasn't an emotional decision, Jin," Jinho said in a monotonous voice, drying his hands with a paper towel. "It was a structural necessity. Sergei thought my silence was submission, and Ivan thought my intellect was a prize. Today, I rearranged the variables. We are no longer the rebellious 'Kuznetsov sons'... We are a third faction in this war."
Jin approached him, placing his heavy hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing it with a strength that conveyed the deep fraternal bond uniting them. "I am with you... always. Whatever the cost, and whatever numbers you calculate in your head, I am the shield that will never break."
Jinho looked into his brother's eyes, and for the first time, a faint human gleam appeared amidst the ice. "I know, Jin. And for that reason... we will burn all of St. Petersburg to the ground if we have to, so that no one ever touches Hayoon's memories again."
Outside, Russia was boiling. Ivan Sokolov was smiling in his hall, and Sergei was swearing revenge. But here, underground, in this cold safe house, the birth of the "new monster" was complete. Jinho was no longer running; he was setting the stage for the next strike—one that wouldn't leave even ashes behind
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To be continued...