In Vane, truth is like a red pill; you cannot consume it without swallowing a lie. To them, I am a loyal member of the organization. But in reality, I am a ghost—one they happen to see, command, and use to handle their dirty work. In this place, the price of freedom is paid with life itself. This is especially true for people like me, who enter these walls seeking the truth, only to end up buried within them forever.

"Rivert."

I hear the echo of a laugh, but there is no one here who would call my name with such affection. A memory of a special person and the moments we shared flashes before my eyes like a movie. I feel a desperate ache to see them. I want to hold them close to my heart... but I can't.

The room was pitch black and cramped, located in a basement where the very air felt strangled. There was no furniture, no windows—only a single, rusted door. The floor was stained with blood; though it had long since dried, the copper stench still hung heavy in the air.

The organization's high-ranking members were gathered there. In front of them sat today's "sacrifice." The man's survival depended entirely on how cleanly he answered their questions. He had already been beaten into a near-death state, but the organization had its rules: no one leaves without giving up information.

"I don't know what information Alex was talking about!" the man pleaded, his hands trembling.

"Motherfucker, I don't have time to deal with you." The voice was thick with authority—the kind of voice that had likely sent many to meet their maker without ever laying a hand on them. The speaker doesn't look at victim, signaled the man standing few inches before him.

That person just understand without any verbal command.

One punch landed. Then, without delay, another crashed into his face.

"Is your memory getting any better now?" the man asked. His expression was a void of indifference; he didn't care about the person, only the information . The victim, tied with ropes and hands behind his back, was utterly defense less.

Rivert watched this horrific scene unfold before his eyes. "Just as I thought, I can't adapt to this," he muffled to himself. He was an army agent whose sole purpose was to protect civilians. Now, he stood powerless, able to do nothing but grit his teeth and clench his fists until his knuckles turned white. The cycle of violence showed no signs of stopping. How can they beat someone without feeling a shred of remorse? Rivert was only seconds away from intervening, but before he could speak, the sound of a gunshot struck through his heart without mercy.

The living being that had been struggling for his life was gone. In his place was only a corpse—eyes wide with shock, face a mask of wounds. He died not knowing if someone out there was still waiting for him to return. Rivert's gut twisted with such intense disgust that he thought he might break, but he knew that even a small flicker of dissatisfaction on his face could cost him his life and ruin the entire mission.

He controlled it.

"Rivert, take care of this," the man ordered. "Dump him in the river or burn him—whatever you think is best." He said it casually, as if it were just another part of his daily routine. Rivert glanced down at the lifeless body. For a split second, the dead man's face was replaced by another.

"Nova."

The name caught in his throat. Did I just imagine Nova in his place? What would happen if he were the one in this chair?

He turned his head away and gestured to his colleagues. "Is throwing him in the river or burning him really the right thing? What about his family?" Rivert whispered to a trusted associate.

"What can we do?" the man replied. "Even if we wanted to tell his family, do you think the organization would let us? Let's go, Rivert. It's not our place to interfere."

The man headed out, but Rivert remained in that room, the weight of his morals crushing him. A man died in front of me and I couldn't do a single thing. The guilt piled up in his throat until it became unbearable. He retched, losing everything he had consumed before entering that basement. The smell of blood was suffocating.

Picking himself up, he finally left the darkness behind, following his colleagues back into the world of lies.

"Oi, did you see that silver-haired bastard? In such a short time, he's already become the Chairman's favourite," Man 1 muttered to his colleague, his voice thick with envy.

"You're right," the second man replied, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. "I don't get what's so special about him. Aside from his face and body, what does he even have?"

They were taking a smoke break, a brief moment of oxygen after a long day of "black work" (dirty business). "I heard somewhere that he's an orphan," Man 1 added, a malicious smirk forming. "A brat without a family, yet he has the attitude of a King. Does he think he's a Chaebol or something?"

Inside the facility, the air was different. It was a massive arena—a breeding ground where monsters were trained. It was a place designed to test if a person was worthy of joining the organization. But not everyone here was a born "low-life thug." No one is born dreaming of becoming a gangster. Injustice, poverty, and desperation—those are the forces that forge a man into a weapon. 
In the center of the arena, two men were forced to face each other. Without delay, the "game" began. A shower of punches and kicks followed. They beat each other without mercy, their skin bruising and splitting under the strain.

But the most disgusting part wasn't the violence; it was the crowd. Others stood around, cheering and howling as if they were watching animals in a circus.

That was when I realised the reality of the underworld is far worse than any story. When I first arrived, I was in their position—standing in the dirt, fighting for a breath. My military background became my "Gold Ticket," allowing me to skip the begging stages and climb straight to the top.

I still feel a pang of guilt for those who failed because of me. But then I tell myself—at least on the outside, they only have to beg for food, not for their lives.

Clap. Clap.

The sound was sharp, cutting through the heavy air of the arena like a whip. "Bravo! A lethal aura of nonchalant behavior. The amusement on his face is impeccable..."

"Oh—Jin-wook?"

"Why is the Chairman here?"

"Shut up! Don't talk so loud, what if they hear us?" 

The sudden entrance of Chairman Oh Jin-wook shocked everyone. He didn't walk; he moved with a strange, fluid grace, almost like a bird landing, tip-toeing toward Rivert. He reached out and patted Rivert's shoulder with a cold, light hand.

"How are things going here, my dear Rivert?"

he asked, his voice airy but dangerous. "Did you find any interesting brats to use later?"

The meaning was clear: he wanted to produce killing machines. But the casual way he said it felt revolting.

"No, sir," Rivert replied, his voice a steady mask. "We have to be careful when choosing our men. After the last incident, we can't trust everyone."

Chairman Oh Jin-wook listened with terrifying intensity.

"Yes, you are right." He leaned in closer. "As I expected, you are the gem I found after such a long time, Rivert. So... how do you plan to find the right person?"

The question was a counter-attack—a dagger that Rivert couldn't simply ignore. What should I tell him? Rivert's brain raced. I only said that because I don't want more people forced into this organization. On the surface, however, he remained as calm as stone.

"I think, for the time being, we need to stop looking for new recruits," Rivert admitted, meeting the Chairman's gaze. "Please don't take me wrong, sir. We need at least a few months to let the situation calm down. Right now, every criminal police department is tightening the noose. If they send 'lookers'—undercover agents—and we accidentally select them, it will be a disaster." Jesus, Rivert thought, I can't believe I'm using myself as the warning example. But looking at his face... I think it's working.

Fascination flickered across Oh Jin-wook's face. He seemed charmed by Rivert's thoughtfulness.

"Very well. Show all of these candidates to the exit."

"Is it really that easy?" Rivert mumbled under his breath.

"Did you say something?" the Chairman asked, his head tilting like a predator's. "No, sir," Rivert replied instantly.

"That's good, then." Jin-wook turned to leave, but stopped as if a sudden thought had struck him. "Oh... I almost forgot why I came here. Rivert, wear your best suit today. We have to visit an important event." The invitation was unexpected. Rivert's face remained neutral, but his mind was spinning. Where? He couldn't ask, and he certainly couldn't refuse. He had a sinking feeling that something monumental was about to happen. But after the horror he had witnessed in the basement, this sting felt minor. He adjusted his focus, a single thought anchoring him: I will find time to call Nova. I wonder if he's worried about me.