Seven—Shunya counts the number of hostages in the grimy cell. Counting his time carefully, he takes two and three-quarters of a second to tuck his assault rifle under his arm to free one hand, allowing him to glance down at his pager to confirm the number. 

Scanning the dim screen, Shunya glances back and forth between the wide, fearful eyes behind the jail bars, taking into account their tattered clothing and respective uniforms. With one hand, he taps out a message and sends it before shoving the pager into the front pocket of his thick cargo pants.

All the hostages confirmed alive—two hired security personnel, three humanitarian aid workers, two South Korean military officers. 

He takes a step forward, settling both hands on his semi-auto as he speaks, once in Korean to the officers, once in English for good measure, nudging his head in the direction of the other prisoner, “Tell them to cover their ears and keep quiet. Don’t scream.”

With wide eyes, the officers nod.

Without much further warning He fires twice, point-blank downward into the lock of the chain tying the rusty cell doors shut. A half-gasp echoes in the room as one of the officers claps a hand over a woman’s mouth. Shunya glances sharply at him as he pulls the broken chains loose and drops them on the ground. 

The door swings open, and Shunya wastes no time in tossing the machine gun in his hand at the less muscular officer, deciding he looks more stable and clear-headed.

He smiles when the officer catches it, reflexively tucking it into position. His palms are heavily calloused but his knuckles aren’t ruined and scarred, leading Shunya to infer the guy wasn’t as good with hand-to-hand as he was with his aim and trigger finger. Well, that and Shunya recalls his file saying something similar—the man is Song Jaeha, a Special Warfare Command third division squad leader.

The women huddled in the release a collective gasp when Shunya tosses the weapon over, one choking on a sob as tears stream down her cheeks, both hands covering her mouth as she looks pleadingly at him. Silently begging for her life, he supposes.

Shunya breaks off his train of thought there and closes his eyes, his hearing heightening as he exhales, the world coming to life in the dark—and, nothing. Nothing pressing, at least.

He should shuffle the hostages over to the extraction site in good time, without running into any heavily armed problems. Easier than expected—his terror cell is disorganized at best, and Shunya took care of the group of eleven members in front of the derelict prison.

Nonetheless, Shunya still unholsters a silencer from the rig clipped to the side of his side before using the backs of his gloved fingers to pat one of the pockets on his belt, double-checking where the correct corresponding cartridges are. He debates passing the Beretta he still has holstered to one of the other men in the group, but decides against it.

“Let’s go,” Shunya turns to the hostages, who scramble to their feet, scared but mostly mobile. He’s about to turn around again and lead the way out when the clanking of metal echoes as the long gun is pointed at Shunya’s chest. 

The wind whistles where it blows through the small, shattered window high up on the left wall. Shunya sighs deeply. 

“Who are you? And why are you doing this?”

Shunya blinks. “I’m carrying out a job. I have instructions to escort you and the remaining living hostages to a safe house in Maradhoo where you’ll be collected and taken home—as per what was requested from us by your superiors.”

“Us?” Jaeha falters, gun lowering as a revelation flashes in his widening eyes, “You’re—you’re a mercenary.” 

Shunya reaches up to his collar, hooking a finger where the first button is already undone. He pulls his shirt back just enough to reveal the small but inky black tattoo on his collarbone—M0K1. 

“Maradas.” Jaeha’s mouth drops open even wider, fingers flexing on the gun as the cogs in his brain spin his web of conclusions, eyes straining to see the tattoo displayed for him. He stumbles like a spooked animal, “No, but, the higher-ups, there’s no way we—the commander wouldn’t—”

“Relax,” Shunya interrupts him, “the CNO approved the appeal to enlist Maradas forces for your rescue. The remaining members of your squad are already en route to the safehouse.” 

Shunya tugs his shirt back up and turns his feet towards the hallway before the man can continue to ramble on. He points at the group huddled behind Jaeha and glances at him seriously, “We don’t really have time to talk right now. Tell them to come. We have to go.” 

Luckily, the copter is already waiting at the pick-up location, camouflaged in the foliage when Shunya pulls off the muddy road, car flying in the air as he drives over tree roots and fallen branches. He puts the vehicle in park between two vine-covered trees just outside of the clearing.

Grabbing his pager from the dashboard (from where they had been giving him coordinates), he steps out from the driver’s side and motions for the rescued hostages to take the sheets off them and hop out of the cargo bed. 

“You can leave it in the back,” he calls out to Jaeha, who nods and gingerly places the firearm in his possession atop one of the scrunched-up tarps. He then nods at the helicopter pilot through the tinted windshield, and the pilot returns the gesture and pulls a lever that slides the heavy door open—revealing six empty seats.

Shunya glances at Jaeha, then addresses the rest of the hostages as they drag themselves along, following Shunya to the makeshift helipad. “It’ll be a tight fit, but make it work for a little while. If it’s too uncomfortable, one of you can sit in the cockpit.”

The ignition starts, and the machine rumbles to a start as the blades begin to slowly spin.

The group looks back at Shunya once they reach the pad, the second officer lifting one of the aid workers into the aircraft. The rest of them continue to stare, whispering to one another before nodding at him tearfully.

Shunya checks the time and updates his location as the rest of the hostages struggle into the helicopter, crawling in and buckling themselves to their seats. Six out of seven have climbed into the aircraft as Shunya slides his pager back into one of his front pockets.

Jaeha turns around to face Shunya again with a look that can only be pure relief and gratitude (while flattered, Shunya doesn’t necessarily feel particularly deserving of it, he’s just carrying out a job), blades of the helicopter blowing sharp wind through his ruined clothes and muddy hair. 

“Wait, you’re—you’re comin’ with us, right?”

Shunya blinks at him. “I have a separate pickup zone—I’ve deposited you here as organized—you and your people will be taken care of at the safehouse until I clean up, leave the false trail, and alert the contractor to let them know your status.”

“No way,” Jaeha steps toward him, nearly stumbling in his bewilderment. “You can’t—you’re gonna stay back by yourself? You could get captured—you could get killed once they find out we were freed!”

“I’ll be fine,” Shunya reassures him monotonously, subconsciously scratching his collarbone through his shirt with his index finger.

Jaeha blinks rapidly at him, something finally dawning on him. The second officer sticks his torso out of the helicopter, barking at Jaeha to hurry up, “We gotta go, if he says he’ll be fine he’ll be fine—he’s from that—that fucking—that unit zero, ain’t he? We’re the ones who gotta get out!”

Shunya nods, expressionless as he turns his head back to Jaeha, who still looks slightly conflicted, guilt flicking his gaze from the open door to Shunya.

Eventually, he sighs, shoulders slumping as he turns halfway, one shoe pointing toward the thrumming helicopter. “Ah, shit, just—be careful, yeah? Stay alive, alright? You have to—I still gotta thank you properly.

“I’m just doing my job.”

Jaeha guffaws, smile blinding, “Well, job or not, you saved our asses. I won’t be able to sleep at night unless I can at least buy you a drink and a meal. You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?”

Shunya doesn’t respond, but Jaeha doesn’t push on the subject.

He takes another step but hesitates, face brimming with almost childish curiosity, “Hey, kid, is it true that all the members of M0 are named after flowers?”

The abruptness actually makes Shunya laugh for a change, which surprises Jaeha, whose eyebrows shoot to his hairline. Shunya smiles, “Yeah, man. They are.” 

Jaeha has to shout his farewell over the sound of the wind, hand hovering in front of Shunya’s shoulders hesitantly like he’s unsure if he was safe to touch him, “Then, what’s your name, kid? What’re you called?”

Shunya’s ears twitch as he hears faint sounds of wheels—two trucks, one jeep—overloaded and janky (weaponry, most likely), flaunting a modified engine (propane, probably)—a little over a kilometer away.

He takes a step back, smile slipping away as he alerts the pilot with two hand signs. He turns back to Jaeha, “Time for you to go. Can’t waste any more time.” 

“But—”

“Foxglove.” 

“What?”

“My name, you asked,” Shunya dips his chin ever so slightly. “Foxglove.”