The stone walls enclosing the interrogation room, carrying a blade-sharp chill, seemed to close in and pull back repeatedly, as if about to swallow the men kneeling at the center.
The dancing torchlight only encouraged that illusion.
They were dressed in specially made infiltration gear.
Their fitted charcoal-grey tops were well-suited for concealment even under moonlight.
Wi Saheon approached slowly toward the source of the peach scent.
A man with both arms bound behind his back.
His hair, which had been neatly pinned up, was now disheveled, hanging loose past his chest.
He was the only one among them with long hair.
“Raise your head.”
“Do you not hear the order?”
At the lieutenant commander’s sharp reprimand, Shin Yigyeom reluctantly lifted his face.
Wi Saheon’s brow twitched.
The moment he came face to face with Shin Yigyeom, he could not immediately define what this situation meant — and he paused for just an instant.
By his particular nature, it appeared at a glance to be a composed, unhurried gesture, but in truth, a judgment that should have already concluded once was being recalled internally and demanding to be reorganized.
A strange, unfamiliar face smeared with dirt and bloodstains.
And yet there was enough to identify this person as Shin Yigyeom.
A form etched somewhere in his body surfaced like a conditioned reflex — so Wi Saheon did not defer the recognition with thoughts like he resembles him or he looks similar, but immediately registered him as the same person.
As a result, rather than feeling surprise, a gap had formed over where to place a conclusion reached far too quickly.
Wi Saheon fixed his gaze downward and stepped closer.
The identification was already complete, so keeping his distance would be pointless.
…Shin Yigyeom.
The existence he had neither concluded was gone nor expected to return — simply left suspended, indefinitely.
That person had suddenly appeared before his eyes.
Wi Saheon looked at the current Shin Yigyeom, worn and wretched, and overlaid him with the image of the intact Shin Yigyeom from the past, placing them on the same coordinates.
Then, as though nothing had happened at all, he brought his hand to his sword hilt — and with that single gesture, sealed the hairline fracture that had just occurred, completely and without trace.
Schhhk — the moment the cold blue blade engraved with characters was bared, Shin Yigyeom’s infiltration gear split vertically and fluttered open shallowly.
It happened before he could even feel the cool touch of the sword pressing into his chest.
The other bound unit members held their breath.
The sudden cold struck bare skin, but Shin Yigyeom did not move a muscle.
“So….”
The spine of Wi Saheon’s blade traveled down the nape of Shin Yigyeom’s neck — pale and incongruously luminous in the dim interrogation room.
The tip of the sword stopped at the left side of his chest, near his heart.
“You are a man, after all.”
A gaze that slowly retraced what it already knew pierced through Shin Yigyeom.
Within it lay a strange, inexplicable despair.
Shin Yigyeom held Wi Saheon’s gaze directly, a look of scorn curling at his lips.
“I’ve never heard that revolution has a gender. What would have been different if I were a woman?”
In an instant, fire bloomed across his cheek.
“How dare you look where you please. You were told to look at the buttons at the bottom of the uniform. Speak with respect.”
The voice of the lieutenant commander, glaring at Shin Yigyeom whose head had been turned by the blow, carried fear within it.
The only ones in this country permitted to meet the Grand Bureau Chief’s eyes were the imperial family.
Shin Yigyeom ran his tongue along the inside of his split cheek and let out a short laugh.
Wi Saheon himself seemed unbothered.
His blade traveled slowly toward Shin Yigyeom’s left nipple.
Etched there was an unclosed circle crossed by two waves.
The spine of the blade traced a light, wide circle around it.
“If you were a woman.”
Wi Saheon, his gaze resting on the pale-colored nipple, continued.
“I would have cut off your breasts first.”
A long silence fell.
At last, a voice as low and sunken as his eyes seeped out from between his lips.
“Did you do this because you wanted to die?”
“…….”
Shin Yigyeom, brow drawn in, shifted his gaze upward again from the military boots before him.
The dark navy uniform without so much as a speck of dust wrapped around the man’s solid upper body like a tailored suit.
On his broad shoulders were epaulettes; on his chest, a badge certifying that he belonged to a directly affiliated imperial institution.
And beside it, the nameplate — Wi Saheon.
He held the power of life and death not only over citizens of the Daeryun Federal Empire, but even over members of the imperial household — the head of the highest intelligence agency, the Federal Security Bureau, more commonly known as the Dark Bureau.
For such a man, the question was rather low-caliber for a first one.
It made his temples throb.
“Do you go through all that trouble when you want to die?”
Shin Yigyeom’s mocking face was turned again.
A handprint was left stark and vivid on his pale cheek.
“Speak with respect to the Grand Bureau Chief.”
At the lieutenant commander’s repeated command, Wi Saheon raised one eyebrow.
What Wi Saheon actually wanted was not polite speech — it was for the answer he had just heard to be negated.
Shin Yigyeom should not have been here.
There was no reason for him to be at the center of those who had blown apart the palace walls.
Therefore, what needed to come from Shin Yigyeom’s own mouth was either that this entire situation was a misunderstanding — or at the very least, a single word drawing a line between himself and any involvement in what had happened.
“Stop playing games.”
“…As if I would.”
Spitting the blood pooled in his mouth, Shin Yigyeom spoke with formal speech — chewing through each syllable as though grinding it between his teeth.
Wi Saheon regarded him in silence.
In the end, this situation was not a reunion — it had become an event that could only be explained by overturning the understanding he had maintained all along.
“It was I who led it.”
Wi Saheon examined the possibility that his own premise was wrong, but Shin Yigyeom’s answer remained the same.
“Fine.”
Wi Saheon spoke at last.
It was a short, definitive word.
“Consider it unknown.”
That statement was less an acknowledgment of Shin Yigyeom’s condition and more a declaration that he would take that condition as his starting premise.
At the same time, Wi Saheon distinguished that what was needed here, in this moment, was not an accounting of memories or motives — but a different kind of choice.
“Who is the one in charge here?”
The sharp tip of Wi Saheon’s sword tapped lightly against the floor.
A sorting had begun — to determine who the center was, and where to cut.
Unit member Three did not miss the way his eyes had completely transformed.
“It’s me.”
Shin Yigyeom answered quickly and clearly, without a moment’s hesitation.
Wi Saheon did not respond. His gaze drifted sideways — toward the men kneeling in a row beside Shin Yigyeom.
“And these ones.”
“They know nothing. They only followed my orders.”
Wi Saheon let out a short laugh through his nose.
He did not take Shin Yigyeom’s statement at face value — instead, he calculated in which direction it could be used.
“Following orders isn’t something to be proud of.”
The tip of his sword lifted slightly from the floor.
“If they know nothing either way, it makes no difference to kill them.”
The sword flashed briefly and blood sprayed.
With a single motion, one life ended.
It was a disposal almost offensively simple — nothing more than eliminating an unnecessary variable.
It had happened so fast the unit members couldn’t grasp what had occurred; they froze at the warmth of blood that spattered across their faces.
They barely managed to hold themselves together.
Only the youngest boy among them failed to hide his agitation, his shoulders heaving roughly.
Blood trickled down along his still-unset jaw.
Wi Saheon’s gaze was already moving on to the next.
“Did I not say that I am the one responsible!”
Shin Yigyeom’s razor-edged voice cut sharply through the space between them.
“Dispose of me.”
Teeth clenched, Shin Yigyeom glared at Wi Saheon.
The veins rising on his curled fist — unit member Three caught it and nudged him with an elbow, a silent plea to stop.
Wi Saheon’s eyes moved slowly, fixing on them with cool stillness.
As if he had heard enough, he raised the tip of his sword.
It was aimed at the throat of the boy unit member.
A single drop of blood clinging to the edge of the blade fell, leaving a circle on the back of the boy’s fist.
“Please…!”
“…….”
“I’m begging you.”
Wi Saheon’s sword paused, just briefly.
He tilted his head — as if weighing the value of the words he had just heard.
“So then.”
Wi Saheon muttered, sword still leveled at the boy.
His gaze returned to Shin Yigyeom.
“What are you willing to offer in return?”
Shin Yigyeom did not answer immediately. He steadied his breath.
Is he going to hand over the organizational network? One corner of Wi Saheon’s mouth lifted as he watched.
“Well. That’s for me to decide.”
Shin Yigyeom’s gaze flickered for just a moment — but he did not back down.
The bluish eyes, hostility swiftly tucked away, looked at Wi Saheon.
“What is it you need me to do?”
“That’s not important.”
“…….”
“You’ll need to prove first that you’re even qualified to make a demand.”
Wi Saheon’s bloodied blade turned toward the tip of Shin Yigyeom’s chin.
The boy unit member flinched.
Dreading he might be cut down in one stroke again, he shut his eyes entirely.
“What must I prove, and how.”
Shin Yigyeom watched Wi Saheon with a quiet fury.
“Who knows. Use your head.”
“…….”
“It’s the last chance my whims will give you.”
