Han Temu's wrists were raw from the handcuffs, the metal biting into his skin with every step. He had barely managed to put on his shoes when two men in dark coats had grabbed him from the back entrance of his office building. No warning. No warrant. Just the cold grip of authority and a low whisper:
"You're coming with us."
Thrown into the backseat of an unmarked car, blindfolded, and driven through what felt like a maze of back alleys, Temu tried to keep his breathing steady. The air smelled like gasoline and sweat. Something felt wrong—terribly wrong.
When the blindfold came off, he was in a dim interrogation room. Concrete walls, one flickering light overhead. A table. Two chairs. A mirror.
Then the questions began.
"Your alias?"
"Your handler's name?"
"Your mission objective in South Korea?"
He blinked. "What… alias? I'm just a—"
A slap landed across his cheek. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to remind him that this wasn't a regular police station.
The man across the table leaned in. His face was too calm. Too perfect.
"Stop pretending. We know you're with the International Bureau. You think we don't know who you are, Han Temu?"
Something didn't add up. Temu was no spy. CEO, yes. Tired? Definitely. But international undercover agent? Laughable.
He tried to reason. "You've got the wrong person—check my ID, my records, my company files!"
Another voice, a woman this time, entered from behind. Cold and sharp like a scalpel.
"The files can be forged. But memory under pressure? That's real."
They were too calm. Too methodical. Real police weren't like this. They didn't abduct. They didn't slap people in cold rooms without legal formality.
Suddenly, it clicked.
This wasn't a police interrogation.
This was a setup.
A kidnapping.
He went quiet. Let his breathing slow. Let his heartbeat fall in rhythm. Then he looked into the one-way mirror and said, deliberately and clearly:
"If you're real police, show me your badge. If not—"
"—then I want to speak to my lawyer. Now."
The silence was thick, but then—it broke.
Laughter.
Cold. Contained. Arrogant.
The man who had slapped Temu leaned back in his chair and chuckled, shaking his head like he was watching a child misunderstand a simple game.
"He really doesn't know," the woman murmured, almost amused. "He thinks this is just a case of mistaken identity."
Temu's eyes narrowed. His heart thumped louder in his chest.
Then the man picked up a small black phone, pressed a single button, and spoke without emotion:
"Plan C. Confirmed. Move to Phase Two."
A few seconds passed. Then came the sound.
Frrr. Frrrrr. Frrrrrrrrr.
At first, it was faint. A distant, rhythmic chopping of the air. But it grew louder. And louder. Until the sound shook the very walls of the room.
Helicopter blades.
Temu flinched. His instincts screamed run, but the two agents—if they could even be called that—grabbed his arms and pulled him roughly to his feet.
They marched him outside, through a dark hallway and up a rusted metal staircase. The door at the top burst open, and cold wind hit his face like a slap.
The roof.
And in the sky above—a black military-grade helicopter hovered, its spotlight blinding, its blades roaring like an approaching storm.
"Look carefully," the man said near his ear. "That's your next destination. Still think you're not important?"
Temu stared, frozen. The wind tore at his clothes, his eyes stung from the light. He had no answers. No memory of anything they were accusing him of. But now—
Now the fear was real.
This wasn't about mistaken identity anymore.
They were taking him somewhere.
Somewhere far worse.
The cold wind bit at his cheeks. The roar of the helicopter drowned out every rational thought.
Temu's breath came short and shallow. His vision blurred at the edges, pupils shrinking. His heart wasn't just beating—it was hammering in his chest like it was trying to escape.
What do they want from me?
Why me? Why now?
The wind was too loud. The light too bright. The hands gripping his arms too tight.
He couldn't hear his own thoughts anymore.
Couldn't feel the ground beneath him.
Couldn't breathe properly.
What if I never leave this roof?
What if this is it?
The sky spun. The world tilted. Something in his brain screamed danger, but his body was already giving up.
No one's coming. No one's saving you. This is it.
The sound of the helicopter became muffled, like underwater. The agents' faces twisted into unrecognizable shadows. His knees buckled.
And then—darkness.
…
He opened his eyes.
Warmth.
Stillness.
No wind.
No noise.
Only the low hum of the city beyond the hotel window.
He blinked. Once. Twice. His body felt heavy—but not restrained.
He was in bed.
His own bed.
The hotel room.
The same clothes clung to his body, slightly wrinkled—but the boots were gone.
On his feet were… sneakers?
Temu slowly turned his head.
Beside him, under the blanket, slept a woman.
Her breath steady. Soft. Calm.
Lim Cha-yeon.
His wife.
He blinked again.
Still real.
Hesitantly, Temu reached out a single index finger…
And gently touched the palm of her hand.
Warm.
Soft.
Real.
His chest loosened for the first time in hours. A smile flickered at the edge of his mouth—tiny, involuntary.
She's here… it's okay now…
But then—she moved. Slightly. A subtle twitch in her shoulder.
Temu's soul jumped out of his skin.
He launched himself backwards—nearly two and a half meters across the room—in full panic mode.
She didn't even wake up.
He panted. Looked around.
Still the hotel. Still night. Still… reality.
Temu staggered to his feet and went to the bathroom.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Pale. Sweaty. Alive.
"I'm like a squirrel in a wheel…" he muttered.
"But Grandpa always said—there are no squirrels in our bloodline."
"Only wolves."