Eye Contact Means Black
"How did you know the sniper was Black?"
Dan lowered his binoculars from the scope and reached for the fallen pair. Da-in snatched his wrist before he could raise them to his eyes.
"We've been spotted. If we make eye contact now, our coordinates will be compromised. Are you sure?"
Dan's gaze narrowed as he looked down at his captured hand. He clearly disliked the cautious demeanor of Valentine Corporation's top-performing operative.
"You've run into NIS before, haven't you?"
He wrenched his hand free and slouched against the arched wall, his eyes darkening as he looked down at her—sharper than they'd been in daylight. Da-in ducked behind a pillar and turned down her earpiece's volume.
"I worked with them once. Not fond memories."
"Why?"
"You know. They could snap your neck anytime, but they're showing restraint. Or, you should be grateful they're not interested in you right now. Something like that."
Dan chuckled at her vague phrasing.
"We need to clear that out first."
"The cleanup crew's probably already moving. Let's wait a bit longer."
"Have you eaten?"
Da-in's eyes kept drifting toward the villa as she picked at her short nails. Dan studied her anxious face, then tossed a candy from his pocket.
She caught it lightly and laughed when she saw the label: *Banana Milk*.
"Is this a meal?"
"No. You've got dark circles under your eyes. Keep your condition up. Once we confirm where that thing came from, we'll blow it up before they can clean up."
*That thing* was the enemy who'd tailed them on a motorcycle; *they* were the organization that sent him.
Dan disassembled his sniper rifle with practiced ease, peeled off his leather gloves, and stood. He stowed the weapons neatly, shoved his hands in his pockets, and headed up the stairs they'd climbed.
Da-in hurried after him.
"Is it safe to move now?"
"No."
"Then where are we going?"
"To eat. Weren't you hungry?"
That part was true, but he clearly didn't know that the Korean catchphrase *Have you eaten?* wasn't an invitation to share a meal.
Dan turned, saw her reluctance, and scowled.
"Just a casual question?"
"Sort of."
"So you're not eating?"
"No, I mean… not exactly. But will the food suit me?"
"Don't worry. I'm not picky. Just eat whatever."
Lie.
Honestly, Dan Sneyer looked like the kind of man who'd be fussy about salt brands.
Still suspicious, Da-in followed him across the empty church sanctuary.
Clearly, staying here had loosened everyone's discipline.
Whether it was the man who'd just blown a hole in someone's skull and was now talking about lunch, or herself worrying over menus, neither of them seemed likely to make it to heaven.
Dan kicked the bike to life outside the church and tossed her a helmet.
"Ever tried the shrimp dish at Pau Hana?"
She'd been curious.
"They have other menu items too, right?"
"Don't order anything else. Clara's cooking is only good for the shrimp."
"Clara? Is that the owner's name?"
"Yeah. Clara Demon. Not his real name, of course."
*Demon.* Was her chill down her spine just her imagination? She suspected he was the only operative who used his real name.
"Anyway, they'll hand you a menu. Don't even look at anything else—order the butter shrimp. That's how you'll survive."
Even with the helmet on, she could tell he was grinning. Da-in climbed onto the back seat without protest.
*Survival of the hungriest,* she thought, mentally logging *butter shrimp*.
* * *
"Ugh… I'm stuffed."
Despite the long walk, the food still sat heavy in her stomach.
The butter shrimp at Pau Hana was flawlessly delicious. If the cooking was this good, everything else must be too—so why insist on only the shrimp?
The question lingered, but the unexpected meal had been excellent, and Clara had been kind.
Clara Demon.
A man in his early fifties using an alias. Da-in had assumed the name was female until she met the Dwayne Johnson–lookalike and chided herself for her narrow-mindedness.
Clara had once been a Valentine field agent but, after being caught in an Afghanistan explosion, now managed the Americas hub. A hub served as an intelligence relay, supplied operatives with weapons and transport like last time, and occasionally doubled as a safehouse. "Just say my name anywhere," he'd boomed, "and you'll get help."
The butter shrimp had been delicious, and Da-in returned to the villa full.
Where the enemy's head had been blown off hours earlier, white cement powder now lay scattered. No analysis yet, but since he'd operated alone, he was likely a confident killer.
She greeted the silent guard who opened the gate as usual and trudged across the garden. Three SUVs were parked where none had been before. And there, in a white dress shirt and suit pants, was a man's back.
She silenced her footsteps and melted into the nearby shadows.
With each step the man took, a red ember flared at the corner of his lips, followed by thick, acrid smoke curling on the wind.
He stood before the blocks Yeon-woo had played with earlier, then withdrew his hand from his pocket. A cigarette glowed between his long, slender fingers.
He brushed back his grown-out hair and turned.
Kwon Hee-jae's cold, almost dry profile tore through Da-in's memories.
*"The old man's already dead. What the hell are you doing holding out here? Didn't I tell you to find him and get the hell out by today?"*
The day her uncle had dragged her out of the house by her hair, Hee-jae had sat in the back of a luxury sedan, watching her roll in the dirt. He'd smoked then too, glancing at her with eyes devoid of interest. Not a word of concern.
Da-in shook off the foul memory with a wave of her hands and crept through the darkness.
She might as well get the beating over with. Hiding while living under the same roof would only raise more suspicion.
"What's this, over here?"
Hee-jae's voice snagged her nape as she tiptoed toward the entrance.
Uneven footsteps approached. As something clattered to the ground, Da-in sprang up.
At the same moment, the tip of a cane shot toward her abdomen.
Dodge or take it.
She chose the latter in a split second.
She hit the car door with a *thud*, hands raised, as his face—stained with frustration—loomed closer.
Hee-jae exhaled smoke and tilted his head, pinning her down. For the first time, she could study his face clearly.
Thin double eyelids, shadows falling vertically from the garden lights, and red lips. A man who looked sinful.
*What kind of man looks that sinful?*
As his face drew nearer, she tried to pull back, but only hit the car window—silent, no alarm.
"Wait, Mr. Park Geun-sik is my uncle? Did I… do something wrong?"
Her voice cracked as she played the terrified role. Only when she heard Geun-sik's name did the cane's pressure ease.
She realized the dropped item was the word book he'd made for Yeon-woo.
"Ah… that brat? Why are you so late? What time is it?"
*Excuse me, you're not that much older than me…*
Right. Lee Da-in was nearly thirty, but Lee Woo-hee was mid-twenties, on leave from law school.
Still, shouldn't he have apologized first for swinging a cane at her?
She glanced at her smartwatch and hunched her shoulders.
"I don't know who you are… who are you?"
She asked in a slanted tone, unwilling to admit she'd arrived early. Her cells prickled with unease from old memories.
"The owner. Kwon Yeon-woo is my son."
"Ah! Yeon-woo's father. Hello! My part-time job ran late… I heard you were coming. Wow, you're so young."
*Ha ha,* she forced a smile, corners of her mouth twitching.
Hee-jae's brow furrowed at her over-the-top act. He lit another cigarette and nodded.
*Don't make noise. Go inside.* He never apologized.
*Arrogant bastard.*
Da-in bowed and hurried inside.
No lingering gaze followed her, but her heart fluttered like finding her favorite side dish at the cafeteria after years.
Back in her room, she locked the door and stood there for a long moment, listening for Hee-jae's footsteps from the hallway.
The uneven rhythm drew closer, passed her door without hesitation, and faded at the end of the hall.
A faint click of a closing door.
Only then did Da-in collapse to the floor, tension draining like sinking into water.
*He didn't recognize me… right?*