Chapter 7: The Aftermath and the Hunt
The safehouse smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee.
Jennie kicked the door shut behind her, the deadbolt sliding home with a satisfying click. The lights flickered on automatically, casting the room in a sterile, clinical glow that did nothing for either of them. Leonid had made it three steps inside before his knees buckled, and she caught him—barely—her arms wrapping around his chest, absorbing his weight as they staggered toward the bed.
"Easy," she murmured. "Easy, Leo."
He grunted something that might have been a thank you, might have been a curse, as she guided him face-down onto the mattress. He landed with a sharp exhale, his body going limp, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed like a broken puppet string.
She stood there for a moment, catching her breath, watching the rise and fall of his back. His skin was slick with sweat, pale in the fluorescent light, and she could see the red marks on his wrists where the silk cord had bitten into his flesh. She could see other things too, things she didn't want to look at, things that made her hands curl into fists at her sides.
"Stay," she said, though it was pointless. He wasn't going anywhere.
She moved to the bathroom, running water until it turned cold, soaking a washcloth. The medicine cabinet yielded what she needed—a tube of antibacterial ointment, a bottle of ibuprofen, a pack of ice wrapped in a thin towel. She carried them back to the bed, kneeling beside him.
"Roll your hips up," she said. "I need to see the damage."
He laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "Jennie, I love you, but if you think I'm in the mood for—"
"Shut up." Her voice was flat. "Just do it."
He complied with a pained grunt, shifting his weight, turning his face into the pillow as she probed the torn, swollen flesh. She worked with cold efficiency, her fingers steady even as her jaw tightened. The ointment went on first, cool and slick, followed by the ice pack pressed gently against him.
He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck."
"I know."
"That's not—" he breathed out slowly, deliberately. "That's not helping."
"It'll help tomorrow." She held the ice in place, watching the muscles of his back twitch. "You tore pretty badly. He was... he wasn't gentle."
"Noticed that, did you?"
Her hand paused. She felt the fury rise in her chest, hot and sharp, and she forced it down. "I'm going to kill him."
"After we find the boss."
"Same night." She pressed the ice harder. "I can multitask."
Leonid's laugh was muffled by the pillow, but it was real—the first real sound he'd made since they left the penthouse. She filed it away like a victory.
She worked in silence for a while, cleaning the wounds, checking for anything that needed stitches, cataloguing the damage like a soldier assessing friendly casualties. His left shoulder had a bruise blooming, dark purple against his pale skin. His ribs were marked with finger-shaped impressions. His wrists were raw, the skin rubbed pink where he'd strained against the silk.
"The IP address resolves to an office park near Gangnam Station," she said, her voice quiet, matter-of-fact. "Third floor, suite 301. A shell company called Haneul Partners."
"Sounds like a real estate firm."
"It's not."
"How do you know?"
She pulled up her dress, retrieving the phone from where she'd tucked it against her thigh. The screen was still warm from her body. "Because I found the same address linked to three weapons purchases in the last two years. And a name I recognized."
She turned the phone toward him, the glowing screen illuminating the dim room. "Han Seo-jun."
Leonid went still.
"Of course it is," he said softly. "Of-fucking-course."
"Three years, Leo. Three years we've been chasing this man, and he's been sitting in an office park fifteen minutes from where we had lunch last week." She tossed the phone onto the nightstand, watching it land with a clatter. "He probably watched us. The whole time."
"He might have."
"And now he's leaving tomorrow." Her voice was sharp, cutting through the hum of the air conditioner. "The messages on Park's phone—there was a confirmation. A one-way ticket to Dubai. He's planning to disappear."
Leonid turned his head, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. In the dim light, he looked like something from a painting—dark curls, sharp cheekbones, bruises blooming like dark flowers on his pale skin.
"Then we go now," he said. "Tonight."
She shook her head. "You can barely walk."
"I can shoot."
"Can you run?"
He hesitated. It was all the answer she needed.
She sighed, running a hand through her hair, tugging at the strands. The frustration was a physical thing, a knot in her chest that she couldn't untangle. They were so close. So fucking close.
"I can track him," she said slowly, "from here. Park's phone has a location-sharing app. Seo-jun's still connected." She scrolled through the phone, finding the app, her thumb hovering over the icon. "But if he's anything like the intel says, he'll have someone watching his location. He might realize his phone is compromised."
"Then we move fast."
"We move smart." She set the phone down, turning to look at him fully. "I'll go. Alone."
"No."
"Leo—"
"Absolutely not." He pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing as his weight shifted. "We do this together. That's how it's always been. That's how it's going to be."
"This isn't about sentimentality, I'm being pragmatic. You're hurt. You're slow. I can't afford a dead weight."
"Dead weight." He laughed, and this time there was no humor in it. "I let a pervert fuck me into next week for that mission, and you're calling me dead weight?"
She felt the words like a slap. Her face flickered, just for a moment, before she smoothed it back into impassivity.
"That's different," she said.
"Is it?"
The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire. The clock on the wall ticked its steady, indifferent rhythm.
She broke first. She always broke first.
"I don't want to lose you," she admitted quietly. "Not like this."
"Then don't."
He reached for her, his hand finding hers, his fingers threading through hers. She let him, standing still as he pulled her closer, as his grip tightened.
"I'm not going to let you run into a trap alone," he said. "We work better together. You know that. When they're watching you, they're not watching me. And when I'm down..." He smiled faintly. "You're the one who picks me up."
She didn't answer. But she didn't pull away either.
---
The ice pack had melted, leaving a wet patch on the sheets. She replaced it with a gel pack, frozen solid, wrapped in a fresh towel.
Leonid lay on his stomach, his face turned toward the wall, his breathing slow and steady. She thought he might be sleeping, but his hand was still wrapped around hers, his grip loose but present.
She straddled him—carefully, her weight settling on the backs of his thighs rather than his ass. He tensed, then relaxed, making a small sound that might have been surprise.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Making you forget."
She reached down, pressing her hips against him, rocking in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The thin cotton of her dress was no barrier—she could feel the heat of him through the fabric, could feel the way his body responded to hers even now, despite everything.
"Jennie..."
"Shut up." Her voice was soft, almost gentle. "Let me take care of you."
She slid off him, reaching for the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. She dropped it on the floor, then settled back onto him, her bare skin against his, the smooth curve of her ass grinding against the dip of his lower back.
"Sit up a little," she said.
He complied, propping himself on his elbows, his face still buried in the pillow. She reached under him, her fingers finding him, stroking him until he hardened in her grip.
"Just focus on me," she whispered. "Just feel me."
She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his back, her lips at his ear. She rocked her hips in a slow, circular motion, the wet heat of her cunt sliding against the cleft of his ass.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Not yet." She stroked him faster, her palm slick with the moisture gathering at his tip. "Not until I say."
He whimpered. She could hear the strain in his voice, the effort it took him to hold still.
She ground against him harder, her clit catching on the edge of his skin, sending sparks of pleasure through her body. She was wet—she'd been wet since the moment she straddled him, the anger and the fear and the desperate need to feel something good after everything they'd been through colliding in a familiar, comfortable heat.
She worked him in a tight, twisting rhythm, her thumb circling the head, painting him with pre-cum. His hips bucked into her hand, tracking her movements.
"Please," he said, the word muffled. "Please, Jennie."
She leaned down, her mouth at his ear, her voice a dark promise.
"Remember this," she said. "Remember me."
She squeezed him harder, her rhythm quickening, and she felt the moment he let go—the tremble in his thighs, the sharp intake of breath, the way his body arched against her as he came, her name on his lips.
She held him through it, her hand still stroking, softer now, guiding him down from the peak. When he slumped against the mattress, boneless and gone, she slid off him, settling beside him on the narrow bed.
He didn't speak. Neither did she.
The clock ticked.
After a long moment, she reached for the phone, her fingers finding the tracking app. She watched the little dot pulse on the screen, moving steadily toward the Gangnam office park.
"Tomorrow," she said. "We hit him at dawn."
Leonid's hand found hers again. Squeezed.
"Dawn," he agreed.
His breathing evened out, deepening into sleep, and she let him rest. She kept her eyes on the screen, on the pulsing dot, until the glow made her eyes ache with the weight of watching.