He didn't need to check the file. He knew the numbers. 13,150. That was the casualty count if the mole in Seoul finished the upload. He felt the weight of the Beretta against his ribs—a cold, metal reminder of the "ruthless" part of his job description.

The neon of Shenyang didn’t glow; it bled. Through the cracked window of a safehouse that smelled of wet asphalt and cheap tobacco, Kang watched the rain wash over the black sedans idling below.

"Let them," Kang replied, his voice a low gravel. "I don’t want the messengers. I want the source."

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