[POINT OF VIEW: HELENA AND WI HA-JOON - THIRD PERSON]
Seventy-two hours had passed since the call. Three days that had stretched into an eternity of tension, stale coffee, and silent despair. The luxurious villa in Pyeongchang-dong had been transformed. The main living room, once a minimalist design space, was now an impromptu command center bustling with frantic, grim energy.
Helena, the woman in the hat, was the epicenter of this hurricane. She had shed her coat and hat, revealing a woman in her sixties with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes so sharp they seemed capable of cutting glass. She moved around the room like a general preparing for an impossible war. Maps of the Korean peninsula covered the marble table. Three laptops displayed satellite images and encrypted code lines. A satellite phone, different from the one Leo had called on, was permanently by her side, beeping occasionally as she spoke in whispers to contacts in half a dozen languages.
Wi Ha-joon observed her with a mixture of professional awe and an absolute feeling of being out of place. He was a good detective, one of the best. He knew how to analyze a crime scene, how to follow clues, how to interrogate a suspect. But this... this was geopolitics, espionage, and covert operations logistics on a level he had only seen in movies. He tried to help, pointing out possible infiltration routes on the maps, analyzing border security weaknesses, but every suggestion he made was met with an icy stare from Helena.
"Your plan to cross the border with a team of defectors is good for a novel, Inspector," she told him at one point, without taking her eyes off a satellite image of the northern coast. "In reality, 90% of those teams are compromised by double agents. We'd be sending a rescue team into an ambush."
"What about the sea route?" he suggested. "A small submarine?"
"The Yellow Sea is more heavily monitored than a Swiss bank vault," she retorted with a tired sigh. "Radars, patrol boats, satellites... It's a dead end." Her frustration was palpable. She was moving heaven and earth, calling retired mercenaries, arms smugglers, former CIA and KGB agents with whom she had accumulated debts over a lifetime in the shadows. She was building a house of cards on a powder keg, and every option was worse than the last.
"There are... ways," she finally murmured, more to herself than to him. "None of them are good. And all of them will take weeks to prepare. Weeks that idiot probably doesn't have."
[POINT OF VIEW: JO YU-RI AND THE GROUP - THIRD PERSON]
While Helena waged her silent war, the rest of the group lived in a golden cage, prisoners of constant anxiety. The outside world had moved on. They hadn't. They were trapped in the amber of those last moments, Leo's laughter and the sound of gunfire.
Jo Yu-ri had become an expert in the art of waiting. She spent hours sitting by the window, gazing at the city, Leo's black hoodie always on or near her. The anger she had felt during the call had cooled, leaving in its place a dull, persistent fear. The reprimand she had given him, so full of fury, now seemed childish. What right did she have to scold him for how he chose to survive?
Now she just wanted him to live. The how no longer mattered.
She caught herself smiling at the memory of how he had butchered Lee Jung-jae's name, or his description of the "nuclear fatty." And then she felt guilty for smiling. Her feelings towards him were an impossible knot to untangle: gratitude, guilt, anger, worry, and a strange new sense of... connection. He had forcefully broken into her orderly life, shattered it, and yet now she couldn't imagine a world in which he didn't exist, even as a crazy ghost in the world's most dangerous country.
The shared secret had bound them in a strange way. Lee Jung-jae often sat with Yu-ri, not to talk, but simply to be present, a pillar of silent calm. Jung Ho-yeon and Min-jun tried to maintain an air of normalcy, playing video games or watching movies, but the tension was always palpable beneath the surface. Even Mr. Choi had stopped shouting into the phone and now spent most of his time staring at the maps with an expression of deep existential horror. They were in this together, a fractured, accidental family, united by the secret of a man named Leo.
On the third night, the atmosphere was especially heavy. Helena had been more tense than ever, her phone conversations shorter and sharper. Hopes for a quick rescue were fading. They were eating dinner in silence when it happened.
One of the security monitors Helena had set up in the corner of the room flickered. It showed the image of the villa's front gate. The camera distorted for a second, as if experiencing interference, and then returned to normal.
"What was that?" Min-jun asked.
Wi Ha-joon got up and approached the monitor. "Probably an overload. The security here is top-notch..."
He trailed off. The screen showing the two security company guards in the gatehouse was now empty. No, not empty. The guards were there, but they were on the ground, neatly tied up with their own ties and gagged with what looked like their own socks. They were unharmed, but neutralized.
Helena sprang to her feet, her face a mask of full alert. "Alarm?" she asked Inspector Park, who was present.
"Nothing activated," the inspector replied, drawing his weapon. "We're on emergency lockdown! Nobody moves!"
But it was too late. The intruder was already inside.
He didn't come through the front door. He didn't break a window. He just... appeared.
The sliding glass door leading to the balcony silently glided open, and a figure stepped into the room. It was dark on the balcony, and at first, they only saw a silhouette. He wore what looked like an olive-green military uniform, too large and baggy for his build. His face was smudged with dirt and camouflage. And in his hands, he carried two large canvas bags.
Inspector Park pointed his weapon at him. "STOP! HANDS UP!"
The figure slowly raised his hands, letting the bags fall to the floor with a thud. He took a step into the room's light. He had a black eye, a split lip, and a weary but absolutely triumphant smile on his face.
It was Leo.
[POINT OF VIEW: GROUP - THIRD PERSON]
The silence that followed was louder than an explosion. For a full second, the universe stopped. Nine pairs of eyes stared at the figure who had just materialized in their supposedly impregnable sanctuary.
Mr. Choi made a choking sound and cleanly fainted, falling from his chair to the floor. Min-jun let out a high-pitched shriek that sounded ridiculously out of place. Jung Ho-yeon clapped her hands to her chest, her eyes wide as saucers. Lee Jung-jae and Wi Ha-joon simply gaped, their logical minds collapsing at the impossibility of the scene.
Helena was the first to recover. She didn't lower the inspector's weapon, but the expression on her face was a battlefield between murderous fury and a relief so profound it was almost palpable.
Leo looked at the group, his smile widening as he saw their reactions. "Hi," he said, his voice a raspy croak. "Anyone got ibuprofen? I think I dislocated a shoulder jumping off a moving train. Also, the food up north is objectively terrible. Seriously, I don't know how they survive."
"You..." Yu-ri whispered, unable to form a complete sentence. She stood up, her legs trembling. "How...?"
"Oh, you know," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "A little ingenuity, a borrowed uniform, an unfortunate misunderstanding with a high-ranking general about his wife's affections, and I crossed the Yalu River on a makeshift raft made of soju bottles and a wardrobe door. The usual, really."
He bent down and opened one of the canvas bags while Inspector Park, at Helena's silent command, finally lowered his weapon, though his expression remained one of absolute disbelief.
"But I didn't come empty-handed," Leo announced proudly. From the bag, he pulled out an object wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it to reveal an exquisitely painted, lacquered wooden screen. "First, the important stuff. The Royal Seal clue. It was right where I said it would be."
Then, he reached into the other bag and pulled out a rugged-looking external hard drive. He held it up like a trophy. "And second... the most valuable blackmail material on the planet. The key to world peace, or at least my early retirement."
He grinned, and there was a devilish gleam in his eyes. "My friends, I have uncovered the fat man's deepest, darkest, most unspeakable secret." He paused dramatically. "The man is a KatyCat."
He connected the hard drive to the villa's enormous flat-screen TV. "Exhibit A: the audio."
He pressed a button, and an audio file began to play. The quality was terrible, full of static, but beneath it, a high, off-key male voice could be heard, singing with unmistakable fervor.
"...'Cause baby, you're a firework! Come on, show 'em what you're worth! Make 'em go, 'Oh, oh, oh!' As you shoot across the sky-y-y!'"
It was, without a doubt, a karaoke recording of Kim Jong Un singing Katy Perry's "Firework." The surrealism of the moment was so overwhelming that no one knew how to react.
"And now," Leo said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "The main course. The photos."
An image filled the screen, crisp and in high resolution. The photo showed an opulently decorated bedroom, with silk curtains and gilded furniture. On a massive bed, sound asleep under a silk comforter, was the Supreme Leader of North Korea, Kim Jong Un, dressed in bright blue silk pajamas. And right beside him, leaning over him to fit into the frame, was Leo. Grinning from ear to ear, his eye already bruised, and giving a double thumbs-up to the camera.
Min-jun choked on his own saliva.
"Then things got a little complicated," Leo said, switching to the next photo.
The new image was a blurry chaos. The dictator's eyes were wide open, an expression of pure shock and regal fury on his face. In the corner of the photo, Leo could be seen, eyes wide and an "oh, shit" expression frozen on his face, clearly captured mid-jump to get out of bed.
"And finally," Leo said, displaying the last photo with the pride of an artist presenting his masterpiece.
The image was shaky, obviously taken by someone running for their life. It showed a palatial hallway. And running towards the camera, face flushed with anger, still in his blue silk pajamas, was Kim Jong Un, pointing an accusing finger and shouting. Beside him, several elite guards in impeccable uniforms and assault rifles also ran, trying to keep pace with their enraged leader.
The tension in the room finally broke.
But it wasn't with screams or panic. It was with laughter. Lee Jung-jae was first, a deep, booming laugh that came from his belly. Wi Ha-joon followed, leaning against a wall, laughing until tears streamed down his cheeks. Min-jun and Ho-yeon joined in, and soon the room, which had been a sanctuary of fear and anxiety, was filled with the sound of hysterical, liberating laughter. Mr. Choi, who had regained consciousness, simply stared at the screen with his mouth open, his brain completely melted.
Helena didn't laugh. She simply walked to the bar, poured herself a very, very large glass of whiskey, and drank it in one gulp. The anger she had felt towards Leo was defeated, annihilated by the cosmic scale of his madness.
In the midst of the laughter, only one person didn't move. Jo Yu-ri slowly walked towards Leo. He looked at her, his triumphant smile softening as he saw the expression on her face. She stopped in front of him, the man who had died, the man who had returned from North Korea with selfies of a dictator. She looked into his eyes, those tired eyes that had seen everything.
And she slapped him.
The sound echoed in the room, instantly silencing the laughter. Leo's head snapped to the side from the impact. The red mark of her hand was clearly visible on his dirty cheek.
He turned to look at her, surprised.
But before he could say a word, she lunged forward and hugged him. She hugged him with fierce, desperate strength, burying her face in his chest, in the frayed fabric of the North Korean uniform. He stiffened for a second, surprised by the sudden change, before his arms awkwardly circled her back.
She said nothing. She didn't need to. The slap had been for the hell he had put her through. The hug was for the miracle that he was there to receive it. And in that contradictory gesture, everything between them changed forever.