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“Making threats is all you know how to do, Jin-tae,” he says. “You’ve said that to a lot of people, haven’t you? But you haven’t realized that we will never stop. We will never stop coming after you… and the weaknesses you claimed you didn’t have. It looks like the great Silent Hunter has one after all. You couldn’t kill her like you were supposed to. So now we will have to. That goodbyekiss on the platform was very romantic. Fitting it would be your last.”

“Tell me where you are. I’ll come meet you. We’ll see if you’ll say that to my face,” I growl, fumbling for my car keys.

I’ve made it to the parking lot where my Genesis G80 Sport glints in the late-afternoon sunlight. I have exactly thirty minutes to make it to the Busan train station and attempt to intercept Monroe and these bastards.

“Don’t worry, Jin-tae. We’re taking good care of her for you. We haven’t hurt her yet. Much anyway. Think we can get her to break before we get off the train?”

“You’re dead,” I say in a low, eerily calm voice. “Prepare to die.”

I press the red button to end the call, slamming my phone down on the passenger seat. My fingers tighten on the wheel, knuckles taut and white, as I floor the gas pedal. The tires screech as I whip out of the parking lot and leave a trail of burned rubber behind me.

There’s no room for error. No time to hesitate or pause.

There’s a narrow window that I must make or else…

I can’t even bring myself to think of the alternative. They’ll kill Monroe. They’ll torture her and do some of the worst, most inhumane things to her before putting her out of her misery. All out of sick revenge against me.

Payback for the shit I’ve done as a Ho-gwi in the Baekho Pa.

The route from Gijang to Busan takes forty minutes on a good day of traffic. I aim to make it in half that as red lights blur and I speed straight through. I’m like a formula one racecar driver, gunning it from the country roads surrounding Gijang to the more congested streets of Busan.

Trucks swerve out of my way and taxis honk violently. A deliveryman on a bike screams as I almost clip him at a crosswalk.

Twenty-four minutes later, I’m pulling up outside of Busan Station. The lot is a chaotic maze. Cars line up in tight rows. People meander in every direction. I veer into a no-parking zone and throw the door open. A parking attendant shouts that I’m not allowed to park where I have.

I sprint toward the terminal, his words falling on deaf ears.

The station is a sea of hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. Their shoes clap the tile and their chatter forms a dissonant sound. Neon-lit signs flicker above me with arrows and directions which way to go.

It would be so easy to lose track of someone here. If I’m not careful, Monroe and her captors could slip right by me.

I push forward, shoulder-checking a businessman and knocking a college student off-balance. But if they’re in my way, they simply have to move. There’s no time to be polite or patient about it. I shove my way through the crowd until the arrival boards emerge overhead.

My eyes scan the digital letters and numbers.

Platform 9 - 2187 Gijang Line - ETA: 5 Minutes

I pivot hard on my heel and tear down the corridor toward the platforms. Sweat slides down the side of my face, lungs burning from the sprint.

I’m coming up on platform nine when an announcement overhead turns the tables.

“Attention passengers,” the intercom buzzes. “Train 2187 from Gijang has been reassigned. Now arriving on platform three in two minutes.”

My blood goes cold.

I whip around and bolt for the other side of the massive station. The Busan train station is the second largest in thecountry, second only to Seoul. A change of platform means a long trek through a crowded station.

The corridor narrows. The crowds are packed in tighter moving through. Many people walk at a strolling pace, engaged in conversation with each other or lugging heavy suitcases they can barely carry. I shoulder past, knocking over a luggage cart, sending the pieces tumbling to the ground.

More people scream after me.

I’m already at the front of the crowds, vaulting over a turnstile.

The train’s pulling in as I stumble onto platform three, husking out ragged breaths. The brakes squeal as it comes to a halt. Doors slide open to reveal antsy passengers bursting from the exit like a waterspout suddenly turned on.

I shove past more people, elbowing bodies out of the way so that I can board the train myself and search for her. My head is on a swivel, turning in every direction, eyes scanning wildly. Looking over every compartment, every seat, every face leaving the train.

Where the fuck is she?!