Page 27 of Ruthless Touch

Everything is fine. The world is whole.

And then the light dims. The moment changes and the scene shifts. We’re suddenly indoors, in some kind of parlor room with lacquered cherrywood furniture and deep maroon walls. The place smells earthy and smoky like cigars that have been lit moments before.

I’m hiding under a table, tears wetting my cheeks.

Dad is shouting. He’s arguing with someone who’s face I can’t see. The other man yells back, sometimes in English and other times in Hangul.

“Please…” I murmur. “Please don’t fight…”

But they don’t hear my pleas—their shouting only grows worse until the scary noises culminate in the scariest noise of all.

The deafening bang of a gunshot.

I gasp, eyes going wide as my heart almost stops inside my chest.

No. This can’t be. It can’t be happening. Daddy?—

I jolt awake still gasping, dripping sweat. The room’s dark, the only light coming from the city buildings glimmering outside the window.

I must’ve been asleep for a long time. So long I passed out early morning and slept the entire afternoon away.

I’m so shaken that it takes me another moment to realize my phone is vibrating. The screen flashes with the notification to let me know I’ve received a text.

A welcome distraction considering the nightmare I just had.

I thumb it open, staring blearily at the screen. It’s from Director Hart:

I spoke to Onyx a few minutes ago.

Target confirmed. Briefing is finalized.

Assignment set for 2100, Thursday.

Bring your A game, Silk.

EIGHT

GUN

Lightning bursts across the sky,but it’s nothing compared to the storm me and Father are in. He shoves the doors open and we step out into the rain, his strides long and mine half the length as I scurry to keep up with him.

His face is clenched in anger as he roars over his shoulder. “Baeshinja!”

We cross the dark street, the pavement slick under my sneakers. He jerks his head at the unmarked car parked against the curb.

“Get in!” he spits.

I scramble into the passenger seat, hands fumbling with the seatbelt as Father slams the driver’s side door so hard the entire car rattles.

The interior smells like leather, cigarettes, and some funny cherry air freshener he’s used to try to mask the cigarette stench. I’d normally complain because the smell tickles my nose, but he’s so angry I don’t dare say a word.

I’m not even buckled in before the engine growls to a start and we lurch forward into the night. The tires spin against the wet asphalt as Father jerks the wheel like he’s forgotten how to drive.

The Hangul pours out of him in a torrent as vicious as the rain hammering the windshield. Words I recognize are mixed with others I know are bad; words he’d be angry with me and Ho-seok if we ever dared speak.

“Baeshinja!” he screams again, beating a fist against the steering wheel. “Geu saekkiga nal bae-shinaesseo!”

It takes me a second to decipher what he’s said.