The taxi cab smelled of ozone, dust, and scorched plastic.
Ryu Sungyeon kept looking back—but no one was following him.
The city lay below, an endless glow—networks of roads, storefronts, bridges stretching along blackening domes.
There was barely an hour left until dawn.
When Lyran's dome filters opened, daylight would flood the streets—and he would have to hide.
He exhaled deeply, feeling the residual tension leave his body.
The thought that he had escaped Kang Jihan's grasp felt almost unreal.
But he couldn't relax.
His situation was hopeless: no credits, no communicator, his clothes were foreign, and Jihan knew where to look for him.
He knew about Vermilion.
And most importantly—he couldn't be controlled by hypnosis.
It would be better not to return there at all, but where else could he get money and blood supplies?
Besides, he needed to tell Oh Rian a few things.
"How many hours do I have before that psycho realizes I'm gone?"
If only he knew. Jihan could return at any minute.
He didn't just believe in vampires—he knew the details: about their reaction to light, about suppression collars, about metabolism.
He spoke as if he had seen the dissections himself.
Without fear.
Like a man who had once wielded the knife himself.
"He knows too much…"
He figured everything out too quickly: Rian, the underground network, and even So Raon's name.
He must have either vast wealth or even greater connections.
Or perhaps, both.
Sungyeon bit his lip, suppressing an irritated chuckle.
Since he settled in Lyran and dissolved into its shadows, he rarely had to run.
He had forgotten the feeling—the sticky fear on his skin when every minute could be his last.
"And he said he didn't need money...
Who in Lyran refuses money?"
In this city, credits are a second blood.
An hour later, the lights of the lower ring appeared outside the windows.
He asked the driver for the terminal and entered Rian's code.
Soon, a silhouette stood at the club entrance—a dark puffer jacket, a hood, hands in his pockets.
The taxi driver squinted warily:
— Is that your guy?
— Mine. Drive closer.
When the cabin stopped, Rian stepped forward.
— Hyung!
The taxi driver flinched—as if expecting a fight.
Sungyeon calmly handed him several banknotes Rian had given him.
The driver brightened, looking at the rare paper money:
— Thank you, sir! Good luck!
The car drove away, leaving a trail of steam.
Sungyeon pulled up his hood and quickly headed down—to where Vermilion pulsed beneath the layers of streets.
***
The metal of the stairs was cold, the thick, saturated with the smell of alcohol, tobacco, and ozone.
When the door closed behind him, the city seemed to disappear.
The red sign still flickered above the counter, casting reflections on the walls.
Rian looked around nervously.
— You were gone for three days. I thought it was all over.
— What's the date today?
— The ninth.
— And when did I call you last?
— The seventh.
Sungyeon frowned.
Three days. Even with tranquilizers—too long.
— And what about those people hanging around the entrance?
— After you disappeared, they just vanished. As if they were never there.
Sungyeon's face darkened.
— It was a setup. Everything was orchestrated by Jihan. Once I was caught, there was no point in observing anymore.
He hit the counter with his fist.
— What kind of son of a bitch is he? Does he have an entire network at his disposal? Or is he a boss from the upper rings?
Rian asked cautiously:
— Who are you talking about...
— About that psychopath who came with the invitation.
— I remember.
— Find out who he is. Check everything—by the name Kang Jihan, and by his old aliases. If that doesn't work—hire a tracker. And get the Vermilion camera footage, the frame with his face.
He automatically reached for his pocket—and remembered his phone was gone.
His lips twisted into an annoyed smirk.
— Okay, I should have a note with his number at home. Check it. And also... lay low.
— Is he dangerous? — Rian tensed.
— Too much so. You can't handle him.
— That much?
— To me, he's just an obstacle. To you, he's a death sentence.
He looked at Rian seriously:
— Did you tell anyone about your father?
— No.
— Don't start. Not a word. Especially not to him.
— Hyung, I'm not an idiot...
Sungyeon slapped him on the back of the head.
— I know. Just remember.
He took a spare communicator from Rian, turned it on, and took a deep breath.
He shed the foreign uniform, changed into a gray hoodie from the club wardrobe, and put on a black coat over it.
He added a cap, a mask, and goggles—now he looked like a celebrity hiding from drone paparazzi.
***
Thanks to the taxi, he reached his apartment in the lower sector in ten minutes.
The sky over Lyran was covered in dust, and the filter light only dimly seeped through the clouds—perfect weather for a fugitive.
The streets were almost empty: office workers, students, a couple of vending machines.
No one made eye contact.
Sungyeon smirked.
"It's great to live where no one cares about others."
The apartment smelled of a diffuser—a familiar, pungent scent of cedar and coffee.
He immediately went to the table, where he found a crumpled note under a stack of magazines.
He smoothed it out, photographed it, and sent it to Rian:
'010-xxx-xxxx — that bastard's number. Check it. Don't spare the detective.'
The reply came instantly:
'Got it.'
He pulled a suitcase from the closet and began collecting everything valuable: banknotes, jewelry, sealed bags of blood, chilled with ice—from the outside, it looked like expensive drinks.
— A snack before the journey wouldn't hurt...
He opened a bag, took a sip—and immediately threw up.
— Ugh, damn it...
Crimson liquid splattered across the white floor.
The smell was rancid, metallic.
— What the hell? The fridge is working...
He checked—the temperature was normal.
But the taste was disgusting.
Maybe stress, he thought.
Maybe my body is refusing to accept even blood.
He spat, washed away the traces, rinsed his mouth again, and clicked the suitcase lock shut.
— Wait for me, Lyran. I'll be back.
He opened the door.
And froze.
A tall figure stood on the threshold, casting a shadow into the hallway.
A moment later—and the door slammed against the wall with a crash.
Sungyeon tried to slam it shut, but an alien foot stopped it.
— What the... —
The door burst open.
Kang Jihan stood on the threshold.
A lazily dangerous smile played on his face.
— Honey, did you really think you could run away?
Sungyeon staggered back, his back hitting the shoe cabinet.
— ...How?!
— What do you mean 'how'? — Jihan chuckled softly. — I didn't believe you from the start. But I didn't think you'd escape so fast.
He stepped inside without taking off his shoes.
His gaze swept over the interior—black curtains, holographic panels, the smell of blood.
— You know the filters have already opened, right?
— ...
Sungyeon's throat constricted.
Yes, the windows were protected by UV film, but if he tore them off—the light would be enough to burn his skin.
Jihan moved closer, grabbed his collar, and pinned him against the wall.
His palm—hot, heavy, like shackles.
— I am very angry, — he whispered. — You broke your promise. Will you come with me willingly?
Sweat from Jihan's temples ran down his cheek, and Sungyeon felt the heat of his breath.
"If I had left a minute earlier…"
— Or would you prefer to die?
— Of course, I'll go with you, — Sungyeon quickly breathed out, forcing a strained smile.
Click!
Silver handcuffs snapped shut on his wrists.
He winced.
— ...Seriously?
— Shut up.
The world vanished.
Only Kang Jihan's voice remained—low, calm, like the thunderous hum before a storm.