Archive of Our Own

“Hiya, George. How’s Paris?”

Hao lights a cigar, using his shoulder to pin the payphone against ear.

He recites the message he’d been instructed to say, “Good sun these days, thanks for asking.”

It came scribbled on a folded up note, hidden in a salt shaker at an unoccupied table in a run-down Parisian cafe—all part of the rigorous checks to make sure that the cogs in the machine are turning the way they’re supposed to.

“Something came for you in the mailbox—Unit 412.” The deep nicotine-rough voice is one he’d probably never hear again. “Come by the henhouse and see Catherine.”

“I’ll get right to it.”

“She should ask you about her pal, Lady. Tell her that Lady got a new collar…” A pause. “Do remind her to tell you about Spain. She toured three churches. Percy invited you to the ditch, the usual time. Oh, and be careful of the rats, George.”

Hao tosses a look over his shoulder, making eye contact with a man across the street, bowler hat concealing his visage, a roll of newspaper held securely in his hand.

“Ever careful,” Hao says, before hanging the phone up.

He doesn’t need to worry about being tracked—the only one does that, who can do that, is the Institution itself. All their agents are watched closely to keep them in line and Hao, being no exception, has gotten used to looking over his shoulder.

The henhouse is code for L'hôtel Bourbon, a shack somewhere in Barbès, best known by people like Hao as a come-and-go. A place to pick up a mission, or maybe a piece of information, then be on your way to do whatever it is you’re required to.

Hao breezes through the front door half an hour later, the Parisian morning having gotten slightly warmer but not much brighter. He forgoes greeting the old receptionist, since both of them are familiar with each other in a way that can never be acknowledged; they aren’t acquaintances, but ghosts. Displeasure tugs down at the corner of his mouth when he finds that the elevator is still out of order, forcing him to jog his way up four floors of mouldy walls and peeling paint.

When he knocks on the door, he’s met with no answer. He has to turn his face to the shadow when a middle-aged couple emerges from the stairway and passes him by. He huffs as he looks down at his feet, kicking off a cockroach sitting right by the edge of his boot.

The door swings open just as the couple disappear three doors down the hall, and Hao pushes past the door and shuts it behind him. Whoever opened for him grunts as Hao’s elbows digs into his ribs—male, just a few inches shy of six feet, slender, a knife strapped to his ankle (it was the first thing Hao saw), and a gun poorly concealed at his back, which thuds as Hao pushes him up against the wall.

“Took you fucking long enough.” Hao clutches the guy’s collar, and with his free hand he makes sure that the nozzle of his gun could be felt against his temple. “We could’ve been compromised if you decided to waste another second staring at me from behind the door.”

“Relax, hyung. I’m always clean, you know that.” The reply is irritatingly nonchalant, and only then does Hao sober up and realise that he’s looking at a familiar face. Still, he doesn’t let up.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Hao waits another moment before finally letting go, but not before confiscating Hanbin’s gun from his waistband. Hanbin seems to breathe again as Hao takes a step back.

The noises of a gun being picked apart substitutes a conversation. Hao glances at Hanbin now and then as he takes out the cartridge and dislodges all the bullets inside, and the other man seems to have trouble deciding whether he should meet Hao’s eyes or watch his deft hands.

Hanbin ventures further into the suite at Hao’s gesture, who lags behind him to find a surface on which to discard Hanbin’s now-harmless gun. Only when he’d rid his hands of it does he finally cast his eyes upon the dimly lit room, and the first thing he notices is the bottle of alcohol on a coffee table.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Hanbin says, almost a sigh. The leather jacket weighing down his shoulders slides down his arms effortlessly, pulled by its own weight. Hanbin tosses it on the bed, and, as if instinctively, rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.

“This place isn’t tapped?”

“Checked three times.”

“Just making sure.”

“You haven’t changed.”

Hao stands there, hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do. If he moves, where will he go? Sit down, maybe? No, no, that’s too… comfortable. Too intimate. You sit down if you’re with friends, but Hanbin… Hanbin is a colleague, albeit one he’s known for some time, and this apartment, dingy as it may be, is their workplace.

“So you’re Aragon, huh?” The mention of the name attracts Hanbin’s gaze. Catherine, the code used by the case officer, is an allusion to Catherine of Aragon; Aragon is one of the Institution’s made-up names—another one of the ways through which they make sure that their agents stay as ghosts. “The churches in Spain. How many did you visit?”

Hanbin leans against the nearest wall, a slab of wood by the curtained window. He smiles in an indulgent way, like all these questions are part of a game he’s unobliged to play, but chooses to anyway.

“Three. Any news about Lady?”

“She got a new collar.”

“Are we good now?”

Hao shrugs. “Seems like it.”

Hanbin pushes himself off the wall and reaches for the bottle of wine on the coffee table. He tips it into his mouth, glugging down a couple shots’ worth of vodka. It’s odd, the way Hao has a suspicion that Hanbin would offer him the bottle once he’s done, and it’s only when this suspicion is confirmed does he move from his spot.

Hao takes the bottle and takes a generous swig. In his periphery, Hanbin falls back on the sofa.

“Your taste is still foul,” he says, coughing once at the bitter burn coating the back of his throat.

“Am I too unrefined for you even now?” Hanbin flips open a box of cigars, lighting himself one and raising his brows at Hao as an offer. He inhales deeply and takes the cigar out of his mouth, smoking up the room as he breathes out. “Sorry I don’t have the fancy, high-end wines you like.”

“I don’t mind, really.” Hao walks through the smoke and settles on the other end of the sofa. He leaves the bottle on the coffee table, stealing a cigar from Hanbin’s box. “When did you get here?”

“Crossed the channel three days ago.” The younger man lights it for him, Hao muttering a thank you, and he leans back on the hard cushions and welcomes the first drag.

He’s hyper-aware of how Hanbin’s eyes haven’t left him since he came in, and he looks at him now, raising a brow as if to ask what?

He’s only answered with a smile, charming and boyish, and Hanbin looks away and shakes his head.

“Ah, hyung. You’re unhealthy for me.”

“More than the vodka and the smoking?”

“You know what I mean.” Hanbin tips his head back against the cushions and stares up at the ceiling. Hao notices that his free hand is clenched into a fist on his thigh.

Hao looks away, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Do I?”

“I think so,” Hanbin looks at him, “You always did.”

“Maybe.”

A beat of silence passes, the air in the room getting hazier by the second. Hao looks toward the window, where the dull Parisian sunlight comes in through gaps in the curtains. The one bedside lamp Hanbin had left on is their only source of light, drenching them both, and the room, in a fire-like orange.

“Why don’t you make up for that crude reunion, hyung?”

Hao scoffs. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Hanbin slowly blows out a cloud of smoke. Hao doesn’t look at him, but he can imagine the fog in Hanbin’s eyes, that far-away look that hides something red-hot and burning. “I only stared for so long because I couldn’t believe I was seeing you again.”

“Keep your head in the game, Hanbin-ah.”

“I know,” comes the answer, almost instantly, like Hanbin doesn’t appreciate the reminder.

“Good.”

“Hyung,” Hanbin leans forward, putting out his cigar with the bare surface of the table. He looks at Hao, saying, “Let me make up for it, then.”

“How are you gonna do that?” The makings of an amused smile play upon his lips, and he follows in Hanbin’s stead, extinguishing his half-burnt cigar.

“Let me properly say hello.” Then, Hanbins eyes drift down to what can only be Hao’s lips. “Please.”

Hao stands and pretends it’s so that he can peel his wool coat off—no, it’s not that hot in the room; he needs the air, needs oxygen back in his lungs, needs it flowing back to his head so he can think straight again, because nothing has flustered him quite like the few minutes he’d spent with Hanbin just an arm’s length away. Yet the reprieve is short-lived, because Hanbin stands too, and he’s come closer.

“Come on then, Hanbin-ah.”

There’s only a second between that moment and the next, when Hanbin tips his face upwards so their lips can meet.

It’s warm, and Hanbin’s lips are chapped, his breath tinged with alcohol, his movement too rugged from months of solitary wetwork—Hao doesn’t resist it.

With a firm hand, Hanbin pushes him so he falls back down on the sofa. Hanbin is immediately beside him, their warming bodies touching where they could.

“Is this how you say hello now?” Hao pants when Hanbin momentarily parts from him. The hand around his throat sets fire to his skin as it trails down to his chest, traces the line of his abdomen, before settling on his inner thigh and kneading the flesh there.

“Missed you, hyung,” Hanbin says, too honest for safety, too real that it’s dangerous.

Even then, Hao forgets how cold the city has been.

With one hand Hao fumbles with Hanbin’s trousers, pulling down the zipper and relishing in the way Hanbin moans into his mouth when he palms his hardening length through the cloth of his undergarment.

“Off,” Hanbin says, a complaint, tugging at the hem of his turtleneck, and when Hao pulls it over his head he has no choice but to tip his head back and let Hanbin ravage his neck.

Hao’s legs move further apart, the taut fabric relieving some of the untouched heat between his thighs, but Hanbin does it infinitely better when his large hand grasps Hao through his pants.

Hao blinks up at the ceiling, his vision unfocused, and he doesn’t know if it’s the smoke still lingering in the air, or the alcohol, or maybe all of it and Hanbin. He reaches down and unbuttons his pants, kicking them off along with his shoes a second later.

Hanbin does the same, stripping down until he’s bare, at which point he pulls Hao on top of him. Hao shudders when Hanbin’s hands rub back and forth down his sides, like a matchstick striking up a flame. Hao straddles Hanbin’s waist, seating himself back on his lap. He takes a moment to peer down at Hanbin and admire him.

He’s got hair in his eyes, with some strands sticking to the film of sweat on his forehead. His pupils are blown wide, his skin coloured with a hint of red, glowing beneath the lamplight.

Hao takes Hanbin in his hand, leaving a sticky smear on the planes of his abdomen, and strokes him until he’s warmer, firmer, until Hanbin’s chest rises faster and falls harder.

Hanbin’s hands settle on his waist as Hao sinks down on him. His mind feeds him static, his body is on fire, and the only thing he sees is Hanbin with his jaw ajar, his mouth an inviting distraction from the dull pain in his lower back. And the kiss is more lethal than the strongest bottle of booze—Hanbin works his mouth open so easily, swallows all his noises so effortlessly.

Hao rolls his hips down, drawing out a moan from Hanbin’s lips, and he keeps that pace, small bursts of pleasure that leave him wanting more. When he asks for more—“Do something, Hanbin-ah.”—he’s hauled up into the air, and Hanbin carries him to the bed.

Hao whines (involuntarily, he’d argue) at the loss as Hanbin momentarily withdraws from him so he could set Hao down on his back. Then, Hao watches as Hanbin sits in between his thighs, his knees placed firmly on either side of Hao’s hips.

Hanbin pushes into him with unyielding hands holding his hips in place, and he thrusts tentatively, searching for the place that Hao desperately needs him to reach. The sensation itself is addicting, the blunt pressure of each push forward and the drag of each pull out, the feeling of being filled up by warmth again and again.

“Come on, Hanbin,” he pleads, just short of pleasure.

Hanbin clicks his tongue, withdrawing once more to turn Hao over onto his stomach. He’s becoming impatient, judging by the way he manhandles Hao’s hips into the air. He raises one leg up to grant him purchase, and when he pushes in, Hao feels all the air leave his lungs, his stomach tightening, for a second his vision blurs and he only hears a ringing in his ears.

When he comes to, his face is buried in the sheets, one arm loose by his head, the other extended back with Hanbin’s hand firmly wrapped around his wrist.

A large hand wraps around his throat and pulls him up and backwards, and his head falls back on Hanbin’s shoulder. Like this, it’s easy for Hao to tip over the edge. He makes a mess all over the sheets, his body instantly becoming pliant for when Hanbin starts to chase his own release. Hao faintly hears Hanbin call to him, voice broken with sin, the word drifting in the air with the smoke and the smell of alcohol, a dirty iteration of Hao’s name that accompanies the warmth that spits deep inside of him.

Hao flattens himself on the sheets when Hanbin pulls out, and he turns over to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling as he tries to breathe normally again.

“I’ll get you a towel, hyung,” Hanbin says, his weight lifting off the bed as he goes to the bathroom. He comes back a moment later with two damp towels that smell faintly of honeysuckle soap.

Hao wipes off his thighs and ass, knowing he’d need a shower later to get rid of the unpleasant stickiness. When Hanbin finishes cleaning himself, he takes the towels and disappears into the bathroom again, and Hao tunes into the sound of fabric being washed under running water.

Hao sits up on the bed as Hanbin emerges from the bathroom. The younger man doesn’t bother putting his clothes back on, instead venturing over to the bureau on the other end of the room to reach inside one of its drawers.

He holds up an inconspicuous brown folder, tossing it on the bed when Hao asks for it. Inside is one sheet of paper.

“Kim Gyuvin,” Hao reads the name on top of the file, placed right beside a clipped picture of a young man that looks to be his age. “Tell me about him.”

“One of our countrymen working for the CIA. He’s been stationed in Berlin for the past two years.” Hanbin says, lighting himself a cigar before making his way over to sit on the edge of the bed. “We know he’s been collecting data on active Soviet assets west of the wall. He’s in possession of a list of every active asset in Berlin.”

“On whose knowledge?”

“MI6.”

“So he’s the guy,” Hao mutters. “French intelligence has been tracking the movement of an American asset since last week, when he landed.” Hao remembers how the French kept tabs on the guy the moment he arrived. ”KGB was onto him before he even got on the plane. Three or four of those illegals followed him here to Paris.”

“Soviets,” Hanbin says under his breath. “Where’s he now?”

“Holed up in the Ritz.”

“And the plan? ”

“We have to get him out of the country,” Hao says. “It looks to me like KGB can’t get their hands on him because the French are too strong here. At the same time, our little CIA agent can’t get out of Paris without French protection, and my sources tell me they’re keen on keeping his information to themselves.”

“So no one’s making a move.”

“Exactly.” Hao pushes himself off the bed, picking his clothes off from the floor. “I’ve got a rendezvous with my handler in a bit. In the meantime, I need you to check out the Ritz and see what the situation’s like. Go to this address,” Hao scribbles on a piece of tissue and hands it to Hanbin. “You’ll find enough cash to book us a room. Make sure we have a view of the street. I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby at six sharp.”

“Got it.”

“Did you memorise the address?” Hao asks after a moment, and when Hanbin nods an affirmative he takes the tissue and promptly flushes it down the toilet.

“Be safe, hyung,” Hanbin tells him, watching from the bed as Hao makes his way to the door.

Hao pauses and looks back at him. “Keep it clean, Hanbin-ah.”

“Always.”

Jiwoong’s apartment, affectionately called Percy’s ditch by his agents, is the Institution’s station in Paris, located in the fringes of the 16th arrondissement.

He knocks twice on the door and says, “Percival asked to see me.”

Jiwoong opens it for him a second later, wordlessly inviting him in.

“You’ve been busy,” Jiwoong says, a statement with the kind of tone that gives away judgement, scrutiny, and indifference all at once. Hao is led into the depths of his well-lit, lavish apartment, and they end up in the kitchen, where Jiwoong pours them both a glass of champagne.

“A lot is going on in Paris,” Hao explains. “I’m hoping you’re gonna tell me how the CIA managed to fuck over one of their most important agents?”

“Their station in Berlin went dark two weeks ago. Before that, Kim Gyuvin, better known as Bishop, was seen meeting with Stasi contacts, presumably to uncover more Soviet moles on either side of the wall.” Jiwoong gestures to a file lying on the kitchen island. Hao walks over and starts flipping through the pages, seeing pictures of Kim Gyuvin—Bishop, linking up with these so-called contacts from the East German intelligence service. “He’d been successful up until that point. The word of mouth is that Stasi double-crossed him and compromised him to the Soviets.”

“You think otherwise?”

“Stasi defectors would never sell out their only chance at freedom. Hell, those guys would rather jump into the Rhine than return to the east of the wall. Double-crossing is out of the equation. But what else is there? There are two variables at play here. Variable X is Kim Gyuvin.” Jiwoong comes over and pulls out records from the file, showing Hao an impressive record of clandestine covert operations. “Gyuvin is clean. Cleaner than most agents. He wouldn’t take up a meeting with Stasi unless affected by Variable Y—which could be anything. One possibility, and the dumbest one, is that he just trusted his gut instinct. But did he really? Or, more reasonably, was he tipped off? Now that is plausible. His handler was CIA station chief Jessica Jung.”

Hao arrives at her file, stamped red with the word burned—code for when an agent is compromised. “What happened to her?”

“Jessica has been working in Berlin since before the wall came up. Talked to my friends at the CIA, and it turns out they’ve been watching her for a while. They believe she’s been a double-agent all this time. Now, if that were true, then it would lend accuracy to my sources’ reports which say she’s been wary of Gyuvin since he landed in Berlin two years ago. When she found out just how much information he had gathered, it was only a matter of time before the op fell apart. Luckily, MI6 lended him a hand and got him out of there before she could do anything.”

Jiwoong watches him carefully as he downs the champagne.

“So now Washington and the CIA are preoccupied with patching up their network in Berlin, and we have to do their work for them.” Hao looks up at Jiwoong, “Correct?”

“Mhm.”

“Now tell me what he has to do with all of this,” Hao pulls out Hanbin’s file from the folder and shows it to Jiwoong.

“Aragon… He’s one of our moles in MI6. Brings in quite the load of money for the Institution, doing Westminster’s domestic wetwork for them. You think he’s compromised?”

“No, no,” Hao says. “I know him, he’s clean. We trained together for a couple years back in Seoul, which is why I asked. I didn’t know the Institution made a habit of putting personal links together for ops. What happened to everyone must remain a stranger?”

“We don’t make a habit of it,” Jiwoong replies, drawing away to put their glasses in the sink. “It's the end of détente, Hao. Moscow is eyeing Afghanistan, and the United States is growing hotter towards the East. Assets are being deployed left and right, day and night. The Institution is chafing under the weight of this Cold War. For once, the problems outnumber us. Sung Hanbin was the only one available to help you on this op.”

“And you’re sure he isn’t working for MI6?”

“Well,” Jiwoong turns to him, cat-like eyes suddenly blank of warmth. “If he is, then he’s a throwaway and you’re tasked with taking care of him. Aren’t you?”

“Jiwoong.”

“This is how the game goes, Hao.” Jiwoong ventures into another room, returning with another folder. He tosses onto the countertop for Hao. “Once you retrieve Gyuvin, drive to the address in the folder. It’s a protected airfield just outside of Paris. There’s also an ID and a registration certificate in that folder. Both will be asked of you at arrival. When you land in Seoul—”

“Seoul?”

“Yes, Seoul. Gyuvin is also one of our own. When you arrive in Seoul, you will be collected by Matron for debriefing.”

“And Aragon?”

“I reckon he’ll cross the pond and return to doing Westminster’s bidding. Oh, and when you see Bishop, ask him how the writing fares. He should tell you that the art of losing isn’t hard to master.”

The Ritz is majestic at night—a Parisian palace gleaming gold beneath the lamplight. There are cars coming and going out at the front, dispensing all kinds of people belonging to high society.

Hao makes his way in without a fuss, instantly spotting Hanbin, who’s dressed in an all-black three-piece suit. He pretends like the air hasn’t just left his lungs, fights the urge to freeze in place when Hanbin sees him and smiles.

“Look at you all dressed up,” Hao says in greeting. “You look exquisite.”

Hanbin holds his arms out at his sides, looking down at himself and wearing a proud grin when he looks back up at Hao.

“When in Rome,” he offers as an explanation. “You look handsome too, hyung.”

Hao knows. He’s got on a black double-breasted suit (courtesy of Jiwoong’s extensive closet) with thin white stripes that highlight the way the fabric hugs his figure. He slicked his hair back just to fit in for tonight’s occasion, same as Hanbin did.

Hanbin offers his arm to him and together they walk themselves to the hotel’s bar, wine glasses before them as they trade hushed words under ambient lighting.

“The Soviets are camped out across the street,” Hanbin says. “They’ve always got eyes on the entrance, taking turns patrolling the streets at thirty minute intervals. The French have men on every floor, gendarmes by the looks of it. They also have assets keeping our target hostage in the room right above ours.”

“Safest escape route?”

“There’s an underground car park below us. It opens up to the Rue Cambon, no Russians there. I can get us a ride and book it out of here, no problem.”

“Good, good.” Hao spares a moment to sweep his eyes around the room, at the various people scattered around the tables. So far, no one seems to be threatening. “Anyone I should look out for?”

“Louis Durand, SDECE asset. Six feet, black hair, fair skin, blue eyes. Slight stubble like your normal Frenchman. He’s guarding the target.” Hanbin takes a sip of his wine, and Hao watches the way his throat moves as he swallows. “I worked with him once back in London. Tough guy, but a little dull.”

“Should be easy,” Hao says, devising in his mind a plan that would make sure all three of them make it out alive. “Right. I need you to clear that basement, make our exit as smooth as possible. Have a car waiting by the eastern stairwell. I’ll retrieve the target and meet you there.”

“All by yourself, hyung?”

“Doubting me already?” Hao raises a brow at this, sliding off the stool and buttoning up his jacket. “Don’t forget, this is my city.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ll see you in exactly thirty minutes.” He holds his arm up to the light, the hands of his wrist watch ticking just past 6:15. He sets a thirty minute timer. “If I’m not there by then, abandon the op. Got it?”

Hanbin stares at him for a second, looking as if he wants to say something. Then, “Fine. Sure.”

“Don’t worry, Hanbin-ah.” Hao reaches down to take his hand, if only to configure his watch to match the timer Hao had set for himself. Later, at the lobby where they part, Hao counts down the seconds in his head, a poor distraction for the feeling in his gut that he’d rather bury than admit—he really doesn’t like walking away from Hanbin.

He takes the elevator up to the third floor, all gold-washed hallways with ornate and lavish decor. The scene is a bit like the paintings Hao sees in museums, beautiful and extravagant, splendid in color and detail.

The door to Kim Gyuvin’s suite is guarded by two men in the standard gendarmerie uniform. He passes them by with a curt bonsoir, lips set into a charming smile. He heads for the next door, where the French have camped out with their retinue.

He knocks twice, receiving a gruff reply, “Ne pas perturber. Va-t'en.”

“Service en chambre, monsieur,” Hao says, “Chocolats gratuits, offerts par la direction.”

The door opens, revealing a bearded middle-aged man with a semi-automatic rifle strapped around his abdomen. Hao makes a show of being alarmed by the weapon. The man takes the chocolate, which Hao had stolen from Jiwoong’s pantry.

“Chocolats gratuits,” the man echoes, “Pas de café?”

“Désolé, monsieur. Bonsoir.”

The man only sighs and closes the door. In about five minutes, the men in that room who choose to eat the chocolates will be knocked out cold. They’re injected with microdoses of carfentanil—the elephant tranquilliser that can kill 100 men just with two milligrams.

Hao decides to pass the time by having a smoke in the stairwell, leaning against the railing to look up and down to scan for any other presences. Then he spots three, maybe four gendarmes at the bottom of the steps, watching the entrance to the car park.

He stomps his cigar out when he’s finished with it, venturing back into the hallway. When the two gendarmes see him again, they eye him with suspicion. Just as Hao passes them by, one of them grabs his arm.

Hao shrugs the hand off and swiftly crushes the palm of his hand against the gendarme’s throat. The other one attempts to swing at him with a baton, but Hao grabs him by the wrist and holds him in place, his free hand delivering a punishing blow to the gendarme’s jaw that knocks him out easily.

Hao uses the card Jiwoong had lent him to quietly sneak into the room, his senses instantly going on alert when he finds the room pitch black. He draws out his gun from the holster within his jacket, feeling for the light switch on the nearest wall.

When he finds it, the room comes alight in gentle gold, revealing a Versailles-esque lounge—Kim Gyuvin bound by rope to a chair in the middle of it all, a cloth stuffed into his mouth. He looks at Hao with wide eyes which briefly flash to something behind him.

Hao turns around just as a fist collides with the side of his face, and he reels for a second, stumbling until his hands grant him purchase against a wall. He just barely dodges another fist, one that surely would’ve knocked out one of his teeth, taking the opportunity to deliver a blow square to the solar plexus.

The man wheezes and recoils away from him, and now that Hao can see him properly he realises it’s the man Hanbin told him about.

“Durand,” he says, catching his breath. He retrieves his gun from where it had slipped out of his hold and fell on the floor, aiming it at Durand’s head. “SDECE will mourn you, I’m sure.”

He pulls the trigger and watches the man collapse to the floor.

“If I wasn’t compromised ten minutes ago, then I sure as hell am now,” Hao mutters, jumping over a sofa to get to Gyuvin. He takes out the cloth from his mouth, fetching the knife concealed in his boot to cut his binds. “How fares the writing, Bishop?”

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master,” he answers, “Who sent you?”

“The Institution. I’m taking you home.”

Hao peers into the adjoining room, where several men in black military attire lay in various positions of deep sleep. Still, if Durand knew to expect him, then there will be more on the way.

His suspicions are proven true when the door bursts open and his instincts kick in, diving to the floor, taking Gyuvin with him as bullets pelt the opposite wall.

“You think you can shoot straight?” Hao asks over the gunshots, already fishing out his back-up revolver from its concealed jacket compartment.

“Just give me a gun!”

Hao retaliates with a few shots before taking cover behind a loveseat. Cotton flies all around him as the French shoot back. He looks at Gyuvin, who’s hiding behind a sofa. They meet eyes and Hao nods. “Cover me!”

As he bursts from where he’s hiding, Gyuvin unleashes a flurry of shots at the door, one or two hitting home. Hao books it to the bedroom, where he begins tearing the curtains from their hinges.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hears Gyuvin yell from the other room.

Hao doesn’t answer him, only ties the fabric together and prays that God will keep them from unravelling. He secures one end to a bed post and shouts, “Come on!”

Gyuvin runs past flying bullets just as more hostiles emerge from the other room. Hao kicks open the balcony doors and peers out at the street below them. He climbs on to the railing, one hand tightly clutching the curtains he’d strewn together.

“This is crazy,” Gyuvin says, climbing up after him anyway. There’s mild noise from onlookers below, various exclamations of terror or surprise.

“You better pray this works, Bishop,” Hao says, making sure Gyuvin’s arms are tight around his waist. Then, they jump.

For a moment, Hao’s guts betray him, the feeling of falling unbearable and uncontrollable, but then an abrupt force yanks them upwards and halts their fall, and before he knows it they’re bursting through wood and glass, rolling on the floor of the room Hanbin had booked for them. Then, it sinks in that yes, Hao had just thrown himself out of a balcony only to land on another one. It’s genius, he thinks.

Hao doesn’t have time to dwell on it as he pulls Gyuvin upright, running straight for the door. He keeps Gyuvin in front of him as they book it down the mostly-empty hallway, shoving aside unsuspecting hotel staff as they make for the stairwell. Hao curses himself for forgetting about the gendarmes he saw guarding it earlier, because the moment they emerge onto the stairs, they’re confronted by four fully-armed men.

Gyuvin’s reflexes kick in instantly, grabbing the closest gendarme by the back of the neck and slamming his face into the railing. One down. Hao shoots the next one in the chest. Two. Then, Gyuvin falls back on the stairs, the air from his lungs knocked out by a nasty kick to the stomach. Hao shoots that one in the throat, three, but before he could finish the last one off, his gun is knocked out of his grip by a baton. Thankfully, Gyuvin has recovered, and he launches himself from the ground and tackles the man in a headlock until he passes out.

“Nice work,” Hao pants, pulling Gyuvin off the floor and leading the way down the rest of the steps. He looks at his watch—just two minutes to spare until the thirty minutes are up.

When they come out into the car park, Hanbin is already there in a black Ford Escort. He opens the passenger’s door for Hao, Gyuvin jumping into the backseat, and the tires screech against the asphalt before either door even closes.

“You two look like you had fun,” Hanbin glances briefly at Gyuvin through the rearview mirror, then looks at Hao with furrowed brows. He reaches over to the glovebox and fishes out a handkerchief. “Your lip’s busted, hyung.”

Hao hisses as he presses the thin cloth to his mouth, blood blooming red on the pristine white fabric.

“Who’s this guy?” Gyuvin asks, his back thudding against the seat as the car throttles onto the ramp leading to the main road.

“One of ours,” Hao replies. “This list you have, where is it?”

Gyuvin holds up his wrist, his watch glinting beneath the faint streetlamps. “All in here.”

“How many?”

“A hundred and thirty four.” The car shakes precariously as Hanbin swiftly turns onto another street. “KGB, SDECE, CIA, MI6, NIS, you name it. In this watch is every asset active on either side of the wall up until two weeks ago.”

Hanbin whistles. “That information can make entire agencies crumble.”

“Hence why I’ve been fighting through hell since before I even left Berlin.”

“Luckily, the Institution has you covered from here,” Hao tells him, making eye contact through the mirror. He hands Hanbin the address Jiwoong had provided for him, “Take us here.”

“Get comfy, both of you,” Hanbin says. “This place is two hours outside the city.”

“Where is it?” Gyuvin asks.

“Airfield called Vatry, just near Chalons,” Hao replies. “No one really knows about it, but assets come and go from time to time. NIS, mostly. MI6 is rarer. It’s quiet, so the higher ups love it for entry and exit... Anyway, I’d get some shut-eye if I were you. When the Institution gets their hands on you, it’s nothing but two-way mirrors and interrogation rooms for weeks.”

“How long have you two been in Paris?” Gyuvin asks later, just when Hao thinks the silence will finally take hold.

“Three days,” Hanbin answers.

“Five years.” Hao watches the blur of Paris outside, aware of the brief look that Hanbin casts his way.

Gyuvin hums. “Must be a shame to leave.”

“Doesn’t matter, really,” Hao says. “We come and we go, no strings attached.”

“I guess that’s true. Can’t say I loved Berlin either.”

Hao smiles, it’s bittersweet. “Only fools love Berlin.”

“How about this guy? Where’ve you been all this time…”

“Hanbin,” he supplies, “Call me Aragon. I’ve been around. Started in Spain, ended up in England.”

“Just like Catherine of Aragon.” The smile can be heard in Gyuvin’s voice. “That’s pretty neat.”

“His is the only codename that actually makes sense,” Hao says, the name, Aragon, rolling smoothly off his tongue. “I got Hepburn, because the case officer thought our smiles were similar.”

“Audrey or Katharine?”

“Audrey, obviously,” Hanbin answers for him, attracting an amused look from Hao. He adds, quieter, “It’s true.”

“Let’s see it, then,” Gyuvin says, peering at Hao from the backseat.

“Sit your ass down,” Hao briefly meets Hanbin’s eyes, and perhaps he indulges the younger man and grants him the smallest of smiles, before telling Gyuvin, “My smile is worth millions. You gotta earn it first.”

The conversation continues for a few more minutes before silence settles in. Gyuvin dozes off in the back, and though Hao feels exhaustion wearing him down, he stays awake to keep Hanbin company.

“Where will you go after this?” Hao asks him later. It’s been an hour and a half since they left Paris, and the road is narrower now. The view outside has gradually turned into rolling grasslands blanketed by the night.

“Back to London,” Hanbin replies. “Will you miss me, hyung?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Hanbin-ah.”

“You will though,” comes the reply, and when Hao looks at him his eyes are on the road but there’s a smile on his lips.

“Perhaps.”

“Come on, hyung, be honest with me. Just this once.”

“Fine, fine. I will miss you.” Hao turns his gaze away, afraid of what it’ll do to him if Hanbin looks back and directs that smile at him. “Does that make you happy?”

Hao pretends he doesn’t feel the warmth in his chest when Hanbin answers, soft and quiet: yes.

They arrive at the airfield just before the clock strikes ten. The guards at the gate ask them for the documents Jiwoong had entrusted to Hao, and soon they’re driving down a dirt road leading to a strip of tarmac, a Learjet at the end of the runway.

Hanbin gets out first and insists on opening the door for him. Hao lets him, only shaking his head fondly. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion that makes him lower his guard, or maybe Hanbin just disarms him enough for a smile to stretch his lips.

Gyuvin closes the car door behind him, telling Hao, “It’s true, you do smile like Aubrey.”

“Not another word from you.”

The wind tousles their hair as they approach the plane, from which a lone man emerges and approaches them. Gyuvin goes ahead, leaving the lagging pair behind to sort out whatever they can in the next two minutes.

“It was good seeing you again, hyung,” Hanbin says. “I… If you–”

Hao pulls him in by the arm, their mouths crashing into each other. It’s sweet, and it’s warm, and it’s everything Hao knows he can never have for too long. When he parts from Hanbin, he says, “I’ll see you again.”

At that moment, Gyuvin and the man from the plane approach them.

“Well done on making it out in one piece, gents,” he says, sunglasses sitting on the edge of his nose despite the full moon. He extends a hand out to each of them, “Hwang Minhyun. I’m on top of all Institution operations between East Germany and the Atlantic coast. I have orders from Seoul to make sure that this one,” he points at Gyuvin, “Makes it home safely. Now get on board, we’re wheels up in ten minutes.”

Minhyun excuses Hanbin to have a private word, while Hao and Gyuvin make their way to the plane. When they’re inside, Hao settles in a window seat, watching Hanbin’s retreating figure as he gets back in the car.

“No strings attached, huh?” Gyuvin asks from across the aisle.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Shit happens in the city of love.