“...!”
His eyes flew open. His blurry vision slowly came into focus. Everything he saw was white. Was there something wrong with his eyes?
He shut them tightly and opened them again. Nothing changed. They were still the same. There was the white ceiling, the quiet hum of a humidifier just loud enough to notice, the familiar scent of disinfectant, and the firm bedding beneath his back. Putting together all the sensory information, he guessed he was in a hospital.
He raised his hand and noticed the IV needle in it. Two banana bags were attached, and an oxygen tank stood nearby for emergencies. He must have had one foot in the grave.
He couldn’t tell where the dream ended and reality began. His mind was so clouded that he couldn’t recall anything clearly. He couldn’t tell if the images lingering in his mind were real. He only remembered what had happened until he got off the train. Everything after that made his head feel like it was splitting in two. Taekjoo held his bandaged head and groaned.
“So, you’re finally up.”
An unfamiliar voice startled him into a jump. His hand instinctively reached for his waist—out of habit—but there was no gun there.
Taekjoo relaxed a little after getting a look at the speaker. The man looked terrible, his arm bandaged from shoulder to wrist. A neck cast forced his chin upward. His eyes were swollen and dark with bruises, his lips chapped and dark with bruising. His head was wrapped in bandages, with thick dressings on his forehead and cheeks. He also leaned on a crutch, his leg clearly injured. He looked like he’d need at least twelve weeks in the hospital.
Still, there was something familiar about his face. Taekjoo tried to dismiss it as a mistake, but couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen the man before. It didn’t take long to remember. He was impossible to mistake, but the bandages threw him off.
It was Psikh Bogdanov. Or rather, the man Taekjoo had once believed was Psikh Bogdanov. The same man who had disguised himself as a paramedic during the hotel explosions and came after Kwon Taekjoo. Back then, Taekjoo had not doubted the man was Psikh Bogdanov. Now he knew he wasn’t. Then who the hell was he? Judging by the rocket he launched at Zhenya, they clearly weren’t allies.
“Who are you?”
“Well, that was quick of you to ask.”
“I didn’t exactly have time for small talk.”
“Right, I’m sure you didn’t, since you were too busy running from your own partner.”
“...Partner?”
Taekjoo frowned, and the man copied him with clear annoyance.
He’d heard from Mr. Lim that he would be assigned a partner, someone who would approach him naturally at the right moment without drawing attention, and that he’d get pictures. The next day, Taekjoo received two photos—one of Zhenya, and the other of the man standing before him. Zhenya had come to him at exactly the right moment, and Taekjoo assumed he was the partner. Zhenya seemed qualified and even helped him on his first day in Russia. Taekjoo had no reason to doubt him.
How had everything gone so wrong? This all happened thanks to one absurd coincidence—getting an unexpected partner, those two photos arriving at once, and Zhenya’s perfectly timed appearance.
But one question still bothered Taekjoo.
“Why didn’t you say who you are?”
“Do you think I even had a chance to say anything? You tell me—when was I supposed to approach you, huh? How, when you were glued to Bogdanov the whole time? I tried talking to you when you were alone, but you bolted like I was Death itself. I tried again in a quiet spot and nearly got killed. I even grabbed you underwater to stop you—remember what you did? Or have you already forgotten you knocked me out cold?”
The man’s tone was openly resentful, mocking even. Why wouldn’t he be? Taekjoo was the reason he was covered from head to toe in bandages. Taekjoo couldn’t meet his gaze out of shame.
“This may sound like an excuse, but I had my own stuff going on—damn it, that’s just an excuse. I’m sorry, I didn’t even recognize you. I really am sorry for that.”
“You’re not even going to defend yourself? You’re just admitting it like that? Are you mocking me? This is what I get after lying unconscious for days?”
“I nearly died a bunch of times too, all because I got my partner wrong. If that doesn’t make you feel any better, go ahead and hit me.”
Taekjoo turned his head and offered his left cheek. He meant it. If the man wanted to hit him, he would take it. The man made a fist as if about to punch, then released it with a sigh. Then, he said, sounding annoyed.
“I’d love to, but maybe next time. Look at the state you’re in.”
He clicked his tongue in disapproval. He looked like a walking corpse himself, yet he pitied Taekjoo. That made Taekjoo wonder how bad he looked. He touched his face and body. That was enough to confirm his condition. His head was wrapped in bandages, just like the man before him. Small dressings covered his forehead, cheekbones, earlobes, neck, and collarbone. Even the slightest movement sent pain shooting through his lower body.
What about my fingers? Taekjoo spread them out right away as the memories returned. His ring finger, which hurt the most, was wrapped in bandages. So it really happened.
“My finger...” Taekjoo began.
“Is fractured,” the man finished the sentence for him.
I was right. He did it then, when—wait, what?
Taekjoo stopped nodding and stared at him, confused.
“What?”
“Did something happen to your ears too? It’s fractured. Never had your fingers taped and bandaged before?”
“You mean it’s not severed?”
“Why would it be severed? You’ve watched too many mafia movies.”
The man shook his head. Before blacking out, Taekjoo was sure he’d felt that sharp pain at his ring finger and heard the snip of a cigar cutter. He’d been certain it was cut off, but it was only fractured. Stranger still, the rest of his fingers were unharmed. He flipped his hands in disbelief.
“But all ten of Morgan’s fingers were cut off,” Taekjoo said.
“Yeah, and he was dead too, but you’re alive. So stop sulking about your ten intact fingers.”
Taekjoo couldn’t make sense of it. He had expected Zhenya to kill him the same way he killed Morgan. How was he still alive?
“How did I end up here?”
“They found you dumped on the riverbank near Olkhon. Bogdanov’s guys were headed that way. Our agents were following them and just happened to find you. The doctor said it was nearly too late—your heart would’ve given out if it had taken even a moment longer.”
Of course. Zhenya hadn’t actually spared him. He just didn’t care whether Taekjoo lived or died. Maybe it was his twisted prank—leaving Taekjoo to be rescued if he was lucky enough and live out his wretched life.
Was it, though? Taekjoo remembered the syringe he was given before blacking out. He touched his neck, bandaged like the rest of him. If that syringe really had Polonium 210, he wouldn’t even be awake.
“But I was given a shot of Polonium 210.”
“Says who?”
“Zhenya. That bastard, he told me—”
“Zhenya? You mean that lunatic? Yevgeny Vissarionovich Bogdanov, your best buddy?”
The man mocked him.
“Zhenya, Zhenya...” the man mumbled the name repeatedly, lost in thought.
“How could you call him by a nickname? Even his own family wouldn’t call him something that sweet.”
The man clicked his tongue. Something that sweet? Taekjoo was about to argue, but stopped himself. He remembered—Zhenya had introduced himself by that name from the start. Taekjoo didn’t think it was his real, formal name, of course, since Zhenya wasn’t something people use as a full, official name in Russian. He assumed it was just an alias the man used—something to hide his identity, a habit from his work as an arms dealer. Taekjoo even felt a sense of camaraderie toward him, seeing some of himself in Zhenya.