April 18, 2021. 14:10. Burnaby.
"Eyes this way, Miss Kyung!"
Multiple cameras flash in my direction as I shift my weight. One hand rests against my hip while the other lightly tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I hold the pose—soft, effortless, elegant.
Another click and another flash.
The midday sun filters through the large skylights of a private rooftop terrace, painting everything in a soft, natural light. Below us, the city hums quietly. Glass towers, winding roads, and large mountains glimmer in the distance.
A soft breeze flutters the hem of my midi slip dress. The dress I wear in particular is a new pre-season release from a high-end collaboration—a muted, earthy tone of taupe-gray. The material clings softly to my silhouette, it's made of a sleek satin blend with delicate sheer chiffon draping over one shoulder. I'm basically a modern reinterpretation of a Grecian goddess.
The rest of my appearance is made to fit the dress. My hair is down today, ironed straight and tucked behind gold hoops. Minimal dewy makeup is paired with barely-there heeled sandals, and I look like a woman with both time and money.
The cameras love it, and so do I.
My entire appearance is the kind of piece that turns heads without trying too hard—chic, understated, and dangerously exclusive. The kind of thing designer stores would sell out in five minutes once it hit the public shelves. But it takes a certain kind of person to really emphasize the elegance of the piece—someone like me. And out of all the ones that could wear this dress, I'm the one that gets to wear it first.
I shift again, now seated at the edge of a low cement bench with my legs crossed and a coffee cup in hand.
More flashes and more angles.
A stylist rushes in to adjust a strand of my hair and then vanishes again into the background. The director gives a few more cues, and I follow them with muscle memory.
Smile. Glance over your shoulder. Chin down. Wave. Hold it. Now laugh.
Three days have passed since my meeting with Wissen. His question occasionally echoes in my mind—especially since I still don't have an answer to it.
What's my game plan?
I've thought about it, or at least tried to. But it's hard to find clarity when you're bouncing between appointments and contracts. The fact that I'm also lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling with an aching shoulder, doesn't exactly help either.
At least the pain is fading now. Recovery's going well. With just a bit more rest and my regular mobility work, I'll be good as new. It's a process I've, unfortunately, grown used to.
I cross my arms and lean against the edge of a terrace railing for one final pose. The photographer signals that we're good for a short break. As the crew starts shifting gear and setting up for the next segment, one of my phones starts to buzz. I reach into my bag and grab the one that does, checking the screen as I do.
Blake.
I was dreading this. But I expected it, just like Wissen said.
With a quick sigh, I excuse myself from the rooftop set. A simple quiet smile and nod to the assistant director and that's enough for them to wave me through. They assume I'm taking a quick personal break, and I don't correct them.
I step through a nearby maintenance door and down into a dim service stairwell that smells faintly of concrete and steel. Private enough.
I unlock the phone and read Blake's message.
"Hello, Miss solo. I figured it was time we had ourselves a little chat, I'm cashing in on that owed favour."
I stare at the screen, jaw tightening. And here we go.
I type a short response back.
"What do you need?"
Three dots appear almost instantly. Then another message follows.
"I'm sending you over to a recently acquired bar. You're on guard duty later tonight."
Guard duty? I frown, my thumbs hovering.
"What are the details?"
"I'll send the address in a minute. Bring gear that can handle a firefight though. Just in case things go south. I'll need you there at 8 pm, sharp."
A second message follows seconds later with the bar's location: a place in Burnaby, not far from the border with East Vancouver.
"Expecting trouble?" I type back, brows furrowing.
"The other gangs are getting bold. Our turf's shifting and Burnaby's the next battleground. The Dead Kings are claiming it but the others don't like that, so expect some 'chromed' people to show up."
Of course they don't. I let out a slow exhale before responding. Fighting off or killing regular humans is easy, the issue is when I face anyone with implants, I always dread such encounters.
"Kk sounds like a plan. Can't wait to stand in the middle of a gang war."
His response is quick.
"Haha, you signed up for this, don't forget. I'm helping you work off that pretty little Porsche you stole from us. If you'd like, we can have you just pay off the entire car instead."
A dry chuckle escapes me. Of course he'd bring that up.
"Touché. I'll be there."
The moment the exchange ends, I jot a note in my phone to bring more specialized gear next time—equipment capable of piercing armor plating—then I tuck the phone back into my purse. Gonna need the serious stuff if I'm up against borgs.
I don't like relying on this kind of gear. It's too expensive to replace, and a pain to maintain. And that's not even taking into account the vast range of implants people can have. I usually need time to study the target's augment layout before making a move, or I risk botching the whole job.
But with how things are looking, I doubt I'll have that luxury. Preparation is more important than ever. This won't be a walk in the park.
As I reach for the stairwell door to head back, I hear someone politely calling out from above.
"Miss Kyung?"
I glance up. One of the production assistants pokes his head into the stairwell, clipboard in hand. "Sorry to interrupt, but… there's someone here to see you."
That's odd.
"I'm on break," I say carefully. "Did they say who it was?"
He nods. "She said she's your mother. She's waiting near the elevators. I can bring her over if you want."
Oh.
My expression softens immediately.
"Yes, please. Thank you."
A couple of minutes pass before I hear soft footsteps. The woman that I got my beauty from appears—my mom, smiling gently as she rounds the corner with the assistant trailing behind her.
She spots me before I can say anything. Her eyes light up the moment they meet mine. The assistant backs away, giving me and my mom much-needed privacy.
"Oh, there's my girl," she says with a smile, walking over and pulling me into a hug. Her arms wrap around me with the kind of warmth I could never fake or replicate, no matter how many personas I wear.
I return the gesture without hesitation, resting my chin on her shoulder. "Hey, Ma." She still smells faintly of coffee after all this time. It's a comforting scent from childhood that's never faded, even now.
She pulls back slightly and kisses my forehead, inspecting my face like she always does—searching for stress, fatigue, bruises, anything I might've missed covering up.
"Have you been sleeping enough?" she asks, concern laced in her voice.
I offer a vague smile. "Trying to."
Of course, she knows about my modelling career and my attempts at entering the professional fitness world—she was a model herself before I was born. But more specifically, she knows about the long hours of work, the trips I take, the workouts I commit to, and the injuries I constantly acquire. She's seen the bruises too, and I always pass them off as gym accidents, though they're really from my life as Artemis.
She buys it, or at least pretends to. I'm not so sure.
But deep down, I know the day might come when she pieces it all together. That scares me more than half the things I've faced in the field.
"You've been working hard," she holds up a small container in front of me. "So I brought you something. Just something light—some rice cakes and japchae. Try it while it's still warm, okay? I made sure they're low in calories."
I blink, then break into a real smile. "You're the best." I take the container graciously and gently hug it against myself. "I promise I've been eating consistently."
"I know," she teases, giving my hair a little pat. "But seriously, don't overwork yourself. You've already got enough on that plate of yours."
I nod, something catching in my throat.
"You didn't have to come all the way here," I say quietly.
"I wanted to," she replies, and in her eyes, there's that same look—pride and worry, wrapped up in one.
We don't say much for a moment. We just stand there in silence, mother and daughter, while the chaos of the outside world holds still for once.
Then she leans in and gives me one last hug. I return it, tighter this time.
"I'll let you get back to it," she says. "Don't forget to eat."
"Yeah, I won't. Promise."
I watch her walk back toward the elevators, lingering until the doors shut behind her.
A long breath leaves me.
I don't want to go back. Not yet. Not to all of it.
But I don't have a choice.
My phone buzzes again. Fuck.
I sigh and check the screen. Weird. It's Dante's phone, and he's calling the entire group chat I'm part of with the other people he hired. Something's up.
I hesitate for half a second, then answer. The others shortly join in one by one.
Shock's voice crackles through the speaker, low and urgent. There's no trace of her usual pop-girl energy. No slang. Just pressure.
"Guys. We've got a problem."
She sounds breathless.
"What happened?" I ask, already moving toward the rooftop equipment area.
"Dante's at YVR. Someone just made a move—whoever the hell they are—they ambushed him near Terminal C. It's really bad."
"You're with him?"
"Yes. I'm using his phone. He's injured, not out, but we need backup—fast."
Remi responds first, of course, like it's a party invite. "What the fuck, a firefight? Say less. I'm in, I call dibs on the loot though."
Mister's voice is the opposite, calm and steady. "Understood. I'll be there soon."
Azure chimes in, her tone laced with dry amusement. "Why do you need a mechanic for an airport ambush?"
"Because shit's going sideways," Shock snaps. "And I need someone who can improvise. Are you in or not?"
Azure lets out a dramatically loud sigh. "Sure, I'm certain I can be of use. Just make sure not to put me in a fight."
And then Wissen cuts in, crisp and clear. "Of course. Artemis, you better start packing too."
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Yeah, I'm on it."
The call ends.
I glance down at myself.
Still in my dress, fantastic.
I make my way back toward the crew and pull aside one of the senior staff.
"Hey, I'm really sorry," I begin smoothly, still balancing the container of japchae in my hands. "I just received a last-minute emergency booking. Would it be alright if we wrap it here and reschedule the remaining shots?"
They blink, caught off guard, but nod. "Actually, we were just discussing postponing the next segment. The weather's shifting, and the wind's picking up."
"Perfect," I smile, grateful. "Let me know when it's rescheduled."
I turn slightly, ready to head back and change out of the dress when the staffer stops me.
"Oh—by the way," they add with a small grin, "the team says you can keep the dress. Honestly, it looked better on you than it did hanging on the rack."
I blink, caught off guard by the gesture, then laugh softly. "Really?"
They nod. "Seriously. You made it look like a campaign piece. It'd be a waste to send it back."
I offer a sincere smile. "Thanks. That… actually helps a lot."
No time to change now anyway.
I gather my things, tucking the container into my bag like it's priceless, and head toward the elevators.
As the doors close, I exhale.
"So much for a break."
…
April 18, 2021. 14:47. Richmond.
My sedan pulls up along the outer gate of YVR's private access zone. It was a pain getting past the security and screaming civilians, but Wissen pulled enough strings for me to arrive without major complications.
The tires hiss against the pavement and I kill the engine. I step out, and a soft breeze flutters the hem of my dress. I take the liberty of putting on a black jacket and swapping out my sandals for regular white low-profile sneakers instead.
Not exactly combat-ready. Still, it's something.
I pop the trunk and open a reinforced silver case resting beside a secondary one. Inside is a backup arsenal of weapons I packed in my car just in case for moments like this: a Glock 19, a CZ Scorpion EVO 3 A1, an FN SCAR-L rifle, and enough ammo to light up a parking garage. I set aside the rifle—too conspicuous—and instead grab the Scorpion SMG, matte black and compact. Lightweight, easy to move with. The Glock joins it in a concealed holster I wrap around my thigh.
The sound of gunshots can be heard in the distance with people frantically running away from the scene. Gotta hurry. I slam the doors shut, locking everything before I move out.
By the time I approach the rendezvous point, the rest of the party is already trickling in.
Wissen stands near a low wall, glancing at his watch while issuing instructions through a comm piece. Mister is beside him, quiet as usual, observing the layout with sharp, practiced eyes.
Remi whistles a low tune when he sees me, visibly stunned. "DAMN! Choom, you got a date or somethin' like that?"
Azure smirks, eyeing my outfit. "You look hot. Like, stupid hot. Are we sure you're not the decoy today?"
"Both of you, shut up," I mutter, but there's no heat behind it. "You guys ready?"
Wissen doesn't comment on my appearance. He simply nods. "Tetra and Shock are inside. They're keeping Dante and the railgun safe, but multiple cars just pulled up on them. The original guards he had were taken out."
Speaking of Shock, a text from her buzzes into the group chat.
"I can see y'all through cams. Terminal C. Hurry. 3 black sedans and a van pulling up."
Wissen and Mister immediately get to work. They step aside and begin making calls—Wissen contacting airport personnel, Mister calling in favours to delay police intervention and reroute civilian foot traffic. Within minutes, they secure a small corridor to Terminal C using dummy protocols.
Azure and Remi trail close behind as we make our way through the airport. Neither of them carries much besides standard sidearms, but I know Remi well enough to assume he'll improvise with whatever he can find. Either way, both of them can hold their own, whether through conventional tactics or otherwise.
Well, that's the hope, anyway.
One of Mister's contacts meets with us past a service gate, leading us through a series of restricted staff corridors. Each corridor winds beneath the terminals and bypasses most of the foot traffic. It smells like rubber and jet fuel. Lights buzz dimly above us as we jog up a ramp and through a secured doorway.
We emerge inside a dimly lit baggage corridor, one hall over from Terminal C.
I peek around the corner—and freeze.
Half a dozen men in matching black suits stand near the concourse windows. They're loosely grouped but clearly armed with assault rifles. Professional, but loud. Nothing subtle about them. Loud conversations fill the entire room, masking our presence easily.
Azure takes a peek alongside me, whispering, "Wow. Real creative. Black suits and rifles? What is this, a B-movie?"
Shortly after, Remi joins in. "Shiiit… they're kinda drippy though. They got aura."
I scowl at Remi. "Dude, knock it off. Are you even serious about this? If they spot us, it's game over."
"Yeah, Remi. You heard her, knock it off," Azure nudges him, trying her best to not giggle. "Anyways, got any ideas, Artemis?"
I roll my eyes and then nod. "I've got a few." I gesture for the two to follow me.
We duck back into cover as I outline the plan. "Azure, do you have a way to rig the sprinklers or power breakers on that side? We need something flashy. Remi, you can take the far right corridor—when the lights cut, just start firing. Take down two or three. I'll breach the center once they scatter. We'll coordinate using our group chat."
"You're breaching while wearing a dress?" Azure asks.
"Yes, I'm breaching while wearing a dress," I reply flatly.
She smirks. "You're insane. I love it."
"Choom, this is gonna be absolute cinema," Remi nods in satisfaction, and his eyes are practically shining with excitement. "We're zeroing a bunch of mafia!"
Within minutes, Azure vanishes down the maintenance stairwell, her hand unravelling into a mobile toolkit. Remi peels off into a second hallway that feeds into the terminal from the north end.
I take a breath, double-check my mags, and scan my surrounding area one more time. I quickly type into the group chat, tagging Remi and Azure. "Ready?"
Remi's response is fast. "Yeh."
Azure's message comes right after. "Mhm, I found something I can use."
I nod in approval. "Perfect, Azure, start it whenever." My grip on my SMG tightens as I pocket my phone.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself for the incoming firefight. My body tenses slightly, but I force it to relax. Focus sharpens. The scent of recycled air, the distant hum of voices, the sterile chill of the hall—it all melts away until only the battlefield remains in front of me.
Did I even eat the snacks my mom brought? ...Whatever. I'll deal with it later.
I blink once, center myself again, and wait for Azure's signal.
And then, the lights in Terminal C explode into darkness and chaos.
The fire suppression system is triggered—no water, just a burst of powder and air pressure that blasts one of the nearby windows open and blinds half the corridor in fog. Alarms don't even get the chance to start before Remi opens fire from the flank.
Two guards drop instantly. The shots ring loud and echo down the halls. One mafioso stumbles in shock, rifle raised, only to catch a bullet to the chest. Another turns, confused, right into my line of sight.
My turn.
Silent steps. Controlled breathing. My SMG hums with short bursts as I advance down the corridor, clearing space between luggage carts and support beams.
Rapid angle checking. Tight turns. Firing in motion. A bullet into the head of the first, another into the chest of the second. Each takedown is surgical. Calculated.
I sweep around and shoot the third one behind a vending machine, he drops with a wheeze. The fourth comes charging down the aisle, barking orders in another language. I drop low, slide behind a cart, pop up from the far side, and put a burst directly through his side.
Another emerges from behind a kiosk, his rifle raised.
He doesn't even see me before I'm on him. I grab his arm, twist it behind his back, then slam his head into the corner of the kiosk. He stumbles and I spin, pressing the muzzle of my weapon against his ribs. I pull the trigger. Another burst.
He drops to the floor.
Footsteps thunder ahead—more on the way. I vault over a low bench, shifting left just in time to see another suit turning the corner. He lifts his weapon, but I've already sidestepped. I fire two quick bursts mid-motion. One round takes his shoulder. The next tears his throat.
I effortlessly slide into full cover. A move that I've practiced and grown accustomed to, like it's the choreography to a dance.
Remi's shots echo from the far side. Azure's trap detonates again—this time, a rolling luggage rack barrels through the mess, knocking over two men scrambling to regroup. They fall, but don't get back up.
I roll behind a column and reload, listening for any more noise. A few seconds of silence pass, and I peek around to confirm.
Clear.
Remi strolls in, breathing hard. "I think I got like… three dudes."
Azure jogs up, hair tousled. "My trap got a few as well."
"I think I got the rest," I murmur. "We should get going."
They both look at me.
"Absolute cinema," Remi mutters. "Aight, let's go, boss." He leans forward, grabbing a nearby assault rifle from one of the dead mafioso.
Azure exhales. "Remind me never to bet against you."
"Alright," I give a brief chuckle of amusement. "Noted."
I take out my phone, checking in on the rest of the group. "Shock. We're clear. You good?"
Shock's message comes right away. "Yepppp. Thanks for the assist, fashionista <3"
"Pshhh, this girl," I lower my weapon and my phone. "Guess we're okay, for now at least."
A sense of relief washes over me. Sirens wail in the distance, mingling with the rising clatter of footsteps as responders draw closer. My shoulders sag as I finally let the tension bleed out, waiting for the rest of the party to regroup.
And to think that the day's only just begun.