The door to the VIP lounge closes with a barely audible click. Taeha stands motionless in the doorway, the dim light of the lobby cutting her silhouette against the shadows. Her gaze slides from the open briefcase to the receptionist's face, assessing, calculating. Leather gloves creak slightly as he flexes his fingers.

A wall clock ticks off the seconds in the hallway. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The security chief advances leisurely, stepping over the edge of the carpet where a dark stain still dampens the fabric. He stops half a meter away, just enough to perceive the trembling in the hands of others, not so much to offer comfort. His breath does not fog the air; it seems even that controls him.

The gun on the couch catches a flash of light as he tilts his head toward her, as if sharing a private joke. When he raises it again, her pupils have absorbed all clarity: black wells in a marble face.

"It seems," he muses, slurring the words like a knife through bone, "that the night shift just got interesting."