Chapter 2
On Dokja’s first day, Joonghyuk had allowed him to explore the layout of the headquarters on his own. But by the second day, that leniency was gone.
No sooner had Dokja arrived at the office than Joonghyuk slammed a thick stack of documents onto his desk—followed by a cart piled high with paperwork, towering like a small mountain. His voice was low and steady, devoid of all emotion:
“Go through all of this. I want it done within the week.” Dokja hadn’t even opened his mouth to ask what the mountain of files entailed when Joonghyuk, already turning away, added coldly, “And plan my lunch and dinner menus.”
The command made Dokja pause.
It wasn’t the amount of work that threw him—it was the way the order was given. That air of arrogance, the cold, detached tone, the way Joonghyuk seemed to regard others as expendable pawns… it all perfectly explained the kind of rumors that trailed him throughout headquarters.
And yet, what confused Dokja most wasn’t the paperwork.
It was the meal request.
That clearly wasn’t part of his job. He had no idea why he was suddenly expected to take on something so personal. But before he could even begin to ask, Joonghyuk had already brushed past him, sleeves flicked back, disappearing into his private office without another word.
The room fell into silence.
Dokja was left standing alone, staring at the heap of documents. He let out a long breath, eyes narrowing slightly as a quiet thought formed in his mind: “…Is this a test?”
The workstations of Team 104 were set just outside Joonghyuk’s office, barely five meters from his door. Though the row of desks numbered five, four of them sat eerily empty—untouched, unclaimed. Dokja made full use of the space, spreading the sea of documents across every available surface.
Agents from other departments passed by now and then, their glances inevitably drawn to the mountain of paperwork engulfing him. Some looked curious. Others, sympathetic. All of them seemed to understand—without needing to ask—that this workload wasn’t normal. It was a “gift,” a very particular kind of welcome.
Normally, each team was assigned five members. Higher-tier squads were even granted additional aides. Dokja had already heard the rumors: Joonghyuk once had three assistants under his command. Not one of them remained—they’d all been reassigned.
As the top graduate of his training cohort, Dokja was fully aware of the gulf between working with a well-oiled support team… and shouldering everything alone. And in that moment, he couldn’t help but draw an unspoken comparison between himself and Joonghyuk.
In more ways than one, they weren’t so different.
Except, of course, that Joonghyuk had the power to offload his burdens. Dokja didn’t.
The price of climbing too high was often a painful fall. So Dokja wasn’t surprised by the sympathetic glances thrown his way from time to time. Occasionally, someone would even shake their head in quiet dismay.
Dokja didn’t need their pity. And yet, he couldn’t ignore the way the air around him grew heavier with each passing hour. The looks—those fleeting gestures of silent goodwill—were perhaps the only human kindness afforded to him. But that was all. No one offered help. No one said a word.
He opened the first file, only to realize it was a record of the cases Joonghyuk had worked on during his first year at headquarters. Back then, Unit 104 hadn’t even been named, nor did it have a formal team leader. Everyone had operated as equals.
Joonghyuk’s teammates at the time were two fresh graduates, assigned to him by Eric without much deliberation—likely a testament to Eric’s trust in their compatibility. The team had produced impressive results, each case a clear success, their accomplishments consistently acknowledged in official commendations.
But what made Dokja pause wasn’t the accolades. It was the insurance section. While Joonghyuk’s teammates were granted generous payouts, the space under Joonghyuk’s name was left entirely blank—a stark, cold zero.
It made no sense.
Unable to suppress his curiosity, Dokja stood up, walked to Joonghyuk’s office door, and knocked.
The curtains weren’t drawn, and the inside of the office was clearly visible through the transparent glass. Dokja caught a glimpse of Joonghyuk slouched in his chair, posture lazy to the point of indifference. The way he held the book—half-heartedly, as if it barely deserved his attention—combined with the disinterested look in his eyes, made it painfully clear that he was deliberately ignoring the knock.
Dokja exhaled quietly, the sound heavy with resignation. It felt like knocking on a stone wall.
Eventually, his patience ran out. He pushed the door open and walked straight in. The act was bold, enough to freeze the very air in the room.
As expected, Joonghyuk looked up, his expression clouded with displeasure. His gaze sharpened, scrutinizing Dokja in silence, evaluating the audacity of this unauthorized intrusion.
Dokja didn’t bother explaining himself right away. He glanced at the foreign-language title of the book in Joonghyuk’s hand but didn’t try to make sense of it—nor did he offer any remark. Still, he could see the ridicule in Joonghyuk’s eyes, the same cold, unimpressed gaze he always reserved for his subordinates. It made Dokja feel like he had just walked into a forbidden space.
Sensing his unease, Joonghyuk shut the book and tucked it away in the drawer. The motion was simple, casual—but it stirred a flicker of curiosity in Dokja.
Joonghyuk’s lips curled faintly, satisfied.
“What is it?” he asked, his tone dry enough to slice through any developing thoughts in Dokja’s mind.
“Oh.” Dokja refocused, getting to the point. “I wanted to ask why you didn’t accept any insurance payments during your first year here.”
The question brought a sudden stillness to the room. Joonghyuk didn’t respond right away. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on Dokja—quiet, contemplative, as if weighing whether the answer was worth sharing.
The silence stretched on. The only sound was the faint, consistent hum of the ceiling vent, blowing cool air in the dead center of the room.
In a line of work as dangerous as this, the injury rate among agents was extremely high. Those who received the least in insurance payouts were usually long-range shooters or support specialists—people whose duties kept them away from the front lines.
But Joonghyuk was different. His combat skills were flawless across every field—he could engage in hand-to-hand combat, defend, attack, even subdue opponents with ease. He could handle ninety percent of the workload all on his own without breaking a sweat.
That also meant his chances of getting hurt were exponentially higher than those of his teammates.
To outsiders, Joonghyuk sometimes came off as arrogant—someone who would gladly throw his team into danger just so he could shine. Dokja had heard those whispers more than once.
And yet, he couldn’t stop wondering about the truth.
Dokja was almost certain that even if Joonghyuk got injured, he would still refuse the insurance. Not because he forgot. Not because he didn’t need it. But out of something else—some reason Dokja couldn’t quite grasp.
That uncertainty clung to him like mist, an invisible weight pressing into the back of his mind.
“I told you to study the case files, not to study me.” Joonghyuk’s lips curled into a half-smile, his gaze sharp as it swept over Dokja with a glint of mockery.
“I studied everything related to the cases,” Dokja replied without missing a beat. “Attention to detail matters—not just in combat, but when it comes to your teammates too. My class emphasized that more than once.”
Joonghyuk had a retort on the tip of his tongue—that none of that was in the actual training curriculum—but the phrase “my class” hit him like a punch to the gut.
It made him feel like he was being mocked for his age.
As if he were being called outdated—his methods old, his knowledge dusty, and his mindset stuck in the past. He suddenly felt like he was falling behind, unable to keep up with change. No explanation he could offer seemed good enough.
So he shifted tactics, reaching for a different weak point.
“Dokja-ssi,” he said pointedly, his tone deliberately condescending. “Are you that interested in insurance money?”
Dokja began to suspect that Joonghyuk had no real intention of answering his question. Pushing further might just be a waste of time. Still, he remained composed, refusing to let Joonghyuk’s attitude sway him.
“Insurance is important. That’s why the Central Bureau collaborated with both the Defense and Health Ministries to create policies specifically for agents. I know that in the past, payouts were minimal, because people assumed being an agent meant dying was part of the job—sacrifice was expected.”
“There are still plenty of people who think that way,” Joonghyuk replied flatly, his expression unreadable.
That was when Dokja felt he’d found the heart of it. He leaned in slightly, voice lower, more deliberate.
“So is that it? You think you don’t need insurance? Is this about being noble… or do you just look down on it?”
Joonghyuk raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise flashing through his eyes. Beneath the desk, his fist clenched instinctively. He realized he had been pulled into a conversation with no easy way out.
In just twenty-four hours, Dokja had begun inching closer to boundaries Joonghyuk had spent years fortifying. The younger agent wasn’t rushing or reckless—he was calm, deliberate, peeling back layers of Joonghyuk’s persona like stripping an onion, one measured cut at a time.
Joonghyuk let out a soft, humorless laugh. He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he ended the discussion right there—fully aware that pushing it further would only corner himself into defeat.
His only retreat was to yield, for now.
Dokja, guided by sharp intuition, caught on. The answer was clear. Joonghyuk didn’t avoid the insurance money because he was noble. He despised it.
Still, Dokja wanted to be sure. He would comb through more case files until he had solid proof to back his suspicions.
With that resolve firm in his mind, Dokja turned on his heel and headed straight for the records office.
Agents were trained to fight, not to file paperwork.
That’s why every field team had its own secretary—someone who handled all the administrative, procedural, and logistical duties that agents were never meant to touch.
These secretaries usually worked independently. They weren’t involved in the team’s daily missions and often had their own office, separated from the main operations.
Dokja figured it had probably been a long time since Joonghyuk paid any attention to the secretary assigned to Team 104—long enough that he might not even remember their face anymore.
Following the head secretary’s vague gesture, Dokja eventually found himself standing at the far end of a large office space.
The desk in question was crowded with a chaotic collection of anime figures, most of which Dokja didn’t recognize. Amid the sea of colorful plastic, a single thin folder sat neglected in the far corner. Seated behind it was a middle-aged woman with dark skin, intently focused on her work.
“Kiera?” Dokja asked hesitantly.
The woman looked up and recognized him immediately.
“Oh, hi there. What is it—resignation form or transfer request?”
Dokja’s jaw clenched. He forced a sheepish smile, trying not to lose composure.
“I’d like to see Captain Yoo’s medical records.”
Kiera blinked at him, visibly taken aback. Not because of her age—her mind was still sharp as ever—but because the request was so unexpected, it bordered on absurd.
“Ms. Kiera, would you mind sending me Captain Yoo’s medical records from his first year?” Dokja asked again, voice calm and patient.
Kiera cleared her throat and gave a small nod. “Oh, sure. At least that gives me something to do.”
The secretary position for Team 104 had once belonged to a young woman—bright-eyed, passionate, full of energy. She had been something of a role model among the secretarial staff, admired for her supposed good fortune in being assigned to work under the legendary Yoo Joonghyuk.
Back then, his reputation was sterling, his achievements flawless. Everyone thought she had landed the perfect job.
But things changed once Team 104 was officially established.
The workload shrank dramatically, and instead of glory, she was left to deal with countless rumors—stories about how the higher you climbed, the harder you fell. Stories of Yoo Joonghyuk’s emotional detachment, his isolation, and the coldness of someone who always stood alone at the top.
In time, admiration turned into unease, and unease into fear. Eventually, she requested a transfer.
That was when Kiera stepped in—a savior of sorts for the secretarial division.
She needed something to keep her busy before retirement, and no one else wanted the job. That made her the perfect fit for Team 104.
Despite her age, Kiera’s efficiency hadn’t dulled a bit. With practiced ease, she located Joonghyuk’s medical records and forwarded them to Dokja.
And at last, Dokja found the answer he’d been looking for.
Yoo Joonghyuk had never cared about insurance payouts. To him, the money was insignificant—laughably small compared to what he believed he was worth.
In his written refusal to claim insurance, he had stated it plainly, with no attempt at politeness:
“My worth?How much do you think you can pay me? If you people can’t understand it, then I don’t need your pathetic little compensation.”
–
Dokja had grown accustomed to the quiet cadence of life at headquarters, to the rhythm of days stitched together by repetition. At eleven sharp, he would bring lunch to Joonghyuk; by six, he delivered dinner, marking the end of his silent vigil. What astonished him most was the absence of interference—Joonghyuk, contrary to every expectation, never crossed the invisible line of working hours. Dokja had imagined petty games, thinly veiled taunts, a gauntlet of silent trials, but it turned out that even Joonghyuk observed certain boundaries within the workplace.
Outside, the world still turned. Cases filtered in like the slow fall of ash. Team 102 reaped accolades in their ruthless hunt for monsters, yet Joonghyuk remained unmoved. He sat in his office as though time itself owed him patience, thumbing through novels or idling away in games that burst in pixelated color—eggs, perhaps, instead of bullets. Not a flicker of restlessness crossed his face.
He no longer went out of his way to trouble Dokja, instead leaving him to fend for himself beneath the mounting piles of documents. When Dokja sought assistance, Joonghyuk offered little more than a token gesture. After the episode with the insurance records, Dokja had long since stopped expecting support from his captain. He even found time now to listen to the strange rumors whispered behind Joonghyuk’s back—the kind of tales people only dared to share when they thought he wasn’t listening.
Some claimed that Joonghyuk spent more than twenty days a month within the confines of headquarters, rarely returning home—if he had one. Yet Dokja had never verified the rumor. He had never lingered long enough to wonder where Joonghyuk went after dinner. His role ended with the last meal of the day, and with that, he always turned away.
Others whispered darker tales: that Joonghyuk was drowning in debt so deep, he could no longer afford rent or repayment, reduced to hiding out at the office like a ghost who had forgotten what it meant to live elsewhere.His salary was a mystery, shrouded in speculation, but Dokja had neither access nor authority to peer into the cold arithmetic of Joonghyuk’s finances. The truth, like so much else about the man, remained locked away.
Once, in the cafeteria, a colleague leaned in close and murmured, “Joonghyuk’s cold-blooded. They say he killed his ex-girlfriend, and that’s why he became an agent—to atone. That’s why he carries that killing aura with him, like a second skin.”
Dokja only smiled. The words barely stirred him.
He couldn’t believe Joonghyuk had chosen this perilous path just to chase redemption
To Dokja, Joonghyuk was like a dried red apple—sweet and alluring, but harmful if consumed in excess. No matter how magnetic his presence, Dokja couldn’t picture him in a lasting relationship. Joonghyuk wasn’t the kind of man who lingered long enough to truly know someone. He was the type you might meet in passing, brush against lightly, then let go before the taste turned bitter. dried red apple :]]]
What caught Dokja’s attention, however, were the rumors surrounding Team 104.
“You know why Joonghyuk is the only one left as team leader, don’t you? They say he sabotaged his former teammates—drove them away, left them broken. Some quit early. Some died on missions.”
The tale played out like a carefully rehearsed tragedy, designed to cast Joonghyuk in the role of the lone wolf—untrustworthy, dangerous, and fated to walk alone. Perhaps that was why the Central Bureau never seemed to favor him.
Dokja listened to it all, yet withheld judgment. He neither accepted nor dismissed what he heard, choosing instead to keep a deliberate distance. He knew that if there were any truth to Joonghyuk’s story, it would be revealed not through rumors, but through the man’s own actions—the choices he would make in the days to come.
–
Rumors and rising tides of suspicion continued to gnaw at Dokja’s peace. Within just a week, the stories he had heard were enough to make his ears ring.
The growing pressure didn’t come from his curt superior, but from the barrage of whispers, insinuations, and half-truths hurled his way. In the end, it left him feeling constantly unsettled, like an itch under the skin, like ants crawling over him in slow, invisible waves.
Then, buried deep in the thick stack of case files he had combed through with painstaking care, Dokja found it—a flicker of light, a thin thread of clarity that tugged him out of the heavy, breathless swamp.
At last, he had found it: a case from Joonghyuk’s second year on record, where the man had actually accepted insurance compensation.
Dokja burst into Joonghyuk’s office at noon, his voice bubbling with excitement. “Captain! I’d like to discuss case S052—”
“Phoenix Net Corp,” Joonghyuk interrupted, voice calm as ever. “S052 began at Phoenix’s headquarters and spread throughout District 1.”
Dokja stopped short, caught off guard. “You still remember it?”
“Vividly,” Joonghyuk nodded, a glint of unwavering certainty in his eyes. “That case was worth the insurance.”
“But… the report says there were no injuries. None of your teammates received any claims—only you.”
For the first time, Dokja saw him smile—not the usual crooked smirk or mocking curve of the lips, but a quiet, genuine smile of pride.
“S052 was a cyberspace-type monster,” Joonghyuk said. “It had no physical form, moved between digital networks, and neutralized its opponents by pulling them into a virtual battleground.”
Dokja nodded, his eyes scanning the document line by line. The quiet rustle of turning pages sliced through the stillness of the room, sharpening his focus. “It says here this was the first S-class entity you ever took down.”
Joonghyuk pointed to the simulation rendering of S052’s digital arena. “I made a deal with it,” he said, then paused—his gaze daring Dokja to spot the missing piece.
The report was meticulous: Joonghyuk had been dragged into the monster’s virtual domain. While his teammates stood helpless, paralyzed by a system they couldn’t penetrate, Director Eric had reached out to the Ministry of Network and Data Administration. They had dispatched elite IT squads, each one attempting to breach the monstrous firewall S052 had constructed. But it wasn’t just about eliminating a threat anymore—this had become a mission to rescue Yoo Joonghyuk himself.
Fifteen days inside the virtual arena—fifteen days Joonghyuk fought alone for survival. Each day brought a new challenge, and not a single firewall breach succeeded. No rescue team reached him. No helping hand made it through.
But Yoo Joonghyuk never gave in.
He cleared every level. He conquered the code.
And in the end, S052 surrendered itself.
There were no injuries noted in the medical report—no wounds, no trauma, at least not the kind that left a mark on skin.
“You volunteered, didn’t you?” Dokja asked, voice low, hesitant. “You entered the arena on your own, so your team wouldn’t get pulled in?”
Joonghyuk raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of challenge and approval. “Correct,” he said. “But not the whole picture.”
He flipped to the next page—each sheet detailed another layer of the virtual battleground, labyrinthine and cruel.
“I made a deal with S052,” he said evenly. “If I could clear all thirteen levels of its arena, it would surrender. But if I failed…” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “It would be allowed to live inside my mind.”
Dokja’s brow furrowed, the breath catching in his throat.
“That was reckless,” he murmured.
Joonghyuk didn’t seem particularly moved. His voice remained calm, almost indifferent.
“This job was always built on risk. Recklessness makes me the ideal candidate for sacrifice. I don’t fear it. I don’t fear taking chances, because—”
“You like it?” Dokja interrupted.
Joonghyuk offered no answer. Silence hung between them, taut and unbroken. Then Dokja continued, voice quieter, more certain now.
“You took the insurance payout because an S-class monster was worth the cost of your sacrifice. The moment you staked your life, you’d already given it up for them. That’s why, in the end, you claimed the money. And since no one knew about your deal, they filed it as a rescue mission. That’s why Eric approved it.”
“S-class monsters are rare,” Joonghyuk sighed, the sound slipping through his teeth like something long accepted.
And the rarer they were, the more noble his sacrifice appeared.
B-class monsters were primarily defensive—striking only when provoked.
A-class leaned into aggression—territorial, volatile, often attacking without cause.
But both were predictable, bound by instincts and patterns easily mapped.
S-class, though—
S-class were different. Intelligent. Unnervingly adaptive. Monsters with thought patterns more human than beast, and just as treacherous. Identifying their behavior took time. Too much time.
And that made them dangerous.
S052 was the perfect example—a monster that lived inside a digital universe, wagering its life against Joonghyuk in a gamble of minds.
It wasn’t defeated through brute force. It surrendered because it lost the game. It couldn’t be destroyed—only outwitted.
“But… what if S052 had broken its promise?” Dokja blurted out.
“There is no what if,” Joonghyuk replied, his gaze unwavering, calm as still water.
He had accepted the risk—and with it, every possible outcome.
He wasn’t omnipotent. He wasn’t invincible.
But at the very least, he had fought a battle worth remembering— against an S-class monster that didn’t go down easy.