Chapter 176
Raven
An Asian man—late twenties, angular features, military-short hair—shot to his feet, fists clenched. His accent was thick, clipped, barely restrained fury vibrating in every syllable.
"You know what you do?" he demanded, jabbing a finger at me. "You waste food! You know how many people in my country have nothing? Children dying because no rice? Families eating tree bark?" His voice cracked with genuine rage. "And you—you sit here, playing games with food like it's nothing!"
I leaned back in my chair, meeting his gaze calmly.
"I'm sorry," I said, voice dripping with false sincerity. "I genuinely didn't realize my stomach capacity had decreased. I was so sure I could finish both." I picked up the second chicken leg again, held it up to the light. Examined it thoughtfully. "But you're right. It's only that one bite away from being perfectly satisfying."
His face went purple.
"You—you mock me? You think this is funny?"
I tilted my head, studying him more carefully now. The sharp cheekbones. The specific cadence of his English. The way his rage carried an undercurrent of something deeper—something hungry in a way that went beyond physical need.
North Korean.
Had to be.
The famine up there had been brutal for decades. Entire generations raised on propaganda and starvation rations. And here he was—probably one of the lucky few elite soldiers who'd escaped, made it to the West, clawed his way into special forces training.
And I'd just waved a chicken leg in his face like it was a toy.
"Tell me something," I said quietly. "North Korea, right? Pyongyang? Or one of the outer provinces?"
He froze.
The tent went silent again—a different kind of silence this time. Wary. Tense.
I stood up slowly, still holding the chicken leg. Walked around the table until I was directly in front of him.
Held it out.
"Here," I said simply. "Take it."
He stared at the offered food like it was a venomous snake.
"Take it," I repeated. "You need it more than I do, clearly."
For one heartbeat, I thought he might actually accept. His eyes locked onto that chicken leg with an intensity that bordered on violence. His hand twitched.
Then he slapped it out of my hand.
It hit the ground with a wet thud, rolling through the dirt.
"You think you can humiliate me?" he snarled, getting right in my face. Close enough that I could smell the rage coming off him in waves. "You think because you got lucky in some children's game, you're better than me?" He stepped closer, forcing me to either back up or hold my ground.
I held my ground.
"Let me tell you something, princess." His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "When the real test comes? When they put guns in our hands and knives at our throats? I will make you choke on every bite of food you wasted today. I will make you vomit it back up and beg for mercy."
I smiled.
Slow. Cold. Genuine.
"Really?" I said softly. "Because I'm pretty sure if we get another chance at dinner service, you won't even see a chicken leg. You'll be too busy eating dirt."
His fist clenched.
Katya jumped up, physically inserting herself between us. "Okay! Okay, let's all just—"
"Relax," Ethan added, appearing at my other side. "No need for violence. We're all tired. Hungry. Emotions are high."
The North Korean operative—because that's clearly what he was—glared at me for another five seconds. Then turned and stalked back to his table, shoulders rigid with barely contained fury.
Katya grabbed my arm the second he was gone.
"Are you insane?" she hissed. "Do you have any idea who that is?"
"An angry guy with food issues?" I suggested.
"That's Han Ji-woo," Ethan said quietly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Han wasn't listening. "North Korean Special Forces. Fifth-generation military family—his great-grandfather was a general during the Korean War. He defected three years ago, applied for asylum, got recruited by the CIA almost immediately." He adjusted his glasses. "Rumor is he's killed more people than some entire SEAL teams."
I felt a flicker of interest.
"Really?" I glanced back at Han, who was now sitting alone, radiating murderous intent in my direction. "Well. Good."
Katya stared at me. "Good? How is that good?"
"Because," I said calmly, "I don't kill nobodies."
Before either of them could respond, Reeves's voice boomed across the clearing.
"CANDIDATES! ON YOUR FEET!"
The tent erupted into motion. Everyone scrambled up, forming rough lines, faces tight with anticipation.
Reeves stood at the entrance, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.
"I hope you enjoyed your meal," he said flatly. "Because the next challenge?" He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Is going to separate the operators from the amateurs."
A collective intake of breath.
I saw fists clench. Jaws tighten. Han Ji-woo's eyes locked onto mine with predatory focus, clearly imagining all the ways he was going to destroy me in whatever came next.
"Follow me," Reeves ordered.
We marched in silence through the jungle path, boots crunching on fallen leaves. The air grew thicker, heavier. Somewhere in the distance, a bird screamed.
Then we emerged into a clearing.
And stopped.
Twelve individual changing rooms stood in a neat row—portable units with canvas walls and plastic doors, each one separated from the others by at least ten feet. Through the translucent material, I could make out shapes inside. Furniture. Mirrors.
"What the hell?" someone muttered.
Reeves walked to the center of the clearing, turning to face us with an expression that might have been amusement.
"Candidates," he said slowly, "physical prowess is essential for special operations. Combat skills, tactical awareness, execution capability—all vital." He paused. "But you know what's more important than any of that?"
Silence.
"The ability to get close to your target in the first place."
He gestured at the changing rooms.
"Any idiot can shoot a gun. Any moron can plant a bomb. But a true black-ops operative?" His smile was razor-thin. "Can walk into a enemy compound, blend in perfectly, and disappear before anyone realizes they were ever there."
Oh.
Oh no.
"This challenge," Reeves continued, "will test your disguise and infiltration skills. Each of you will enter a changing room. Inside, you'll find cosmetics, wigs, clothing, prosthetics—everything you need to transform yourself into someone else entirely."
A ripple of confusion swept through the candidates.
"You have thirty minutes," Reeves said. "At the end of that time, you will emerge and present your disguise to a panel of expert judges. They will evaluate realism, attention to detail, and overall believability." His gaze swept across all of us. "The three lowest-ranked candidates will be eliminated immediately."
Han Ji-woo's expression shifted from anticipation to confusion to—
Was that panic?
I bit back a laugh.
"Candidates!" Reeves barked. "Move to your assigned stations! Your thirty minutes start NOW!"