Chapter 179
Raven
"Number nine!" Reeves called out. "Get your ass up here!"
I straightened slightly, expecting to see another predictable attempt at disguise. What emerged from the lineup made even me pause.
Pink oversized hoodie. Ripped skinny jeans. A bucket hat pulled low. And the face—Christ, the face—was a masterpiece of K-pop aesthetics. Glittery eyeshadow, perfectly contoured cheekbones, glossy lips that caught the light just right. The candidate struck a peace sign pose, chewing gum with exaggerated nonchalance, eyes half-lidded in that calculated "bored idol" expression.
The three female evaluators froze mid-step.
"Since when do we have K-pop stars competing?" Commander Zhao muttered, her professional composure cracking.
Major Thompson circled the candidate slowly, studying the outfit with visible confusion. "This is... unexpected."
I bit back a laugh. While everyone else saw a Korean boy band member, I saw the truth in the details others missed. The gum-chewing rhythm—three chews, pause, two chews—was identical to the pattern I'd observed earlier during mess. The way weight shifted to the left foot when standing still, compensating for an old injury that no amount of makeup could hide. And most telling: the faint scar tissue on the knuckles, barely visible under the foundation but unmistakable to someone who knew what to look for.
Han Ji-woo.
The North Korean who'd threatened me over a chicken leg was now dressed as everything his homeland despised.
Desperate much?
My lips curved slightly. I had to admire the audacity. Transforming into your nation's greatest enemy to win an American military contract? That took either balls or complete lack of principles.
Probably both.
Colonel Mitchell stepped closer, examining the makeup application. "The technique is flawless. Contouring, highlighting, even the aegyo-sal under the eyes." She paused. "How did you learn this style?"
"YouTube," the candidate replied in a perfect Seoul accent, adding a slight lisp for authenticity. "Spent three months studying idol makeup tutorials."
Major Thompson nodded slowly. "The commitment is impressive. The cultural knowledge, the mannerisms..." She exchanged glances with the other evaluators. "Nine out of ten."
"Nine," Commander Zhao confirmed.
"Nine," Mitchell agreed. "Outstanding work on the transformation, though the backstory could use refinement."
Before Reeves could even ask for identification, Han ripped off his bucket hat and began scrubbing at his face with theatrical disgust.
"Finally!" He spat in his native accent, throwing the hat to the ground. "Do you know how disgusting it was to dress like those South Korean parasites?" He kicked at the discarded hoodie with visible revulsion. "When I saw the disguise challenge, I knew—the most unexpected thing a North Korean could do? Become a K-pop idol. My nation's greatest enemy. Everything I was taught to hate." He shuddered. "Thiry minutes painting my face like one of those pretty-boy traitors, and every second made me want to scrub my skin off. But it worked. Nobody expected it. And I advanced."
His eyes swept the remaining candidates, a predator assessing prey, before locking onto me.
"You!" He stabbed a finger in my direction. "You're too stupid! Look around—does anyone else have makeup as light as yours?" His lips twisted into a sneer. "Old woman disguise? Pathetic! I recognized you immediately, Raven!"
The words "old woman" pierced through my calculated calm like a blade finding a seam in armor.
My jaw tightened. My fingers flexed once—a muscle memory of reaching for weapons that weren't there. Every instinct I'd honed over years of kills screamed to eliminate the threat, to silence that smug voice permanently.
Three steps. Collapse his trachea. Sever the carotid. Done.
But I remained still, my gaze lowered, examining my nails with deliberate disinterest. My feet ached from standing. Showing emotion was weakness. Reacting was defeat.
Han mistook my silence for fear. His voice grew bolder, taking on a considering tone.
"Although, I have to admit..." He stepped closer. "The mature look has a certain appeal."
You're dead. You just don't know it yet.
"You hear me?" Han's confidence swelled. "Next challenge, whatever it is, you better pray you don't face me! Actually—" He laughed, harsh and mocking. "—you probably won't make it past this round. Too easy to recognize. Too amateur."
A cold smile touched my lips before I could stop it.
Let's see how well you handle being played by a master, little defector.
I lifted my head slowly, deliberately. Not the careful, measured movement of a nervous teenager. No—this was the languid confidence of someone who owned every space they occupied. My chin raised just enough. My eyes found his. And I let the real me surface, just for a heartbeat.
The smile that curved my mouth wasn't Raven Martinez, high school junior.
It was Phantom. Killer. Legend.
And it was devastating.
Han's aggressive posture faltered mid-gesture. His mouth, open for another insult, went slack. The color drained from his face as his brain struggled to reconcile what his eyes were seeing.
"You—you—" He stammered, backing up a half-step. "Your smile... it's... you're completely—"
Not just him. The entire clearing had gone quiet.
Reeves stood frozen, tablet forgotten in his hand. The three female evaluators stared with expressions ranging from shock to something uncomfortably close to appreciation. Even the candidates who'd been whispering among themselves had fallen silent, watching with the hypnotized attention of prey recognizing an apex predator.
Good.
"What the hell—" Reeves shook himself, breaking the spell. "Get back in line, Han! We're still in the middle of an evaluation!" He stormed toward me, his weathered face flushed with something between anger and... was that embarrassment?
"Raven," he said, his voice rough. "Your turn. But I have to say—" He cleared his throat. "You look... Christ. More mature. More sophisticated. More..." He trailed off, then seemed to catch himself. "But I still recognized you! You're too distinctive. Are you sure you want to proceed? Because right now, I'm thinking elimination is—"
I laughed.
It wasn't the nervous giggle of a teenage girl. It wasn't even the amused chuckle of Raven Martinez. This was something darker, richer—the sound of someone who found the entire situation beneath them but was willing to play along for entertainment value.
The laugh made Reeves take an involuntary step back.
Commander Zhao, who'd been silent until now, moved forward with sharp, controlled steps. Her face had hardened into a mask of professional displeasure.
"Stop. Laughing." Each word was clipped. "And don't even think about using honeypot tactics. This is a military evaluation, not a beauty pageant." Her eyes narrowed. "Who exactly are you supposed to be? Because from where I'm standing, you're the only candidate everyone recognized on sight. Your elimination probability is—"
"Astronomically high?" I finished for her, my voice shifting registers.
Gone was the casual California drawl of Raven Martinez. What emerged was something else entirely—cultured, cosmopolitan, with the faintest trace of Eastern European consonants bleeding through. The kind of accent that suggested expensive international schools and diplomatic circles.
Commander Zhao blinked. "What—"