Chapter 181
Raven
Mitchell took a half-step backward. Not out of fear—or not just fear. Out of recognition. Her eyes widened slightly, and I saw the exact moment she decided not to voice whatever thought had just crossed her mind.
Smart woman.
"I—" She cleared her throat. "Yes. Actually, I think I do."
Point proven.
"Bullshit!"
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Han Ji-woo shoved his way through the crowd of candidates, his face flushed with indignation and wounded pride. That K-pop disguise had really done a number on his ego—he needed to win this argument to reclaim his dignity.
Men and their fragile egos. Tale as old as time.
"Don't buy this crap!" Han jabbed a finger at me. "Sure, she's got good acting skills. Maybe she studied at some fancy drama school for a few years? Took some method acting classes?" He laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. "But assassin? Assassin? Don't make me laugh!"
He strutted forward, puffing out his chest. Classic dominance display. Predictable.
"You want to talk killers?" Han's voice rose. "I trained with the Reconnaissance General Bureau. I've eliminated targets, survived hostile territory, completed black ops missions your American CIA still has classified." He sneered. "And you think some spoiled American girl can just pretend to be a professional killer? In front of me? A North Korean operative?"
He spread his arms wide in a gesture of exaggerated disbelief.
"Look at you! You don't even have a weapon! What are you going to do, intimidate me with your wardrobe changes?"
The candidates laughed. Even some of the soldiers cracked smiles. Han was playing to his audience, and they were eating it up.
I let him have his moment. Let him think he'd won.
Then I sighed. "My apologies in advance."
I moved.
In one fluid motion, I closed the distance between myself and Major Thompson—the one who'd nearly drawn on me. Her hand was still resting near her holster, muscle memory keeping her ready. I reached out, my fingers brushing against her wrist so lightly she probably thought it was accidental.
The KA-BAR knife slid from its sheath on her tactical belt. She didn't even notice.
Three steps forward. My heels clicked against the packed earth with the rhythm of a countdown.
One.
Two.
Three.
Han's smirk was still frozen on his face when my hand snapped down to my thigh. The knife—my real knife, the one I'd strapped there this morning because old habits die hard—appeared in my palm like magic.
I moved through his guard like smoke through a chain-link fence.
The blade sang twice. Whisper-quiet. Phantom-fast.
Fabric parted with surgical precision. Not his skin—never his skin, not for this—but every thread holding his clothes together.
For one frozen moment, nothing happened. Han stood there, confused, adrenaline flooding his system but no pain receptors firing. His brain couldn't process what had just occurred.
Then gravity took over.
His shirt slid off his shoulders in pieces. His pants sagged, the belt loops severed, and pooled around his ankles. Even his socks—because I was feeling particularly petty—separated from his shoes and crumpled to the ground.
He stood there in nothing but a pair of truly unfortunate tighty-whities. White cotton. Slightly grayed from too many wash cycles. And yes, there was definitely a patch sewn onto the back.
Oh, that's just perfect.
The clearing exploded into laughter.
Not polite chuckles. Not restrained military composure. Full-belly, tears-streaming, can't-breathe howling.
One of the female candidates actually fell over, clutching her sides and gasping for air.
Ethan had his hand clamped over his mouth, but his shoulders shook violently.
Even Reeves—stern, unflappable Reeves—had turned away, his back shaking with barely suppressed laughter.
Mitchell was crying. Actually crying with laughter. "The patch," she wheezed. "Why is there a patch—"
Han's face cycled through several shades of red before settling on a deep crimson that suggested either extreme embarrassment or an impending stroke. His hands flew to cover himself, but there was too much exposed skin and not enough hands.
"You—you bitch!" His voice cracked. "How dare you—my clothes—those were military-issue—"
I stepped closer. Close enough that the tip of Thompson's borrowed KA-BAR blade rested against the soft hollow of his throat. Not breaking skin. Not yet. Just... there. A gentle reminder of how easily I could.
I leaned in until my lips were inches from his ear.
"Now?" I whispered. Soft enough that only he could hear. "Do you believe me?"