Livin’ La Vida Loca — Bangchan ||
summary — The plan was flawless: slip into a high-end Manhattan rooftop party as "Lola," charm the leader of Stray Kids, spike his drink, and vanish with the haul. But Chris doesn't go down easy. When the sedative fails to pull him under, a high-stakes duel of dominance explodes behind closed doors-leaving a trail of stolen platinum, a phantom ache, and a fiercely obsessed popstar determined to hunt his beautiful thief down.
pairing — Idol! Chan x Agent! Reader (Cipher)
genre — spy/thief au, crime/action romance, smut (in chapter |), dual pov, forbidden love
cw/tags — mostly plot, past abuse/physical violence (mentioned only), mild psychological threat, mild? criminal acts
A/n — omg I know this took SO long I’m sooo sorry for the wait for the long ass wait 😭😭 I really hope you guys like chapter two!!! Btw THANK YOUU sooo much for all of the support on my last three posts and ESPECIALLY my first ever post, I never expected for it to blow up!!!I love you ALLL SOOO muchhh 💋💋💋 (NOT PROOF READ YET!!!)
Tag list — @niku0704 @m3ha13 @bee143143
Livin’ La Vida Loca — Part |
The van is silent on the ride from the private airstrip. The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the soft, precise clicks of Ethan’s fingers on his keyboard as he performs the final digital sanitization of the New York operation. The Patek Philippe watch sits in a lead-lined case on the seat beside me, its weight a tangible anchor to the chaos I’ve left behind.
Halle drives, her eyes on the dark French countryside giving way to the first glow of urban sprawl. Victor and Liam are already gone, melting into the network to handle the fencing of the goods through our usual, untraceable channels. Emma sits across from me, her posture relaxed but her eyes watchful, analyzing my silence.
I haven’t spoken since I got on the plane. My body is here, in the van, dressed in simple, forgettable clothes—jeans, a black sweater, hair pulled back in a plain ponytail. But my mind is trapped in a penthouse suite in Manhattan, against a wall, in a bed that still held the warmth of a man who looked at me like I was a revelation, not a mark.
The name is a hook in my chest. I close my eyes, but I see his: dark, intense, disarmingly honest. I feel the ghost of his hands, the scrape of his teeth, the devastating way he said, “You taste like a lie, and I want to drink the whole bottle.”
“Head in the game, Cipher,” Emma says softly, not unkindly. “Kostas won’t like it if you’re elsewhere.”
I open my eyes, nodding once. Cipher. That’s who I am here. Not Lola. Not Me. A function. An algorithm.
We don’t enter the city of skyscrapers through the glittering downtown. Halle takes a series of turns into La Défense, the massive business district just west of Paris. It’s a forest of glass and steel, monolithic towers housing the European headquarters of banks, energy conglomerates, and tech giants. It is the epitome of corporate power, cold and impersonal. The perfect place to hide.
Our destination is the Tour Majunga, a sleek, rhombus-shaped tower that pierces the grey sky. We enter through the underground parking, using keycards that identify us as employees of Veridian Dynamics, a blandly-named consulting firm that occupies three floors mid-tower. The cover is impeccable, complete with a functioning office, legitimate (if boring) business fronts, and a staff of actual analysts who have no idea what happens on the secured top floor.
The elevator ride is smooth, silent. It opens not into a reception area, but into a stark, minimalist antechamber. White walls, grey floor, a single retinal scanner. Emma places her eye against it. A soft chime, and a section of the wall slides back without a sound.
The room beyond is a study in controlled power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking, sterile view of the geometric cityscape. The interior is all brushed steel, dark wood, and low, ambient lighting. There are no papers, no clutter. A single large screen dominates one wall, currently dark. This is not a villain’s lair. It’s a boardroom for ghosts.
He stands by the window, a silhouette against the cold light. He’s in his fifties, lean, with silver-grey hair cut with military precision and a face that seems carved from marble—handsome, but utterly without warmth. He wears a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. He doesn’t turn as we enter.
“The take has been processed,” Emma reports, her voice crisp in the vast quiet. “The watch will be in Switzerland by morning. The cards are already drained and destroyed. The passport has been… disposed of. Clean extraction. Zero forensic trace.”
Kostas finally turns. His eyes, a pale, unsettling blue, go straight to me, bypassing Emma completely. “Clean extraction,” he repeats, his voice a low, cultured baritone. “Biometric data from your subcutaneous tracker tells a more nuanced story, Cipher.”
He walks to the steel desk and taps a console. The large screen flickers to life. It doesn’t show security footage or schematics. It displays a series of graphs—heart rate, respiratory rate, galvanic skin response—all plotted against a timeline of the New York operation.
I see the predictable spikes: initial contact with the mark, the administration of the sedative, the movement to the secondary location. Then, there’s a massive, sustained elevation. A plateau of heightened vitals that lasts for nearly for half an hour. Far longer than any previous engagement.
“Your physiological markers indicate a state of extreme arousal and heightened emotional affect for thirty-four minutes,” Kostas states, his tone clinical. “The ‘persuasion’ window, as you called it. The dose was standard. The mark, Bang Chan, has no known extraordinary metabolic resistance. The data suggests he was conscious, active, and that you were… engaged.”
He lets the word hang in the air. Engaged. It covers everything. The fight, the kiss, the sex. The feeling of his skin under my hands, the sound of my name—my fake name—on his lips like it meant something.
“The mark was resistant,” I say, my own voice sounding foreign in this room. “He didn’t lose consciousness as projected. I had to improvise to ensure the objective was met. The prolonged engagement was a tactical necessity.”
“A tactical necessity,” Kostas echoes. He walks around the desk until he’s standing directly in front of me. He’s not tall, but his presence is immense, suffocating. “You have a history of improvisation, Cipher. It is often your strength. But it is born from a specific… vulnerability.” He pauses, his eyes boring into mine. “Back when we rescued you from the gutter in Prague. Half-dead, betrayed by a mark you were foolish enough to care for. What was his name? Alexei?”
The name is a punch to the solar plexus. I keep my face blank, but I feel the old phantom pains flare—the crack of ribs, the taste of blood.
“You swore then that sentiment was a poison. That you would become a tool. Sharp, precise, and feelingless.” He leans in slightly. “This data… this deviation… suggests the poison may still be in your system. Did you feel something for this Korean pop star, Cipher? In between stealing his possessions, did you forget to steal back your own heart?”
The accusation is a razor. He’s not just questioning my professionalism; he’s dissecting my one, hard-won protection.
“The objective was achieved,” I repeat, clinging to the fact like a lifeline. “The take was secured. The protocol, aside from an unforeseen biological variable in the mark, was followed.”
Kostas stares at me for a long, silent moment. The hum of the climate control is the only sound. Finally, he steps back.
“The objective was achieved,” he concedes. “And the take was significant. Therefore, you are not being benched. Yet.” He returns to his position by the window. “Your next assignment is in Rome. The file is ready. The parameters are standard.”
He turns his head, looking at me over his shoulder, his profile sharp against the glass. “But understand this, Y/N.”
The use of my real name—not Cipher—is the greatest threat of all. It means he’s speaking to the broken girl from Prague, not the phantom he rebuilt.
“Sentiment is a flaw. And flaws get people killed and one more deviation. One more prolonged ‘tactical necessity’ that aligns with your biometrics instead of the mission clock. One more hint that you are viewing a mark as anything other than a resource to be extracted…” He lets the sentence trail off, his gaze sweeping the impersonal, powerful room. “This agency survives because we are not individuals. We are a function. You are either part of that function, or you are a flaw in the system. And flaws…” He turns fully, his pale eyes utterly devoid of mercy. “…are excised.”
The dismissal is clear. Emma touches my elbow lightly, guiding me back towards the silent door.
As we walk back through the antechamber, the weight of the tower, of the entire cold, corporate forest of La Défense, feels like it’s pressing down on me. I am a ghost, but I haunt a prison of my own making. Kostas owns my past, my skills, my very identity.
And Chris… Chris, with his searching eyes and his stolen-song heart, is a beacon in that darkness. A beacon that Kostas has just marked for extinction.
The elevator descends. I look at my reflection in the polished doors—a woman in a sweater, her face pale, her eyes holding a storm she’s been ordered to suppress.
The hook in my chest pulls harder.
He’s looking for you, a treacherous voice whispers inside. And your keeper just told you to forget he exists.
But as the doors open to the underground garage, to the van and the next mission, I know, with a terrifying certainty, that I can’t.
The game was supposed to be over in New York.
It’s only just begun.
(CHRIS POV - THE HUNT BEGINS)
The official channels are a dead end. A ghost story the NYPD politely files away. My company, after the initial panic, wants to bury it. "A costly lesson, Chan-ah," Mr. Kim says, clapping my shoulder with a sigh. "We replace the watch, we get a new passport. We move on. No more rooftop parties with mysterious women."
The words are a joke. A sick, hollow joke.
I can't move on. I'm stuck in that hotel room, in the phantom imprint of her body on the mattress, in the taste of her that still lingers in my memory like a ghost limb. The fury is still there, a cold coal in my chest. But it's been eclipsed, utterly consumed, by the fascination. The need to know.
I hire someone off the books. A man named Aris, recommended by a producer who deals in things best left in shadows. Aris doesn't have an office. We meet in the back of a silent, smoky jazz club in Brooklyn. He's older, with eyes that have seen too many secrets and a price tag that reflects it.
"I'm not looking for the police," I tell him, sliding a folder across the table. It contains the hotel's useless security report, the guest list, and a sketch hyunjin made for me—her face, from memory. The sharp line of her jaw, the mocking curve of her lips, the eyes that held galaxies and guillotines. "I'm looking for the truth. I'm looking for her."
Aris studies the sketch, then me. "This kind of vanishing act... it's professional. Expensive. You weren't robbed, Mr. Bang. You were processed." He taps the blank space where the camera feeds should have shown her. "This is a level of wipe that speaks of resources, planning, and a team. You're not chasing a woman. You're chasing a phantom."
"Then chase the phantom," I say, my voice quiet but leaving no room for argument. "Find the team. Find the pattern. Start with the party. Someone saw something. A waiter, a valet, a guest who looked twice. Find the gap in the gap."
He takes the folder and my retainer. "It will cost you."
Weeks pass. Promotions in Tokyo, a fanmeet in Singapore. I smile for the cameras, sing the songs, joke with the members. But I'm a hologram. My real self is back in that New York hotel room, or hunched over my laptop in another anonymous hotel, waiting for Aris's encrypted updates.
They're scant. A blurred image of a black van three blocks away, caught on a traffic cam, its plates obscured. A payment to a boutique costume shop for a red silk dress, paid in untraceable cryptocurrency. A whisper from a source in private security about a freelance "extraction team" that sometimes works with a specialist known only as Cipher. A ghost who leaves no trace.
Cipher. The name sends a chill through me. It's not a name. It's a function. An algorithm for erasure.
The music is my only outlet. The demo I recorded in a fit of insomnia—"Phantom (Lola's Song)"—was never meant to leave my hard drive. But a studio intern, a kid with stars in his eyes and loose lips, leaked it. It goes viral in hours.
The lyrics are raw, too raw. "She was a red silk warning... stole the time from my wrist..." The fans go rabid. Is it a metaphor? A real person? Theories explode online. My phone blows up with concerned texts from the company, from other idols, from my parents.
My members corner me in the green room in Manila.
"Hyung," Han says, uncharacteristically serious. "This song... it's not just a song, is it?"
I don't answer. I'm staring at my phone, at a new message from Aris.
Aris: Pattern detected. Similar high-value theft, same MO—social infiltration, targeted mark, digital wipe. Occurred six weeks ago in Paris. Target: a hedge fund manager. Item taken: a unique vintage necklace. No police report. Our ghost is consistent. Moving to Europe. Likely Paris or Madrid next. I have a facial recognition algorithm running on known associates. It's a long shot.
"Hyung!" Changbin snaps his fingers in front of my face. "You're spiraling. This is getting unhealthy."
I look up at them, my brothers, their faces etched with worry. "What if I don't want to be healthy?" I ask, my voice hollow. "What if I want to be obsessed?"
Felix shakes his head. "She robbed you, man. She used you."
"Did she?" The question escapes before I can stop it. I remember the way she trembled. The way she looked at me right before she kissed me, like she was drowning and I was the only air. "Or did I see something real, and she got scared?"
Seungmin sighs, the practical one. "The probability of a high-level operative developing genuine sentiment during a mission is statistically minuscule. You're constructing a narrative to justify—"
"I'm not constructing anything!" I snap, standing up. The room goes quiet. "I'm following a feeling. And the feeling is that she's out there. And she's thinking about me, too."
I know I sound insane. A lovesick fool chasing a criminal who sees him as a mark. But the compulsion is a physical thing, a hook in my ribcage pulling me east, towards Europe.
(YOUR POV - THE GHOST IN ROME)
I watch the music video for "Phantom" from a rooftop in Trastevere, the ancient stones of Rome warm beneath me. Ethan patched the feed to my tablet. I see Chris on screen, singing with a rawness that feels like a physical violation. He's in a reconstructed version of that hotel room, touching the empty space on the bed, running a hand over a wall. The lyrics aren't just about theft. They're about absence. A haunting.
"You left a silence that screams my name..."
I close the tablet, my hands unsteady. This is a complication of catastrophic proportions. My marks are supposed to wake up embarrassed, furious, maybe a little turned on. They are not supposed to write award-nominated heartbreak anthems about me. They are not supposed to look for me.
"Cipher, you seeing this?" Emma's voice is tight in my ear. "The song's trending worldwide. The net is buzzing. If anyone connects the dots between the New York incident and this..."
"I see it," I say, my voice flat.
"He's not letting go," Victor chimes in from the safe house. "Our friend in private security says Bang Chan has hired Aris. He's good. Nosey."
Aris. Shit. I've heard of him. A bloodhound with a moral compass that points solely towards the highest bidder.
"The Madrid job is in two week," Liam says, all business. "The oligarch, Vasiliev. The parameters are the same. Infiltrate the gala, isolate, administer, extract. Clean and fast. We can't afford distractions."
Distractions. They mean him. Chris.
Kostas's warning echoes in my head. Sentiment is a flaw. And flaws get people killed.
I think of Alexei, in Prague. His soft smile, the promises whispered in the dark, the cold feel of the pavement against my cheek as his associates kicked me, left me for dead in an alley for getting "too attached." I survived by playing dead. I vowed never to feel again. To be Cipher, a function, a ghost.
But Chris... Chris didn't try to own me with sweet lies. He saw the storm in me and didn't run for cover. He walked right into the eye of it.
"He's a liability," I say to the empty Roman sky, trying to convince myself. "He's compromising the mission."
But my heart, the stupid, traitorous muscle I thought I'd cauterized years ago, thumps a traitorous rhythm. Liability. Compromise. Hunted.
And beneath it, a whisper: Missed.
The scent of Rome is a living thing—ancient stone, espresso, exhaust fumes, and the sweet, heavy perfume of ripening figs from a market stall. I’m Chiara here, a freelance art restorer with a fondness for vintage trench coats and an appointment to “assess” a certain Cardinal’s private collection of Renaissance sketches. The real sketches are already in Victor’s gloved hands two blocks away; the ones in the Cardinal’s vault are Ethan’s flawless forgeries. It’s a smooth, elegant job.
I’m cutting through the Piazza Navona, blending with the afternoon crowds, the roar of the Bernini fountains a pleasant white noise. I’m thinking of the next flight, the next identity, the next blank hotel room. I’m not thinking of dark eyes and a voice that felt like a home I’d never known.
It’s a prickle at the base of my neck, the old, animal sense of being watched. I slow near a gelato cart, pretending to study the flavors. In the polished side of the stainless-steel freezer, I catch a reflection.
He’s fifty feet back, wearing sunglasses and a grey hoodie pulled up, but his posture is unmistakable—the set of his shoulders, the focused intensity of his gait. He’s not strolling. He’s hunting. And his eyes are locked on me.
Impossible. Madrid is days away. He shouldn’t be here. Aris’s reach is longer than I thought, or his intuition is terrifying.
My heart kicks into a frantic, thrilling sprint. The professional part of me screams to execute a pre-planned evasion. The part of me that’s still Y/N feels a wild, electric jolt of pure adrenaline. He found me.
I don’t run. That would confirm it. I turn casually down a narrower street, the Via di Pasquino, lined with small artisan shops. I feel him behind me, closing the distance. My pulse hammers in my throat. The game has suddenly become very, very real.
At a small bookstore, I stop abruptly and turn ducking inside of the store quickly.
He’s right there. He reaches out, his hand closing around and old local lady’s upper arm.
“Lola,” he says, the name a breathless accusation and a plea.
She turn, letting a mask of irritation, confused annoyance settle over her features. The woman who looks back at him has mousy brown hair, glasses, and a fanny pack. It’s not me.
“Scusi?” She say, her Italian accent perfect, wrinkling her nose.
His face falls. The certainty in his eyes shatters into embarrassed confusion. He drops her arm as if burned. “I—I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“Stupido americano,” she mutter, rolling her eyes, and turn away, melting back into the foot traffic. I hear him swear softly outside the store
I allow myself a small, fierce smile inside. Too easy.
I take a circuitous route, doubling back twice, entering the crowded chaos of the Campo de’ Fiori market. The air is thick with the smell of flowers, spices, and frying pizza. I’m just beginning to think I’ve lost him when I see him again. He’s across the square, near the fountain, his hood down now, scanning the crowd desperately. He looks… beautiful and wrecked. Determined.
Our eyes meet through the throng of people.
This time, there’s no hesitation in his gaze. It’s a direct hit. He knows.
I give him a slow, deliberate smile—Chiara’s smile wouldn’t be so sharp, so knowing—and then I turn and start walking, not too fast, leading him.
He pushes through the crowd, a salmon swimming upstream. I lead him on a merry chase through the market, past stalls of fabric goods and painted ceramics, letting him get close enough to see the back of my jacket, then slipping behind a group of arguing nuns.
He catches up near a produce stall, his hand landing on the shoulder of a woman in a similar trench jacket, her hair the same length.
“Got you,” he says, spinning her around.
It’s a Swedish tourist in her sixties. She shrieks. Her husband puffs up. Chris is profusely apologizing again, his face a masterpiece of frustration and humiliation.
I’m leaning against a stone pillar twenty feet away, watching. The thrill is intoxicating. He’s so close, so sure, and yet I’m a ghost, slipping through his fingers. It’s a dangerous, delicious game.
But I’ve played enough. Time to vanish.
I duck into a narrow, shadowed alleyway, the kind that smells of damp cat and centuries. I break into a run, my heels slapping against the cobblestones. The sound echoes.
A moment later, I hear his footsteps behind me. Faster. Heavier.
He’s running now. No more games.
“Hey!” he shouts, his voice echoing off the ancient walls. “Stop!”
I don’t stop. I fly. The alley twists and turns, a stone labyrinth. I take shortcuts I’d mapped days ago—through a hidden archway, across a tiny courtyard where laundry hangs, startling an old woman who shakes her fist. I can hear him gaining. He’s athletic, driven, fueled by weeks worth of obsession.
I glances over my shoulder. And then i laugh, a laugh that makes him stumble mid-stride.
A bright, mocking, musical sound that bounces off the ancient walls. It’s the laugh of me who’s having the time of my life.
“You’re slower than I thought, Chris!” I calls back, my voice teasing him, echoing down the alleyway. “All that time on stage and you can’t catch one little art thief?”
“You stole my watch!” He yells.
“It looked better on me!” I shouts back, disappearing around another corner.
He slides around the corner after me. Almost within arm’s reach. He’s closer than I thought, my eyes widened just a fraction the mockery from a second ago is replaced by real suprise
I burst out of the maze of alleys onto a broader, bustling street—the Via del Corso. Tourists, shoppers, chaos. Perfect.
I spot a taxi just pulling over to let someone out. My exit. My heart hammers against my ribs, part panic, part exhilaration.
I sprint for it, weaving through the crowd. I’m ten feet away.
His voice is right behind me. I risk a glance back. He’s at the mouth of the alley, chest heaving, hair wild, his eyes locking onto mine with a triumph that says, This time. This time I have you.
I yank the taxi door open and throw myself inside.
“Vai! Via! Presto!” I gasp to the driver, slamming the door.
The driver, an older man with a world-weary face, nods and pulls into traffic just as Chris’s hand slaps against the window where my head had been a second before.
I turn in my seat, looking out the back window.
He’s standing in the middle of the busy sidewalk, hands on his knees, breathing hard. He’s not trying to chase the car. He just straightens up, watching the taxi disappear into the Roman traffic. And then, through the dust and distance, I see him do something utterly unexpected.
A wide, breathless, triumphant grin. He raises a hand, not in farewell, but in a gesture that says, I see you. And this isn’t over.
The taxi turns a corner, and he’s gone.
I slump back in the seat, my own breath coming in ragged gulps. My hands are trembling. I can still feel the ghost of his gaze on me, the heat of his near-catch.
He was so close. He almost had me.
And the most terrifying, thrilling part?
A secret, shameful part of me wishes he had.
(CHRIS'S POV - THE CHASE)
Rome is a furnace, and I’m burning up from the inside out. A week of dead ends, of Aris’s expensive, frustrating whispers (“She’s a ghost, Mr. Bang. A gust of wind.”), of staring at the sketch until the paper wore thin. Then, a break. A blurry photo from a traffic cam near the Piazza Navona. A woman in a trench coat, the right height, the right walk. A maybe. A maybe is all I have.
So I’m here. Roaming. Feeling like the world’s most lovesick, obsessed idiot.
Not the leather jacket first. It’s the way she moves. A fluid, economical grace that cuts through the tourist clutter like a knife. She’s ahead of me, turning down a side street. My blood turns to lightning. It’s her.
I follow, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. She stops at a bookstore window. This is it. I close the distance, my hand reaching out. I can almost feel the memory of her skin under my fingers from New York.
The face is all wrong—softer, older, annoyed behind thick glasses. “Scusi?” she snaps, Italian and irritation sharp in her tone.
I drop my hand like it’s on fire. Heat floods my face. “I—I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“Stupido americano,” she mutters, turning away with a dismissive wave.
I stand there, humiliated, the adrenaline crash leaving me shaky. For a second, I doubt everything. Maybe Aris is right. Maybe I’m just chasing a ghost I invented to explain a night that got out of hand.
I wander into the Campo de’ Fiori, the market noise a dull roar in my ears. I feel stupid. Defeated.
She’s across the square, near a mountain of blood-red peppers. She’s not looking at the produce. She’s looking right at me. And she’s smiling. Her smile. The one from the rooftop. Sharp, knowing, a little cruel, and so breathtaking it stops my heart.
Time stops. The market noise fades. It’s her. It’s definitely her.
She gives me that smile, a slow, deliberate curl of her lips that’s a challenge and a promise, and then she turns and starts walking away, not hurrying, just… allowing me to follow.
The humiliation evaporates, replaced by a fierce, singular focus. Got you.
I push through the crowd, my eyes glued to the back of her leather jacket. She’s a fox leading the hound. She lets me get close, then slips behind a group of nuns. I lose her for a second, then spot the jacket again by a flower stall. I surge forward, my hand landing on a leather-clad shoulder.
“Got you,” I breathe, spinning her around.
An older woman with a shocked Swedish accent yelps. Her husband glares. My face is on fire again. “Sorry! So sorry! My mistake!”
More apologies. More embarrassment. When I look up, she’s gone again.
But this time, I’m not discouraged. I’m pissed. And I’m hooked. She’s playing with me. Fine. Let’s play.
I scan the crowd desperately. A flash of movement—a figure ducking into a shadowed alley off the square. Gone.
The alley is cool and dark, smelling of wet stone and garbage. And I hear it—the quick, light tap of heels on cobblestones, echoing ahead. She’s running.
I’m faster. I can hear my own breath, my feet pounding. I see her up ahead, a flash of black leather as she darts through a stone archway. I follow, bursting into a tiny sunlit courtyard full of hanging laundry. An old woman shouts at me in rapid Italian. I don’t stop.
I’m gaining on her. The alley twists again, and I see her clearly, just twenty feet ahead.
“Hey!” I shout, my voice echoing. “Stop!”
She glances over her shoulder. And then she does something that makes me stumble mid-stride.
A bright, mocking, musical sound that bounces off the ancient walls. It’s not a scared laugh. It’s the laugh of someone who’s having the time of her life.
“You’re slower than I thought, Chris!” she calls back, her voice teasing, echoing. “All that time on stage and you can’t catch one little art thief?”
The words are a slap and a spark. She’s mocking me. She remembers my name. She remembers everything. And she’s enjoying this.
It fuels me. I put on a burst of speed, my lungs burning. “You stole my watch!” I yell, which sounds ridiculous even as I say it.
“It looked better on me!” she shouts back, disappearing around another corner.
I skid around the corner after her. She’s right there, almost within arm’s reach. She looks back, her eyes wide now, the mockery replaced by a flash of real surprise at how close I am.
Then she bursts out of the alley onto a busy main street—the Corso. Sunlight, crowds, chaos.
I’m right behind her. I see her head swivel, searching. She spots a taxi. Her escape.
“NO! WAIT!” The roar is ripped from my throat.
She sprints for it, a final, desperate burst. I’m a step behind. My hand stretches out. I can almost feel the leather of her jacket.
She wrenches the taxi door open and throws herself inside. The door slams shut just as my palm slaps against the window with a dull thud.
I’m left standing there, breathing like I’ve run a marathon, sweat stinging my eyes, my hand on the cool glass.
The taxi pulls away, merges into the river of traffic, and is gone.
I bend over, hands on my knees, gulping air. The frustration is a physical pain. She was right there.
But as I straighten up, watching the spot where the taxi disappeared, the frustration melts away. Because I’m remembering her laugh in the alley. The challenge in her eyes. The way she said my name.
She’s not just running from me. She’s engagingwith me. This is a conversation. A mad, breathless, thrilling conversation.
A slow grin spreads across my face, unstoppable. I can’t help it. She’s incredible.
I raise my hand, not in a wave goodbye, but in a salute. Acknowledgment.
I see you. You’re amazing. And this? I think, the grin turning into a full, breathless smile. This is just getting interesting
The grin stays plastered on my face all the way back to the apartment near the Spanish Steps, where Hyunjin is anxiously pacing the length of a Renaissance rug.
“You’re smiling? After she mocked you and got away? Hyung, that’s a clinical sign. That’s the smile of a man who enjoys being emotionally waterboarded by a criminal!”
“She remembered my name,” I say, the grin widening.
“She also remembered you have expensive taste in watches! That’s not romance, that’s market research!”
The frustration is gone, burned away by the pure, electric thrill of the chase. She laughed at me. She’s not a ghost. She’s a woman. A brilliant, infuriating, captivating woman who is now acutely aware that I am on her tail. This changes everything.
I call Aris. Hyunjin presses his ear to the other side of my phone, his eyes wide.
“Rome. Today. Campo de’ Fiori district, around 3 PM.”
“You saw her?” Aris’s voice is flat, but I hear the professional interest.
“I chased her. She got away in a taxi on the Via del Corso. Silver Fiat taxi, local plates, but I didn’t get the number. She’s here for a job. She has to be. She was dressed for blending in, not for tourism.”
Hyunjin mouths, ‘A JOB?’ and makes a slashing motion across his throat.
Aris is silent for a moment, the sound of rapid keyboard clicks coming through the phone. “The only high-value event in Rome today is a private viewing at the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj. A collection of Renaissance sketches from a Cardinal’s private vault. By invitation only, heavy security.”
My mind races. “Can you get me in?”
“As who? A Korean pop star with a sudden passion for 16th-century Italian drawings? No.” Another pause. “But I can get you the guest list. And the security feed from the surrounding streets for the last 48 hours. If she was casing it, we might get a clearer image.”
“Do it. And the taxi. There are cameras all over the Corso. Find that taxi.”
Two hours later, the encrypted files arrive. Hyunjin hovers over my shoulder as I open them on my laptop. “This feels so illegal. Are we going to have to flee the country in the night? I didn’t pack a ‘fleeing’ outfit. I packed linen and regret.”
The guest list is a who’s who of European old money and discreet collectors. Nothing stands out. But the street footage…
Aris has flagged a woman. She’s wearing different clothes—a stylish linen dress, large sunglasses, her hair up—but the walk is the same. The focused, graceful prowl. She enters a café opposite the Palazzo’s service entrance three times over two days, always sitting at the window, always nursing a single espresso for exactly forty-five minutes. Studying patterns.
“She’s good,” Aris notes in a text. “But she’s also human. She has routines. She likes that café.”
The next morning, I’m dragging a sleep-mussed, complaining Hyunjin to that café at 8 AM. I wear a cap, glasses “Hyung, this is a terrible idea. A criminal idea. Possibly a felony-adjacent idea.”
Hyunjin sits across from me at a tiny wrought-iron table outside the café opposite the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj. He’s wearing a massive sunhat and oversized sunglasses, looking less like an undercover operative and more like a very anxious, very beautiful garden gnome who’s wandered into a spy novel.
I’ve got him with a sketchbook open. He’s not sketching the palazzo. He’s sketching her. From memory, my memory.
Hyunjin, nursing a cappuccino that’s mostly foam, peers at my drawing. “That’s… disturbingly good, hyung. And disturbingly detailed. You remember the exact thickness of lashes. That’s not healthy obsession, that’s forensic illustration.”
Disappointment is a cold stone in my gut. Hyunjin pats my arm. “See? She’s a will-o’-the-wisp. A beautiful, thief-shaped mirage. Let’s go see some actual art that isn’t going to get us arrested.”
I’m about to leave when the café door chimes. It’s not her.
It’s a man. Mid-thirties, sharp suit, carrying a sleek leather briefcase. He sits at her table, orders an espresso, and pulls out a tablet. But he’s not looking at the palazzo. He’s glancing, subtly but repeatedly, at his watch.
“ACCOMPLICE,” Hyunjin corrects in a horrified whisper, sinking lower in his chair. “That man has ‘shady business associate’ written all over him. He probably has a secret pocket in that briefcase for lockpicks and moral flexibility!”
Twenty minutes pass. The man gets a text, reads it, a slight smile touching his lips. He finishes his espresso, leaves cash, and walks out.
I give him a thirty-second lead, then stand.
Hyunjin grabs my wrist. “Where are you going? You’re not going to follow the scary briefcase man, are you? He’s the muscle! He probably knows seven ways to kill a man with a breadstick!”
“Stay here. Order another coffee.”
“I’M NOT LETTING YOU GO ALONE INTO A BREADSTICK-ASSASSIN AMBUSH!”
Somehow, Hyunjin ends up trailing behind me as we follow the man three blocks to a nondescript business hotel. The kind used for business travelers. He doesn’t go to the front desk. He heads straight for the elevators.
We linger in the lobby, pretending to be on busy doing something. I watch the elevator panel. It stops on the fourth floor.
We can’t go up there. That’s a sure way to get made.
Hyunjin is vibrating with anxiety. “Okay. He’s upstairs. With her, presumably. In their criminal lair. Our work here is done. We have successfully stalked the stalkers. Time to retreat with our dignity and our lives.”
But the hotel has a business center. A reckless plan forms.
“Hyunjin, I need you to create a diversion at the front desk.”
His face goes white. “A DIVERSION? What am I, a magician? Should I start juggling? Claim I’ve seen a ghost? Because technically, I have!”
“Just… ask for directions. Complicated directions. In very slow Korean.”
“They don’t speak Korean here!”
“Exactly. It’ll take time.”
While Hyunjin approaches the front desk with the grim determination of a man walking the plank,
I slip into the business centre. There are two older desktop computers. I sit at one, bring up the web browser, and type in the name of the hotel followed by “guest Wi-Fi password.” Sometimes it’s on a sticker behind the front desk. Sometimes it’s something stupid like “Welcome123.”
A minute of searching a travel forum later, I have it. I connect my phone to the hotel’s Wi-Fi.
Then, I open an app I’d had Aris install weeks ago, when this hunt first began. A network scanner. It’s not exactly legal. It searches for devices connected to the same Wi-Fi network.
Hyunjin stumbles into the business center a minute later, looking traumatized. “I asked for directions to the ‘Temple of the Morning Calm.’ He thought I was having a stroke. What are we doing in this sad little room?”
A list pops up. iPhone (Ethan), MacBook Pro (Victor), iPad (Liam), iPhone (Cipher).
He glances at my phone screen. “What is that? A list of… oh. Oh no. Those are their phones. Hyung, that’s like reading their mail! Their digital mail! We are violating so many international privacy laws right now I can feel Interpol warming up the helicopter.”
My breath catches. Cipher. The name from Aris’s whisper. Her operational name. It’s here. On the fourth floor.
She’s here. Right above me.
The thrill is so intense it’s almost painful. I have a digital thread to her. It’s not much. I can’t see her messages or her location. But I know her device is on this network. She’s in this building.
We sit in the business center for almost an hour, watching the list. The devices come and go, connecting and disconnecting. Cipher’s iPhone disconnects at 12:15 PM.
We hurry out to the lobby, positioning ourselves behind a large potted plant with a view of the elevator and the front door.
The elevator dings. The doors open.
It’s the man from the café. And with him, walking side-by-side, deep in quiet conversation, is her.
Not Lola. This version has chestnut hair in a sleek bob, wearing a chic, cream-colored pantsuit and carrying a soft leather portfolio. She looks like a gallery owner or a high-end auction house representative. Utterly convincing. Hyunjin freezes, his eyes huge. He mouths, ‘WOW.’
They walk past my hiding spot, close enough that I catch a hint of her perfume—something expensive and clean, like cold jasmine and ozone. They don’t look left or right. They’re professionals exiting a job.
They head out the front door and turn right, towards the taxi stand.
I should follow. But I don’t.
A reckless, insane plan is forming in my mind. They’re checking out. The room will be empty. The digital thread is gone, but I have a physical location.
I wait five minutes and hyunjin next to me still anxiously waiting for the next move.
“She’s a machine,” Hyunjin whispers, impressed despite himself.
“She’s the most fascinating person I’ve ever seen,” I breathe.
Hyunjin looks at me, his face a mask of profound pity. “Oh, hyung. You’ve got it so bad. You’re in love with a Swiss watch thief.”
“She’s not just a thief.”
“What is she, then? Your muse? Because let me tell you, muses usually don’t clean out your bank account. They just break your heart for free.”
I walk to the front desk. the 100-euro note in my hand.
Hyunjin pulls me back. “What are you doing? What is that money for? Bribery? We’re adding bribery to the list? The list keeps getting longer and longer, hyung!”
The clerk is a young man looking bored.
I slip on my most charming, slightly embarrassed smile. “Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you. My… uh… my girlfriend and I had a huge fight. She stormed out. She’s staying here, room 412, under the name…” I rack my brain, thinking of the names on the device list. “Under the name… Lola? I just want to leave a note for her. An apology. Is there any way I could just… slip it under her door? I promise I won’t disturb anything.”
I slide a folded 100-euro note across the counter with my hand.
The clerk looks at the money, then at my genuinely desperate, heartbroken-idol face. He hesitates, then gives a tiny nod. “Five minutes. Take the service elevator. I didn’t see you.”
“Thank you. You’re saving my life.”
Hyunjin is aghast. “You lied! You bribed! You’re going to break into a room! This is a heist movie, but we’re the bumbling comic relief who get caught in the first act!” He rambled on as we entered the elevator.
Room 412. The credit card trick. Hyunjin stands guard in the hallway, whispering a continuous, panicked stream of commentary.
Room 412 is at the end of a quiet hallway. I use a credit card—an old trick I learned from a movie—to slip the cheap latch. It takes three tries, my hands sweating, but the door clicks open.
“It’s just to leave a note,” I say, using the credit card on the door.
“BREAKING AND ENTERING!” Hyunjin yelps, looking frantically down the hallway. “I’m a lookout! I’m officially a lookout! I can’t go to prison, my skin routine won’t survive!
The room is pristine. It looks untouched. Bed made, no personal items. It’s been cleaned or they are incredibly tidy.
Hyunjin peeks in. “It’s cleaner than our dorm after a manager inspection. These are professional cleaners. Or professional ghosts.”
But they weren’t expecting a search. Not here.
I go to the desk. Nothing. The trash can is empty. I check the bedside tables. Empty.
Frustration starts to rise again. Then I see it. Tucked almost invisibly into the space between the headboard and the wall—a single, crumpled piece of thick, creamy stationery. It must have fallen and been missed.
It’s not a note. It’s a sketch. A beautiful, detailed pencil sketch.
Not as I am now, but as I was that night in New York. My head tilted back, eyes closed, a look of intense, vulnerable feeling on my face. It’s drawn from memory. Her memory. The lines are confident, loving, full of a detail that speaks of obsessive study.
On the bottom corner, in small, elegant script, are two words.
The world narrows. Hyunjin creeps in, looks over my shoulder, and his dramatic panic evaporates into stunned silence.
“Oh,” he says softly, all the humor gone from his voice. “Oh, wow.”
He looks at the detailed, intimate rendering of my face, at the two words scribbled in the corner. My Phantom.
He looks from the paper to my face, and his expression shifts into one of dawning, horrified understanding. He’s no longer looking at his hyung chasing a thief. He’s looking at a man caught in a mutual, impossible obsession.
“It’s not just you,” Hyunjin whispers, his voice full of pity and wonder. “She’s chasing you too. In her head. She’s… she’s drawing you.” His expression softens into something like grief. “She sees you,” he whispers. “I mean, really sees you.”
I stare at it, my heart hammering against my ribs. The world narrows to the paper in my hands. All the chase, the frustration, the mystery… it crystallizes in this single, stolen moment of hers.
She’s not just running.
She’s remembering.
She’s drawing me.
I carefully fold the sketch and slip it into my inner jacket pocket, right over my heart. I erase any trace of my presence and slip back out of the room.
We slip out. Back on the sun-drenched street, Hyunjin is quiet for a full block. The weight of what we’ve seen—what I’ve seen—settles between us.
Finally, he slings an arm around my shoulders, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Okay. So your maybe-felon muse, who is also a shockingly talented artist, is drawing secret portraits of you with enough emotional intensity to power a small city.” He sighs, a heavy, dramatic sound. “What’s the next catastrophically bad idea?”
I look at him, the sketch a warm, undeniable truth over my heart. “I have to find where she’s going next.”
Hyunjin, sighed dramatically . “Of course you do. Then do what? What’s the next terrible, inadvisable step in your master plan?”
I can’t help but smile. “I have no idea.”
Hyunjin nods sagely. “Perfect. Truly masterful strategy. Let’s get that carbonara. I need strength for the impending descent into madness.”
