A Dark Fantasy Spy

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Bang-.

A brief honk crossed the quiet street in front of the hotel.

In my line of sight was a black minivan, its diplomatic license plates glistening.

Naturally, I opened the car door and stepped inside, where a familiar old man greeted me.

“I heard you got shot?”

“…I won’t ask where you heard that.”

I looked at the old man sitting across from me, my expression one of disbelief.

“When on earth did you arrive here, Director?”

The elderly man with bulging eyes retorted gruffly.

“What do you mean I couldn’t come?”

“…Good grief.”

“The night air is chilly, so let’s close the door.”

Creak.

The car door closed with a loud sound.

Episode 5 – Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

A commotion erupted, but time flowed like a river.

Not a single media outlet reported on the shooting incident that occurred in the heart of the Magic Tower. To be precise, they couldn’t report on it.

Events that unfolded in the shadows are bound by the unwritten rule of secrecy, and thus no media, regardless of nationality, could report on this shooting incident involving the intelligence agencies.

As a result, people remained unaware of the chaos that broke out overnight and started their day as if nothing had happened.

“…Yes, where should I put this item?”

“Since this is a passage, place it over there.”

That went for me too.

Having been caught in the crossfire and shot in the shoulder, I stitched up my wound and returned to work.

Though, to be honest, there wasn’t much to do at work.

“Prepare the next person.”

“I’ll need to conduct a personal belongings check, please cooperate.”

“Hey, you there! Don’t block the road, step aside!”

I helped Lucia with her medical service.

“Where are you headed?”

“I’m going to the central library nearby. Want to join me?”

“No, I still have some work left. Should I arrange an escort for you?”

“Hmm… do I really need an escort for practicing magic?”

“Then I’ll assign you a magician.”

“Okay, sounds good. But what if I want to check out the underground waterway—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tch.”

I helped Camila with her magic practice.

“How are the protests going?”

“I’m in contact with the leadership. We’re increasing troop deployment to control the situation.”

“There won’t be any terror attacks or sudden protests, right?”

“So far, our informants haven’t reported anything. If we get any information, I’ll send an official notice right away.”

I made contact with the information police to share the intelligence they gathered.

Besides that, I was living my life doing minor tasks like taking pictures with businessmen or politicians, having meetings with the officials from the Magic Tower, or having drinks with foreign defense attaches.

So far, nothing special had happened. Just going through the motions, living somewhat well and somewhat poorly.

To put it nicely, it was uneventful; to put it poorly, it wouldn’t be wrong to say I was twiddling my thumbs.

However, it seemed the Defense Attaché Office, or more precisely, the Military Intelligence Agency, thought my situation was dangerous.

While I judged my identity hadn’t been exposed yet, the fact that a guy who got shot was still trudging through work made them think I should be forced to take a break until I healed up—such trivial talks occasionally reached my ears.

But I’m fine, I thought.

Honestly, what’s the big deal about getting shot?

I’m not weak enough to whine about a little pain, and considering we’re short on manpower, if I, the officer in charge, were to pull away, the operations would grind to a halt. Plus, there’s the matter of Camila and Lucia.

Someone must take care of this, and since I’m the only one who can, I guess I must push through.

With that mindset, I somehow kept working.

Yet, it seemed Pippin and Jake had other thoughts.

“Manager, can’t you take a break for once?”

“What do you mean?”

Jake glanced back at me through the rearview mirror.

He was technically the assistant operative and practically the driver since he had the best driving skills among the three of us (having learned them in the Special Forces).

Anyway, Jake, the assistant operative and driver, casually spoke up while gripping the wheel.

“You’re looking unwell. Anyone can see you’re about to collapse at any moment.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“Yes.”

“Damn….”

I sighed lightly and addressed the analyst sitting in the passenger seat.

“Pippin, do you have any makeup tools?”

“Makeup tools? Why are you asking for that all of a sudden?”

“…Are you seriously going to do makeup? A man?”

Pippin and Jake suddenly started making a fuss.

“Didn’t know you had that kind of preference,” one said, while another insisted they’d respect it since it wasn’t a mental illness—just nonsensical chatter.

I found it baffling as to why they were jumping to conclusions that I was asking to borrow makeup when I just needed to freshen up my appearance, but then I remembered how the sentiment in this area tended to be like that.

Eventually, I let out a deep breath and gathered my words.

“That’s not it, stupid. I just want to tidy up my appearance.”

Makeup isn’t solely to impress others.

In the end, it’s all about enhancing one’s appearance for visibility, and when done right, it can significantly change one’s impression, which is why intelligence agencies, regardless of gender or age, commonly use makeup.

Of course, there are plenty of people who find it off-putting for a man to wear makeup. Those who do think like that tend to change their appearance with clothing or accessories instead.

Why don’t we see that depicted in movies? The whole outfit flip and glasses that dramatically change someone’s appearance while passing through an alley. Those are all real techniques. The CIA even shot commercials using that.

Anyway, I received the makeup tools from Pippin and worked hard to make my appearance presentable.

Pippin shook her head at my efforts.

“How about just taking a break instead?”

I peeked at the passenger seat while continuing to put on the makeup.

“Why do you keep nagging?”

“Honestly, Manager, haven’t you done enough? Taking a few days off won’t ruin overseas business….”

“So you found those guys who barged into the hotel?”

At that, Pippin and Jake clammed up.

While I was putting on makeup with a blush creeping onto my face, I continued.

“Get it together. We haven’t even found a trace of those guys yet.”

“……”

It seemed to be a painful truth, as Pippin and Jake fell silent, the atmosphere turning somber.

But what could we do? If things went wrong, someone could end up dead, and Pippin and Jake weren’t kids. They needed to adapt to this line of work too.

I looked in the mirror one last time before tidying up the makeup tools. I was surprisingly satisfied with the result.

“What are the employees doing?”

“They’re all being careful with their duties. Number 51 is now waiting in the representative office, not at home.”

Fabio Verati had gone into hiding. If I had known, I would’ve taken him down on my way home and kidnapped him with a van. I wasted too much time.

In any case, those imperial bastards can’t seem to do anything right.

“Should we schedule a new appointment?”

“No, not yet. Just keep surveillance.”

“Understood.”

“Any intel regarding the thugs yet?”

“None so far. The imperial representative office and the Magic Tower are both keeping silent.”

“And the headquarters?”

“They’re assessing the situation through the attaché office. Guidelines have come down, but no intel has arrived separately.”

Sigh, looks like I’ll have to dig again.

But what could I do? It’s the rule of this trade that a thirsty man digs a well.

Contemplating my sorry state, I pulled out the prepaid phone I activated that morning.

“…Where are you?”

-‘At the office. Why the hell are you calling me?’

“I’m giving you ten minutes. I’ll buy you a drink, so come to the underpass.”

*

“What? You’re keeping in touch with journalists?”

“Yeah.”

In a quiet restaurant. I met Dmitriya in a private room of a high-end dining area.

“Why are you asking me that all of a sudden?”

“Why would I ask you about that?”

The social department head of a media company, neatly dressed with his cane and suit, glared at me with a sullen expression.

“Don’t tell me you want me to sell you info again?”

“Don’t look so soulless. What do you mean by information trade….”

“That’s what it is.”

I filled his glass to lighten his mood, despite not being a man in my thirties who should be already indulging in drinks at this hour, knowing such requests often don’t get fulfilled without a drink.

A former major media journalist from the empire, Dmitriya started to speak as he accepted the drink I offered.

“What do you need now?”

“I was wondering if you know of any journalists connected to the military.”

Asking just any journalist if they have links to the military is a foolish act. However, if that journalist is from the political or social section, then it’s a different story.

“Be specific. Whether it’s the defense industry or policy research, you have to know the department to connect the dots.”

Dmitriya picked up his glass as if he was entertaining the idea of it.

I hesitated for a moment, then clinked my glass against Dmitriya’s.

Clink, the sound of our glasses clinking rang briefly.

As Dmitriya naturally drank his beverage, I set my glass down and got to the main point.

“I was hoping you could find a journalist linked to the Special Operations.”

Pffft!

Dmitriya, who had been drinking well, suddenly spewed his drink.

Right onto my face.

*

Special Operations.

A specific mission. A task assigned out of the ordinary.

In the Chinese cultural sphere, including Korea, Japan, Taiwan, and China, the term ‘special operations’ generally refers to state intelligence or military intelligence agencies.

Special operations troops. Special agencies.

Usually, units and agencies handling intelligence and counterespionage tasks were called special operations, and once upon a time, the Security Command’s former name was the Special Operations Troop.

The Kien Empire was no exception. When citizens hear ‘special operations’, they usually think of the Imperial Guard HQ or the reconnaissance command under the Imperial Army.

“You, cough! What the hell did you just say…?!”

“I asked if there’s a journalist connected to the special operations. Or someone they know.”

And as it goes with any authoritarian dictatorship, the perception of ‘special operations’ is not very favorable.

Dmitriya, coughing continuously, waved his hands while blocking his mouth.

“Hey, hey, special operations are a no-go. Absolutely not.”

“Why? Are you scared?”

“You insane bastard…!”

“He’s scared.”

Although I said it like that, I understood. Dmitriya had painful memories tied to the counterintelligence command.

Dmitriya had once published a piece on military procurement scandals without prior censorship and subsequently found himself dragged down to the basement of the counterintelligence command. This was because he ignored the press guidelines from the government, resulting in being interrogated and having to write reports for over a month without sleep, which was essentially a form of torture without physical abuse. Lack of sleep is a standard precursor to torture.

If what was reported had been a simple case of corruption, it would have ended there; had he criticized the government or military, it would not have remained merely at writing reports.

I understood. I fully understood.

But it wasn’t my problem.

“Hey, Dmitriya. Help me out this one time.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not getting involved with the counterintelligence!”

“This time it’s the reconnaissance command, not counterintelligence.”

“Oh, come on! That’s the same thing!”

Dmitriya flatly refused my request, adamant about not wanting to be brought in front of a military tribunal.

“Dmitriya, think about it honestly, with your hand on your heart. Since the police are already on your tail, would poking a stick at the special operations cause any real trouble?”

“At least the cops only operate within the empire; special forces chase you across borders!”

“Hey, man, the security service didn’t chase across borders either.”

“What?!”

Ah, right. The security service isn’t there anymore.

“Eh! Just sit down for a second.”

I tapped on the chair opposite him and opened a new bottle of liquor to soothe the shaken social department head.

“I’m not asking you to hand over any serious secrets.”

Glug. The glass filled with brown liquid. I extended five fingers toward Dmitriya.

“Five people. Just the identities of five individuals. You don’t need to provide all the details; just where they are and what they do is enough.”

As I handed him the glass, I opened my bag and pulled out some sketches.

These were the sketches of the thugs who had invaded the hotel room.

Dmitriya glanced at them and shot a question my way.

“…Isn’t this dangerous?”

“It’s fine. They won’t even know if a journalist does some digging on them.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I bent my index finger and mimicked pulling a trigger. That was answer enough.

Of course, Dmitriya didn’t seem fully convinced. I’ve thought from the beginning that he seemed like a big bear but was actually quite timid.

Nevertheless, I knew Dmitriya was a person who did what he had to do, so I offered an irresistible proposition.

“You know the resolutions you published last time.”

“…….”

“Stop suppression of dissidents, reinstatement of dismissed journalists, political prisoner release campaigns—won’t you need some support to get those moving?”

Meaning, statements from foreign parliament members and the like.

I left off the trailing thoughts.

Since we both knew everything anyway.

“…Are you sure?”

“If you think of it as a blank check, don’t bother.”

“…….”

The former journalist from the social department fell into deep thought.

However, his moment of deliberation didn’t last long.

Dmitriya drained his glass in one go and grabbed the liquor bottle beside him, starting to drink from it, letting his head slump onto the table.

Nothing’s as unsightly as an old man getting drunk and burying his head in the table, but I knew there were things you could only do when drunk, so I waited for his answer in silence.

After a long stretch of silence, Dmitriya muttered weakly.

“…I’ll do it.”

“…Alright.”

I patted the shoulder of the much older journalist and left the restaurant.

That evening, a member of the Information Committee introduced a resolution on human rights issues in the empire during the next main session.

The identities Dmitriya collected would come four days later.