Bad Wolf
Sejong, Seoul.
The Kyobo Financial District did not sleep.
Even at this hour, the towers remained alive, glass and light stacked endlessly against the evening sky, each window a pulse in the vast circuitry of Sejong's economy. Data moved here faster than ships ever could, fortunes rising and collapsing in quiet transactions that rarely saw the light of day.
From above, the district resembled something almost organic.
A living system.
Breathing.
Watching.
Waiting.
High within one of its upper towers, far removed from the constant motion below, a diplomatic residence overlooked the coastline and the endless grid of illuminated streets. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city in perfect clarity, the Saffron Sea reflecting the last traces of sunlight as it slipped beyond the horizon.
Inside, the space was calm.
Deliberately so.
Soft ivory tones, clean architectural lines, and carefully curated furnishings created an atmosphere of quiet control. Nothing was excessive. Nothing was accidental. Every detail, down to the placement of a single chair, had been chosen with purpose.
Ivalyn stood near the window, one hand resting lightly against the edge of a polished table, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the skyline.
Below, the Sejong Stock Exchange continued its silent orchestration of markets.
Across the district, the Commonwealth Media Broadcast Corporation tower glowed, still active, still shaping narratives that would ripple across entire systems before morning.
And somewhere beneath it all, in the narrow streets between towering institutions, vendors still called out to late-shift workers, their voices lost in the hum of a city that refused to pause.
Ivalyn did not look down at them.
Not yet.
Her attention remained outward, distant, as if measuring something unseen beyond the horizon.
Rowan would not be late.
She never had been.
A small detail.
One of many.
Her fingers shifted slightly against the table's surface, the only visible indication that she was not entirely still.
This was not a meeting arranged out of sentiment.
Nor obligation.
It was necessity.
The Unknown Regions did not offer clarity freely, and
Rowan Cordé
had made a life of extracting meaning from places where most saw only darkness.
Ivalyn exhaled slowly, her posture unchanged.
"Let her in when she arrives," she said at last, her voice quiet but precise.
Behind her, one of the attendants inclined their head and moved to comply.
Ivalyn exhaled as she turned away from the vast skyline, she looked around the penthouse, newly renovated filled with the kind of furniture that made the Grand Vizier feel as though she was living in a modest hotel room and not a penthouse she had recently purchased. It was a far cry from the kind of flats she used to rent and own elsewhere in the city. Ivalyn started her career as a journalist there in the city. In someways, Sejong felt more like home than Qosantyra or Vizcanyo Bay. She recalled the way she had prepared to call Rowan. The blonde chewed on the inside of her cheek. She shook herself from the trance and made her way to a small table nearby.
The city continued to move.
The markets continued to turn.
And somewhere within the vast machinery of Sejong, the past was on its way.
The Kyobo Financial District did not sleep.
Even at this hour, the towers remained alive, glass and light stacked endlessly against the evening sky, each window a pulse in the vast circuitry of Sejong's economy. Data moved here faster than ships ever could, fortunes rising and collapsing in quiet transactions that rarely saw the light of day.
From above, the district resembled something almost organic.
A living system.
Breathing.
Watching.
Waiting.
High within one of its upper towers, far removed from the constant motion below, a diplomatic residence overlooked the coastline and the endless grid of illuminated streets. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city in perfect clarity, the Saffron Sea reflecting the last traces of sunlight as it slipped beyond the horizon.
Inside, the space was calm.
Deliberately so.
Soft ivory tones, clean architectural lines, and carefully curated furnishings created an atmosphere of quiet control. Nothing was excessive. Nothing was accidental. Every detail, down to the placement of a single chair, had been chosen with purpose.
Ivalyn stood near the window, one hand resting lightly against the edge of a polished table, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the skyline.
Below, the Sejong Stock Exchange continued its silent orchestration of markets.
Across the district, the Commonwealth Media Broadcast Corporation tower glowed, still active, still shaping narratives that would ripple across entire systems before morning.
And somewhere beneath it all, in the narrow streets between towering institutions, vendors still called out to late-shift workers, their voices lost in the hum of a city that refused to pause.
Ivalyn did not look down at them.
Not yet.
Her attention remained outward, distant, as if measuring something unseen beyond the horizon.
Rowan would not be late.
She never had been.
A small detail.
One of many.
Her fingers shifted slightly against the table's surface, the only visible indication that she was not entirely still.
This was not a meeting arranged out of sentiment.
Nor obligation.
It was necessity.
The Unknown Regions did not offer clarity freely, and
Rowan Cordé
had made a life of extracting meaning from places where most saw only darkness.Ivalyn exhaled slowly, her posture unchanged.
"Let her in when she arrives," she said at last, her voice quiet but precise.
Behind her, one of the attendants inclined their head and moved to comply.
Ivalyn exhaled as she turned away from the vast skyline, she looked around the penthouse, newly renovated filled with the kind of furniture that made the Grand Vizier feel as though she was living in a modest hotel room and not a penthouse she had recently purchased. It was a far cry from the kind of flats she used to rent and own elsewhere in the city. Ivalyn started her career as a journalist there in the city. In someways, Sejong felt more like home than Qosantyra or Vizcanyo Bay. She recalled the way she had prepared to call Rowan. The blonde chewed on the inside of her cheek. She shook herself from the trance and made her way to a small table nearby.
The city continued to move.
The markets continued to turn.
And somewhere within the vast machinery of Sejong, the past was on its way.
