DDB Ch 5

Seo Jiwoon, 27 years old.

Restorer affiliated with the Florence Art Restoration Association.

Specialty fields: oil paintings and frescoes.

Ishin’s eyes scrutinized the photograph attached to the document.

Straight features, expressionless face, defiant eyes.

No matter how he looked at it or tried to see it differently, it was definitely her.

Not the girl from eight years ago, but the woman from ten days ago.

Taking a deep breath, Ishin exhaled slowly. He felt an urge for a cigarette.

“Is securing Seo Jiwoon the director’s order?”

Tapping his desk with his index and middle fingers, he looked up.

“Why? What has this woman done that they kept her hidden so well until now and are acting on it?”

Then, his assistant and backup handler, Jang Sang-doo, spoke quietly:

“The key is the international regulation Seo Jiwoon violated. Restoration pieces are supposed to show they’ve been restored, but…”

“She restored it to look like the original?”

“Yes.”

So, it wasn’t just a case of tears in her eyes; she had become a problem child.

Ishin’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile.

“So, she’s a master of forgery.”

“She’s a genius.”

“And there’s an infinite potential for her as a forger?”

“Yes, and the director expects that.”

Expecting that? Just how big of an operation are they planning?

With his lips twisted into a wry smile, Ishin tapped the desk again.

After a brief moment of contemplation, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a thick book.

Opening the book, he found a USIM chip. He swapped it into his phone and leaned back in his chair, then made a call.

The call was picked up after two rings by Park Chang-soo, the director of the 8th Bureau of the National Intelligence Service (NIS).

— Who’s this? Isn’t this Director Baek Ishin?

With a voice that seemed quite pleased, Ishin scoffed and spoke coldly:

“Are you going senile ahead of your promotion to vice-chief? Giving out bizarre orders.”

The phone was silent for a moment at his sarcastic remark. Then, the director suddenly mentioned the woman’s name.

— Bizarre order, you mean Seo Jiwoon?

“Yes, I’m not going to follow this order.”

His voice was icy.

Why?

“Why do you think? Because of the principle of not involving civilians.”

— She’s a technician. One optimized for forgery.

“Did you forget what happened eight years ago?”

At Ishin’s words, there was silence on the other end of the line.

Only the sound of breathing could be heard before Ishin spoke again.

“They all died.”

— …….

“They all died trying to retrieve that one painting. It was a completely failed operation.”

Due to the betrayal by an agent they were working with, the painting disappeared, and all twelve people involved, including civilians, died. It took eight years just to deal with the betrayer and secure the painting, making it an operation with a terrible cost-benefit ratio.

But it seemed the director thought differently.

— Failed? What failure? The failure was SIS’s. Our goal from the start was to infiltrate Heritage. The result was obviously a great success. Today’s Baek Ishin proves the success of that day.

It was the first mission Ishin, who was twenty-five and formerly in the British special forces, undertook when he joined the South Korean National Intelligence Service. As the director said, the infiltration into Heritage was successful.

— And not everyone died. You and I are still alive.

After a brief pause, Director Park lowered his voice and continued:

— And Seo Jiwoon… survived too.

Seo Jiwoon.

Recalling the woman he met in the Florence warehouse after eight years, Ishin pulled out a cigarette.

Seo Jiwoon looked like she had many problems, but she was still alive.

“So, you’re telling me to leave her be. She’s living well.”

To live quietly like this, forgetting the past… that would be enough. At least she would be safe.

— It’ll be tough from now on.

“…?”

— Heritage has already made a move.

The unlit cigarette in Ishin’s hand crumpled as if being crushed.

“Are you saying she’s been exposed? That Seo Jiwoon is that girl from back then?”

— No, not yet. She’s been recruited as a technician for now. But isn’t it just a matter of time before she’s exposed?

“…”

— So you should move too. Your duty as a survivor of that operation eight years ago is to protect the survivors.

The smell of wood, the scent of wildflowers, mint…

“What else was there?”

In a small alley lined with trees under heavy snowfall, Jiwoon, sitting by the window of a tiny ice cream shop, murmured while scooping vanilla ice cream into her mouth.

“It was definitely a familiar smell.”

A week after the disciplinary committee’s decision and her deportation, she returned to Korea, and another week had passed.

In Korea, where she had no family left since her grandmother passed away two years ago, Jiwoon, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, replayed the memory of the man she met on Belvedere Hill eight years ago.

That man she met.

“Visually, he was very impressive.”

The man in her memory was very tall. He was slender like a model and had a swimmer’s build.

His fingers holding the cigarette were long and delicate, and his lips exhaling smoke were seductive.

The smile he gave, with his lips slightly upturned, was languid, and his cold eyes, looking down at her, were deep and dark, making him even more mysterious.

And his scent… it was very good.

The man exuded a familiar scent that touched some distant memory of hers. Although mixed with the smell of tobacco, it was unmistakably a scent she knew.

It was like the smell of flowers or the forest.

Swallowing another spoonful of ice cream, Jiwoon continued her monologue:

“His wrist was… very sexy too.”

She remembered the man checking the time on his left wrist with a bored expression.

As a genius restorer who could remember every detail like a photograph after just one glance, that moment unfolded vividly in her mind.

The wrist briefly revealed beneath the black suit, the black turtleneck, and the black cashmere coat was incredibly delicate, from the lines running from the back of his hand to his wrist to the subtly protruding wrist bones.

“What kind of person was he?”

A killer with a special forces background? Or perhaps… from the CIA or the National Intelligence Service?

Like slowly eating expensive chocolate hidden in a drawer, Jiwoon was soothing her boredom in Korea with thoughts of the man.

Where could he have gone?

Does he still have Guinevere?

Does he remember me?

I could have restored Guinevere so well.

“Yeah, to restore Guinevere… he would need me. He’ll come looking for me someday, right?”

She had seen the man for barely 10 minutes.

All she knew about him was his impressive physique, his captivating mask, his dangerous aura, his gentle yet cold voice, and that familiar scent. That was all. Yet, the more she recalled him, the more she longed for him, making her throat ache.

“Crazy woman.”

She was hopelessly in love with a man she had seen for just 10 minutes. It was funny how his scent seemed imprinted on her, lingering at her nose, and his voice stuck in her ears.

The conclusion she arrived at was ultimately self-justification.

“Isn’t it inevitable, really?”

Thanks to that man, she was able to sleep. For a full 24 hours, no less.

If she could have him by her side, she might be able to live like a normal person. She would do anything to keep him, whether it was a memory or a ghost.

“So if I meet that man again…”

I will never let him go.

“I’ll lock him in my bed, and he’ll only see me.”

Then I could get some sleep.

Jiwoon sighed deeply, her head bowed.

“Haah, I want to sleep.”

At that moment, the bell hanging on the ice cream shop door jingled, and a familiar scent brushed past her nose.

Jiwoon’s eyes widened.

“…?”

That scent. The one from the man.

Rising from her seat, Jiwoon scanned the inside of the ice cream shop.

The only customers were Jiwoon and two schoolgirls in uniforms.

Jiwoon asked the shop owner:

“Owner, did someone just leave here?”

The owner, tilting his head at Jiwoon’s question, answered calmly:

“A male customer took an ice cream to go…”

“Which way did he go?”

“Probably that way…?”

Before the owner could finish, Jiwoon rushed out of the shop.

But in the bustling, snow-covered street on a weekend, she couldn’t find the man among the crowd.

A deep sigh cut through her lips like a sob.

Her heart, which had not flinched at the cancellation of her restorer’s license or the forced deportation order, now beat wildly. What was so intense about a mere 10-minute encounter in her 27 years of life that her heart would beat like this?

There must be something in the man’s scent. Otherwise, she wouldn’t feel this way.

It ached, and it hurt. She missed him, and it was sad.

“I should have asked what cologne he uses.”

Turning away in defeat, Jiwoon was soon lost in the crowd, leaving the tree-lined street behind.