Ivanovich, the director of Country R’s defense intelligence agency, parked his car in the basement and pressed the button for the 12th floor in the elevator.

  Whenever Ivanovich rode an elevator,

  he was reminded of the old apartment where he had lived with his parents as a child.

  The elevator in that cramped apartment of his youth—it was so small that even three people made it feel crowded.

  Every time it surged upward with a heavy thud, his young heart was filled with the anxiety that it might suddenly plummet to the ground.

  Even now, those narrow elevators are still in operation if one visits those old apartments.

  Ivanovich felt a subtle sense of pride regarding the new apartment he had recently moved into.

  While it wasn't a skyscraper or an exorbitantly expensive unit, it was a well-known new development in the city, and he felt good about himself for having moved there.

  It was almost humorous to him that, now in his fifties, he finally felt the absence of that childhood anxiety whenever he stepped into an elevator.

  He had married in his mid-thirties, and his wife had given birth to two daughters.

  When he opened the door and stepped inside, his wife came out to greet him.

  However, his daughters did not come out.

  They were almost certainly in their rooms listening to music.

  They were obsessed with K-pop.

  Deep down, Ivanovich didn't much like the fact that his daughters were so obsessed with K-pop that they sang and danced to it every single day.

  Our music, literature, ballet, art—everything we have is the best in the world.

  So why are kids these days so wild about this noisy K-pop?

  Such questions crossed his mind, yet he lacked the courage to tell them to stop listening to it.

  His wife told him she had set the table and to go eat in the kitchen.

  She then headed into the bedroom, saying she needed to put on a face mask.

  Even the face mask was Korean.

  His wife had lined up her vanity with Korean cosmetics, especially those Korean face masks. Ivanovich didn't like this sight either.

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  He disliked it for no particular reason; it just felt as though his culture was being invaded.

  However, he couldn't simply impose his will on his wife and daughters. They weren't his subordinates.

  In the kitchen, Ivanovich quickly ate some salami, borscht, and a baguette spread with cream.

  He then took a cezve out of the cabinet, added finely ground coffee beans and cardamom, and brewed the coffee over a low flame.

  This was Ivanovich's favorite moment.

  When the coffee in the cezve began to foam and rise, he would lift it away, wait for it to settle, and then place it back over the fire to brew again.

  After adding a splash of vodka and a slice of lemon to the brewed coffee, Ivanovich took his cup and entered his study.

  Sitting in his desk chair, he inhaled the aroma rising from the cup deep into his nose.

  It felt as though the fatigue of the day was melting away.

  As the tension left him after a sip of coffee, he pulled a crumpled piece of A4 paper from his trouser pocket and smoothed it out.

  It was the content of a blog post by a German journalist opposing the war in Country R,

  which his subordinate had printed out for him earlier today.

  Staring at it quietly once more, Ivanovich reconsidered the decision he had made today to eliminate the woman named Natasha.

  Many thoughts swirled through his mind.

  He closed his eyes and cried out in his heart.

  —--------------------------

  Natasha unpacks her gear at the military unit where the spacecraft is visible in the distance.

  A group of war correspondents is already active on-site. Accompanied by two other journalists, Natasha climbs a hill that offers a clear view of the vessel.

  She wants to see it for herself.

  She is driven by a deep curiosity to know exactly what this extraterrestrial craft looks like.

  Perhaps due to the low morning temperature, a hazy, fog-like mist clings to the area surrounding the distant spacecraft.

  Natasha’s heart flutters with excitement. When she saw the spacecraft land in the square not long ago, she felt more anger than excitement.

  However, looking at the craft landed here on the front lines, a completely different emotion stirs within her.

  She longs to meet the Asian woman she saw back at the square.

  If I get closer, would she meet me? Natasha wonders idly.

  While she is observing the spacecraft from the hilltop, a junior officer approaches her.

  "Are you here as a war correspondent?" the officer asks.

  "Yes. I arrived today."

  "Ah, I see. Today, soldiers are scheduled to go on a reconnaissance mission near the spacecraft. You are welcome to join us."

  "Is that so? Are other press groups going as well?"

  "Of course. We plan to head near the spacecraft close to the U-border at 1:00 PM today. Please be ready."

  "I will."

  Natasha has no prior experience on an actual battlefield.

  She wants to verify everything with her own eyes and record it all in writing.

  She wants to reveal the agony of war to the entire world.

  To do that, she must experience everything firsthand:

  the ruined cities, the forests destroyed by bombs, the carcasses of animals, the wounded, the prisoners of war, and the bodies of civilians. She must document it all.

  A sense of duty as a journalist envelops her entire being.

  Yet, she does not sense, even in her dreams, the impending danger that is drawing near.