The rescued subject from Busan was named Lieutenant Park Min-soo.
Raze learned this during the debrief three days after the extraction, when the young man had stabilized enough to provide coherent information. He wasn't a captured aberrant at all — he was an Association hunter who'd been investigating the replication program from inside.
"I was undercover." Park's voice was hoarse, his scaled features still marked by the trauma of captivity. "Hunter Services Internal Affairs suspected Protocol 7 was being misused. They assigned me to infiltrate the Daejeon program."
The revelation complicated everything.
"You're saying the Association doesn't unanimously support the replication research?" Kira asked, her psychic sense clearly detecting the truth in Park's words.
"Director Morrow's faction controls the program. But there are others — senior officials, guild representatives, oversight committees — who have no idea what's really happening." Park's hands trembled as he spoke. "I was documenting evidence for an internal review. Then I got too close, asked the wrong questions. They said I'd been 'contaminated' and needed 'processing.'"
"They were going to drain you like the other subjects."
"They were going to turn me into material." Park's eyes were hollow. "I spent three weeks in that facility watching them extract mana from other prisoners. I thought I was going to die."
Raze processed the implications. The replication program wasn't sanctioned by the entire Association — it was Director Morrow's project, operating with limited oversight. That meant potential allies within the government structure. People who might oppose the program if they knew its full scope.
"Your contacts in Internal Affairs," he said. "Can you reach them?"
"I don't know. My extraction changed everything. Officially, I've been compromised by aberrant contact. They might not trust anything I say now."
"But they might listen if you had evidence."
Park nodded slowly. "They might. If I could document what's really happening — the subjects being drained, the replication experiments, the way Protocol 7 is being weaponized — it could trigger an investigation. Maybe even shut the program down from inside."
It was a different approach than The Alpha was pursuing. Not open warfare, but political maneuvering within the Association's own structures. Less violent. Potentially more effective.
And completely dependent on trusting an Association agent who'd just been extracted from enemy custody.
---
Raze brought the proposal to The Alpha.
"Internal Affairs opposition to the replication program." The ancient aberrant's expression was unreadable. "And you believe this asset can be trusted?"
"Kira read his intentions. He's not lying about his role or his willingness to help." Raze stood before the crystal throne, aware that he was advocating for a course of action that conflicted with The Alpha's stated strategy. "If we can trigger an internal investigation, we might not need direct attacks. The Association could shut down Morrow's program themselves."
"And we would remain hidden. Dependent on human political processes that we don't control." The Alpha rose, pacing. "The Sanctuary has survived by not trusting human institutions. They've tried to exterminate us for decades. One sympathetic faction doesn't change that reality."
"It might change the immediate threat. The replication program is Morrow's project, not the Association's consensus. If his faction loses support—"
"If. Based on the word of an agent who might be compromised, might be lying, might have been deliberately allowed to 'escape' to provide us with false hope." The Alpha's golden eyes hardened. "This is exactly how infiltration works. Insert an asset, let it earn trust, then use it to manipulate our decisions."
"Kira would have detected that."
"Would she? Her abilities are substantial, but not infallible. And this agent spent weeks in a facility designed to process aberrants. Who knows what conditioning he might have received without remembering it?"
Raze couldn't refute the possibility. The Alpha's paranoia was earned through decades of survival. But Park's information, if accurate, was an opportunity they shouldn't ignore.
"What if we verified independently? Gather evidence ourselves, then find a way to get it to Internal Affairs contacts without involving Park directly?"
"That approach has merit." The Alpha's pacing slowed. "But it requires trusting that Internal Affairs actually opposes the program. What if they're already aware? What if they've chosen to tolerate Morrow's activities because they see value in the results?"
"Then nothing changes and we continue with direct disruption."
"Yes. Direct disruption that we control." The Alpha returned to its throne. "I'm not dismissing your proposal entirely. But I won't redirect Sanctuary resources based on hope. Continue the disruption operations. If evidence emerges that Internal Affairs can be trusted, we'll reassess."
It wasn't rejection, but it wasn't approval either. Raze had proposed an alternative path, and The Alpha had filed it under "maybe later."
---
Park Min-soo was assigned quarters in the Sanctuary's rehabilitation wing.
Raze visited him daily, partly to gather additional intelligence and partly to assess his reliability. The former lieutenant was cooperative, providing detailed information about Association structures, political factions, and the specific personnel involved in the replication program.
All of it potentially valuable. None of it verified.
"You don't trust me," Park said during one of their sessions. "I can see it in how you watch me. How you measure everything I say."
"I trust that you believe what you're telling me. Whether those beliefs reflect reality is a different question."
"Fair." Park leaned back, his scaled features catching the crystalline light. "I spent years in the Association. I believed in what we were doing — protecting humanity from dungeon threats, maintaining order, ensuring stability. Then I learned what 'stability' actually cost."
"The aberrant captures."
"The whole system. Protocol 7 isn't new — it's been running for decades. Morrow just found a way to make it profitable. Useful." Park's voice carried bitterness. "We were told aberrants were threats. Unstable. Dangerous. I believed that until I met them as people instead of classifications."
"And now?"
"Now I'm one of you." Park touched the scales on his cheek. "Whatever contamination they claimed I had — it was real. The facility changed me. I'm not baseline human anymore."
Raze studied him. The scales were new, developing after the extraction. Whatever the facility had done during Park's captivity, it had triggered an awakening response — pushing him toward aberrant development even though he'd never consumed a core.
"The processing they do to subjects," he said slowly. "It doesn't just extract mana. It alters them."
"Side effects they consider acceptable. Most subjects don't survive long enough for the changes to matter." Park's jaw tightened. "I survived. That makes me evidence of what they're really doing."
Evidence. If Park's condition could be documented, analyzed, presented to the right people — it might prove the program's true nature more effectively than stolen data files.
But presenting evidence meant revealing the Sanctuary's involvement. Meant trusting that Internal Affairs would protect Park rather than return him to processing. Meant taking risks The Alpha wouldn't approve.
Raze made a decision he knew was questionable.
"I'm going to help you contact your Internal Affairs handler. Independently, without Sanctuary involvement." He met Park's eyes. "If this works, we might end the program without more bloodshed. If it fails, I'll be the one who takes the consequences."
Park stared at him. "You'd do that? Risk yourself against The Alpha's orders?"
"I'd do that because it's the right approach. Because war with the Association might be necessary, but it shouldn't be the only option we try." Raze stood. "Meet me tomorrow night. We'll figure out how to reach your contacts safely."
---
The meeting never happened.
When Raze arrived at Park's quarters the following night, the lieutenant was gone. His room showed signs of hasty departure — not struggle, just someone leaving quickly with whatever they could carry.
On the table, a note:
**I'm sorry. I can't wait for your timeline. Every day we delay, more subjects die in that facility. I'm going back to my contacts directly — with or without the evidence we discussed. If this works, you'll never hear from me again. If it doesn't, I hope the Sanctuary can forgive one more failure.**
**Thank you for saving me. I wish I could have trusted your way.**
**— Park**
Raze read the note three times, anger and frustration building with each reading.
Park had fled the Sanctuary. Returned to the surface. Was probably already approaching Association contacts with his story — a story that now included the Sanctuary's existence, their disruption operations, and everything Raze had shared during their conversations.
He'd trusted Park with information. Park had decided to act on his own timeline. And now the Sanctuary's security was compromised by someone who thought he was helping.
Kira found him still standing in the empty quarters an hour later.
"I heard. The perimeter sensors logged his departure." Her voice was carefully neutral. "He's gone."
"He's going to expose everything. Not maliciously — he thinks he's doing the right thing. But the contacts he reaches, the story he tells — it all leads back here."
"What do we do?"
"We warn The Alpha. Then we prepare for the consequences." Raze crumpled the note in his fist. "I tried to find a better path. Instead, I created a worse threat."
The lesson was clear, brutally so. Trust wasn't just about intention. It was about understanding how people would act under pressure, what decisions they'd make when they felt cornered.
Park had seemed like a potential ally. Instead, he'd become a vulnerability.
And Raze was the one who'd let him close enough to do damage.
