Phoenix

36. The creator

The sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor of the Bijlmer Railway Station offered a temporary sanctuary as Jin steered Douglas Bullock toward the assistant station manager’s office. Tucked into a quiet corner of the sprawling terminal, the room was a small island of bureaucracy amidst the chaos of the platforms.
Jin had prepared to use Bullock’s credentials—or a well-placed threat—to commandeer the space, but fortune favored them; the office was abandoned, the manager likely swept up in the security frenzy Bulldog himself had initiated.

​Jin shoved Bulldog inside and kicked a chair toward him. "Sit," he commanded, the word as sharp as a gunshot.

​Bulldog slumped into the seat, his expensive suit rumpled, but his expression remained stubbornly arrogant. He looked like a man who believed he held all the winning cards, even with a pistol aimed at his solar plexus. Jin pulled up a second chair, sitting directly across from him, their knees nearly touching in the cramped space. The air in the room was thick with the scent of papers and stale coffee.

​"Now, Mr. Bullock," Jin began, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "You’re going to answer some questions. And for your sake, I suggest you skip the propaganda."

​Bulldog let out a short, mocking laugh that sounded like dry leaves skittering over pavement. "What questions, Mr. Kim? Truly, look at yourself. Do you think arresting me changes the math? The game ended while you were still putting on your shoes. You’re playing for a ghost, and you’ve been a dead man walking since you left the villa."

​"Is that right?" Jin’s face went cold, his eyes turning into flint. "All I hear is a dog barking because it’s backed into a corner. Why don't you try using actual words?"

​"I don't need to explain myself to a nobody like you," Bulldog sneered, though a vein throbbed in his temple. "Just know this: you’ve shouldered the impossible task of 'saving the world,' but your last ray of hope was extinguished a long time ago. You're fighting for a lost cause, Kim. The result has already been recorded in the history books."

​Jin’s brow furrowed. There was a sickening weight to Bulldog’s confidence. "Pardon?"

​"I’m saying you’re irrelevant," Bulldog said, leaning forward despite the gun. "I have the antivirus. By now, it’s likely being processed at the Pentagon. I’ve ensured that no matter how hard you dig, no matter who you kill, you will never lay eyes on a copy of that data. The monopoly on survival belongs to the United States now."

​The room seemed to grow colder. "Dr. Buren," Jin whispered, the name a heavy stone in his mouth. "Where is she? What have you done with her?"

​Bulldog’s smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You needn't worry about that lady anymore. She has served her purpose. She is no longer useful to you, or anyone else."

​"Did you kill her?" Jin’s hand tightened on the grip of the pistol.

​Bulldog simply stared at him, his silence a deliberate, agonizing weapon.

​"Answer me, Bullock!"

​"Yelling won't change the past, Mr. Kim. It’s over. The world continues, and you fade away."

​"Is that why you tried to wipe us out at the villa?" Jin countered, his mind racing. "If we’re as irrelevant as you say, why waste a platoon of CIA cleaners on us? Why not just let us wander off into the sunset? Did I bruise your ego so badly that you had to burn down a Dutch estate just to feel like a man again?"

​Bulldog’s nonchalance didn't waver. "A frayed thread must never be left hanging, Mr. Kim. It has to be cut. What’s the guarantee you wouldn't crawl to the press and leak some half-truth to damage America’s standing? We can’t have the conspiracy exposed because you decided to play hero."