Yoobin has heard of Minji: she’s a Soviet spy, sent to England to try and blend in, become a base for other spies in London, a place where they can rest without caring if the walls have eyes or not. The KGB pays well for her troubles, and Yoobin knows that, as a counterspy, she has a place there to take care of the bullet wound currently tormenting her arm. She’ll miss the coat she’s wearing.

Sure, the KGB thinks Yoobin is a British defector, who decided to work for them from the MI6. The truth is the contrary, and being a counterspy is the most fun Yoobin has had in her life since she ran away from home in Korea in that old cargo boat, mixing herself between soldiers and learning the language between bites of hardtack. It had been fun, but her hair had taken ages to grow back.

Well, not like she could wear it too long, nowadays, anyway. It was in a sort of a masculine cut, but to be truly that, she’d need to head down to the barber, and her current schedule of sending false information to other spies and selling the information leaves Yoobin little to no free time.

Maybe she’ll have some, while nursing this wound. She staggers to Minji’s home, a little flat, neatly tucked away in the Little Russia neighborhood, full of odd trinkets, or so she has heard. The door, thick oak, hurts her knuckles when she accidentally uses her shot arm to knock, the reverberations making her see stars the foggy London sky does not have.

She’s heard of Minji, who’s something like a spider on the KGB spy circle, but never seen her; so when the lite girl with black hair as neat as the peonies planted on the pot by the entrance opens the door, it’s surprise that finds her first.

“You’re Minji? The safe house?” Yoobin’s words stumble out in her ancient Korean, rusty as the blood seeping into the coat. Then she cusses, internally; she should’ve been speaking Russian, so she switches to it for the next phrase. “Sorry. I got a wound, and I’m kinda in pain. Please help.”

Minji gave her a once over, finding the little star brass earring Yoobin used - useful for quick recognition - and nods only once, before helping, with shifty eyes, Yoobin to come inside. She closes the door, locks it thrice, and then guides Yoobin to a tiny, stark white bathroom that smells like cleaning products.

“Sit down, take your coat.” Minji says, soft voice and soft Russian, barely accented, as she rummages around. Yoobin obeys, letting the coat fall to the bathtub with nothing more than a hiss when it unglues itself from her bloodstained arm. Minji gave her a quick glance when she does, and sees the white shirt stained red, then nods. “I’ll have to cut the arm off.”

“Damn, that bad?” Yoobin joked, cracking a smile, and Minji offered her a small chuckle as she appeared with everything needed in her arms. 

As Minji cut off the sleeve, eyes focused on her work, applying a mostly illegal injection of anaesthetics that are mostly certainly hospital run-offs and probably expired, Yoobin decided to have a quiet chat. Maybe she can take off some sort of information off the girl that can be told to the MI6 and help them avoid a third world war or something (as if).

“Have too many of us been bothering you?” She asks, and Minji purposefully pinches her with the pliers. “Hey!”

“I think comrade Georgi hasn’t told you the rules, has he?” Comrade Georgi was a codename for a spy, if Yoobin’s hazy mind recalled correctly; the top dog that was the ringmaster of the entire London region. Yoobin had seen him once, when she had her first assignment, diving into the MI6 archives off hours. He had told her about Minji’s safe house, gave her an address, but never explained any rules. “The moment you come in, unless I speak, you do not say anything. It keeps this place safe from straying ears. You understand?”

Yoobin nodded, and then Minji’s features schooled themselves into a softer version as she carefully picked up the bullet from the soft inside of Yoobin’s arm. There’s a clank against the porcelain, and she sees Minji pick up a too long, too thin needle, and black thread.

Alright, Yoobin might be a spy, but she was also somewhat squeamish. She looked away, feeling her face whiten.

“Sorry.” She said, in such a clean, crisp Korean that if Yoobin hadn’t been so busy trying to not think too much of what was happening by her side, she would have been surprised. “Old habits. Mother Russia does not allow slip ups, and I've grown tired of doing clean up. Any name I can call you by?”

“Dami.” It’s something that sounded more Western than her birth name, something her workmates couldn’t butcher. Such was life, she guessed. 

“Well, a pleasure to meet you, Dami.” Then, silence, as Minji worked. Yoobin’s eyes kept focused on the bathroom, clean and pristine. She wondered if this was a normal night for the proper Russian spy, sewing people up in her bathroom.

When Minji’s finished, she rises up and grabs everything with medical use gloves, before throwing it away. She eyes Yoobin, who rises, shakily, from her spot, legs somewhere on the path to becoming numb, and nods.

“I have tea and a few clean shirts, although they might be a little too big for you. A moment.” Before she can respond, Minji’s gone; Yoobin heard her move things around as she went for the living room, throwing herself on Minji’s green velvet couch and looking around. There wasn’t much: if Yoobin had to guess, she’d say it was kept almost bare so that, if needed be, she would be able to run away and set up shop somewhere else with little to lose in terms of material things.

Minji returned with a clean shirt and offered it, silent, to Yoobin, who accepted it with her only good arm, fingers touching for a mere second, but enough to make Yoobin feel a spark that had nothing to do with the tingling, recently moved around, nerves in her arm. As the girl headed to the kitchen, she used the opportunity to change.

When she goes into the kitchen, tea and scones wait for her, Minji cleaning the dishes as Yoobin ate with a ferocity that she thought impossible. Maybe getting shot opened up her stomach or something, who knew.

“Thanks for the meal.” Yoobin said, at the end, even though it’s breaking the rules. Minji finished her dishes and came to pick up what Yoobin had dirtied, giving her a quiet look. With a flick of a finger, she turns on a tiny little radio.

“You’re welcome.” A beat, as Yoobin rose, ready to go out. “By the way, if you’re going to be a counterspy, do try to not wear a Windsor knot on your tie when going to spy on me. Very MI6 of you.”

Yoobin froze on the spot, but Minji smiled softly, patting Yoobin’s cheeks with a soft hand. She leaned into the touch without noticing what she was doing.

“And do come again, but preferably without a wound, will you?” She hummed, going back to the sink, the sound of water against metal making Yoobin dizzy. “It’s been a while since I spoke Korean with anyone.”

“Okay.” Why Yoobin finds herself accepting Minji’s offer is beyond any of her wildest beliefs, but as she goes out, she mentally checks her schedule, and decides that she has enough Wednesday evenings free to justify drinking some tea in an obvious honeytrap.