The cold steel of reality never felt more distant than when Shan watched the ambulance doors slam shut, the flashing red lights casting erratic shadows on his weary face. Half an hour had passed since Ingrid vanished into the distance, and now he stood outside the hospital as the medics wheeled the bloodied pregnant woman through the automatic doors.
A nurse with tired eyes but firm hands turned to him. "Please, sir. Come with us. We'll need you for some formalities."
Shan nodded numbly and followed, his boots echoing against the polished linoleum of Seoul General Hospital.
Moments later, a team of surgeons approached him, urgency etched deep into their expressions. The head surgeon—a middle-aged man with crow's feet and a stained mask pulled down to his chin—stepped forward.
"Sir, the woman you brought in is in critical condition. We need your authorization to proceed with an emergency surgery—right now."
Shan stared at him, chest tightening. "Wait, what? I don't even know her! I'm just a guy scraping by... I can't afford this."
As if on cue, a defibrillator rolled past, the shrill squeak of its wheels stabbing at his conscience.
He clenched his fists. Damn it. Damn this world. Damn his bleeding heart.
"…Fuck it. Where do I sign?" he muttered.
The surgeon wasted no time, slapping the consent forms into Shan's trembling hands. His signature scrawled across the line like a final verdict, and within minutes, the surgical team vanished into the operating theatre.
Twelve grueling hours passed.
---
Meanwhile, on the other side of Seoul, in a high-rise apartment soaked in silence and wealth, Ingrid Mikage stood motionless beneath a cascade of hot water. Her breath fogged the glass, but her heart remained ice. Droplets traced her pale skin, running down her spine like guilt manifest.
I knocked her over… then I ran her over. I actually ran her over.
She looked down at her hands, trembling now. Her stomach churned. Fear, not the kind that warns of danger, but the kind that whispers you're no longer human.
She stepped out, wrapping a satin robe around her tall, sculpted frame. Her legs—long, graceful, perfect—felt like pillars of ash.
In the living room, her fifteen-year-old daughter, Kim Yeon Mikage, sat across from her tutor, textbooks and notebooks splayed out like battlegrounds of adolescence.
"Kim Yeon, stop flirting with your tutor," Ingrid teased, her tone flat, lips twitching in a ghost of a smile.
"Moooom…! Stop it! That's embarrassing!" Kim Yeon groaned, cheeks flushing.
The tutor, Bae Sik Gong, barely older than a student himself, turned beet red. He'd taken this job for the extra credit—but truth be told, his real reason was standing half-clad in a robe, drinking beer like she had nothing to lose.
Later that night, Ingrid drifted into a restless sleep, beer cans abandoned like empty thoughts by her bedside.
Her dreams were chaos.
"WHY DID YOU KILL MY CHILDDDD?!"
She woke in a gasp, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. The clock blinked: 12:00 AM. Her sheets twisted around her legs like shackles. She closed her eyes and rolled over, praying for oblivion.
---
At the hospital, the hallway was bathed in tired fluorescence when the head surgeon returned.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, eyes heavy with failure. "She suffered a miscarriage."
Shan's world slowed. The hum of machines. The scent of antiseptic. The weight of being too late.
"How is she now?" he asked, voice barely a whisper.
"She's stable. For now. But we suggest you let her rest. And… we'll need someone to speak to the husband."
Shan nodded, hollow. "Alright."
He stepped out of the hospital into the cold Seoul night, stars blinking indifferently above. As he walked the streets aimlessly, phone in hand, he played the video he'd recorded—of the crash, of Ingrid's face behind the wheel. Evidence. Proof. Vengeance, neatly digitized.
His gaze drifted to a betting shop nearby, just as a man burst out in elation. "200 million won! I hit the jackpot!"
Down the block, a massive TV screen flashed across a skyscraper: Stock Market Surges by 900% in Unprecedented Turnaround.
Shan's lips twitched.
He kept walking.
He found himself in a nightclub, the kind hidden behind velvet ropes and soundproof glass. A hostess greeted him, her smile practiced. He ordered a private room and sat down in silence. She poured his drink, trying to make light conversation.
He ignored her.
"…Why?" he muttered suddenly. "Why didn't I turn the person in? Why did I protect that monster?"
She leaned in slightly. "Mister?"
"I SAID ZIP IT!" Shan roared, lunging. The glass tumbled, and the air turned electric with violence and lust.
"SAY IT AGAIN. CALL ME A PERVERT AGAIN. I DARE YOU."
His voice cracked like a whip as he pinned her, fury driving every movement. She whimpered, caught between fear and something darker.
Amid the blurred lines of rage and euphoria, Shan's mind fractured.
Because… deep down, that moment gave me power. It changed everything. That was when the beast inside me was born.
A smirk curled on his lips. He left the club without another word.
---
At home, he showered in silence, letting the steam erase what the night had carved into his soul. Dressed in black jeans and a crisp white shirt, he lit incense before the altar of Goddess Mahakali. Two slips of paper. Two choices.
He wrote. Rolled. Shook.
One he cast into the fire: "Himself."
The other—"For them"—he discarded in the trash.
He walked to the rooftop, standing at the ledge, the city sprawling like an empire of sin below.
"Let's begin," he whispered, and jumped.
Wind tore at him. Buildings blurred. His heart pounded, not with fear, but clarity. Then—impact.
---
He awoke to fluorescent lights and familiar voices.
"Sir! We need your signature!" the surgeon repeated.
Shan blinked. The same hallway. The same clipboard. Déjà vu? No… rebirth.
He smiled. "Give me that pen."
This time, he signed without hesitation—and ran.
He burst into the betting shop, scrawling the winning numbers. "All in—hurry!"
Minutes later, the screen lit up. Winner: 500 million won.
With barely a pause, he stormed into the nearest bank. "Get me the manager. I'm investing 200 million won into the stock market—right now."
Paperwork. Predictions. And then… the market surged again.
His net worth ballooned to 5 billion won.
He returned to the hospital just as the operation ended. The surgeon looked astonished. "She… she made it. So did the baby. It's a miracle."
Shan nearly staggered. So this is the butterfly effect...
He paid the fees in full.
Inside the recovery room, the woman opened her eyes, tears glistening. "Did… did you save me?"
Shan nodded. "I just did what anyone would do."
"My name's Kim Ju On. Thank you…"
Her husband entered soon after. "You saved my wife and child. I owe you my life. I'm Kei Kun Sook. And you are?"
"Shan Wolf."
"Anything you need… you let us know." Kei handed him a business card.
Shan smiled faintly. "Sure."
---
With his new wealth, Shan got a haircut, bought new clothes—favoring deep blacks and blues—and returned home.
He opened his laptop and typed: Won Group.
Nothing.
Ingrid Mikage.
Still nothing.
"Hmph. Then I'll make it right my way," he muttered, transferring the hit-and-run video to a USB stick. He made copies. Multiple.
That night, he ate a quiet dinner, set his computer aside, and stared at the ceiling.
A storm was coming.
And Shan Wolf—reborn, empowered, and vengeful—was ready to unleash it.
---
Chapter 3 — End.