The rain didn't stop. It never did in Busan. It drummed down onto the tin roof of Dogsung High like it was trying to erase something—like the sky itself wanted to wash the school away.
No one came to class.
Not really.
Some showed up. They loitered in doorways. Teachers pretended to mark attendance. But the halls were dead. Something hung in the air—a weight no one could name, but everyone felt.
Everyone knew why.
Rowon had called out Eli Nam.
The school had seen Eli destroy Kang Doohwan—an enforcer, a monster, a wall of muscle. Eli had snapped his arm like it was cardboard and left the gym without a word. Since then, no one had dared touch him. Even the teachers had stopped making eye contact.
But now?
Now the Pit Dogs' king had returned.
And he wanted the devil's head.
Rowon stood alone in the central hallway.
His coat was soaked, the collar turned up like armor. One arm was still in a sling, but the other held a rusted metal baton. His eyes were wild—not like a beast, but like a man who had seen the end and decided to scream back at it.
Every hallway fed into this one. Every whisper led here.
Students watched from the shadows—behind broken lockers, behind safety glass. Not one voice rose. No one cheered. They knew better. This wasn't a show. This was blood waiting to fall.
Footsteps echoed.
Eli appeared at the end of the corridor.
He wasn't wet. Somehow, he never was. His black bomber jacket glinted under the broken ceiling lights. His hands were bare. His mouth curved, ever so slightly.
"Finally," Rowon breathed. "You stopped hiding."
Eli didn't reply.
"Do you even know what you've done?" Rowon continued. "I built this school. I ruled it. You—"
"You let it rot."
Eli's voice cut through the air like a blade. Flat. Clean.
Rowon's lips twitched. "You think you're a king now?"
"I don't want a throne," Eli said. "Just the silence after I tear yours down."
Rowon moved first.
He charged like a storm, baton swinging low. Eli sidestepped. Metal kissed tile—CLANG. He pivoted, using the missed momentum to slam his shoulder into Rowon's chest. The older boy grunted, stumbled back, then swung again.
Eli ducked.
He weaved forward—one step, two—then kicked Rowon's knee inward. A sharp crack. Rowon hissed, but didn't fall.
"You fight like a ghost," Rowon spat. "No heart. No soul."
Eli's smile widened, crooked.
"Better than fighting like a loser."
He tilted his head, voice rising like a stage actor playing a villain. "You walk like you still matter, Rowon. But every step you take just sounds like a eulogy."
Rowon bared his teeth.
Eli chuckled, light and cold. "What's wrong? Realized you're not the monster in this story anymore?"
Rowon roared.
He spun the baton into a backhand sweep—caught Eli across the ribs. The younger boy staggered.
Rowon pressed—slammed him into a locker. Eli's back hit steel. Rowon raised the baton again—
—but Eli headbutted him.
Hard.
Rowon reeled, nose gushing blood.
Eli didn't wait. He elbowed Rowon in the throat—once, twice—then swept his leg.
Rowon crashed down.
Flashback:
Dark room. A rusted heater hums in the corner. Young Rowon, face bruised, knuckles bleeding, stands before five nervous kids—his first crew. A homemade Pit Dogs banner hangs crooked on the wall behind him.
"No one listens to nobodies," he growls. "We fight. We win. Then they shut up. That's how it works. That's how we make them remember us."
One of the boys shifts nervously. Another nods.
Outside, sirens pass, but Rowon doesn't flinch.
"You want respect? Bleed for it."
Back to present—Rowon wiped blood from his mouth.
"You're not real," he gasped. "You're just a shadow."
Eli crouched beside him.
"Then why are you bleeding?"
He leaned in, whispering like a devil at confession. "You ever wonder what it's like to be irrelevant in your own legend? You're not a king, Rowon... you're a cautionary tale."
Rowon screamed and surged upward. He tackled Eli into a locker. The hallway shook. The baton fell. Fists flew—sloppy, wild. Eli caught one, twisted.
Rowon howled.
Eli slammed his head into the locker—once, twice. Blood streaked the dented metal.
"You never controlled this school," Eli murmured. "You just babysat it."
Rowon grabbed a shard of glass from a broken case. Slashed.
Eli backed up. A red line bloomed across his cheek.
He licked the blood. "Nice try."
He stepped in.
Palm to Rowon's wrist. Twist. Snap.
The glass dropped. Rowon dropped to his knees.
Eli raised one fist—paused.
"Let me guess," he muttered, "you thought you'd go out in a blaze of glory?"
Then he punched Rowon across the jaw. Rowon collapsed.
Silence.
Aftermath
No one moved.
No one cheered.
The silence was thick—almost sacred. It clung to the ruined hallway, where Rowon lay sprawled in a puddle of blood, glass shards glinting around him like fallen teeth. His breathing was shallow, wet. A former Leader reduced to just another cautionary tale.
Eli stood above him. His fists were raw, cut open on knuckles and bone. His breath came slow. Controlled.
He looked around—not at faces, but shadows. He knew there were eyes watching. Students. Wannabe gangsters. Teachers. Scar Chain. Maybe even outsiders. The silence wasn't fear anymore. It was recognition.
He spat blood onto the tiles.
"You lost this place the day you thought fear was enough," he said flatly.
Then Eli walked. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady—like nothing behind him mattered anymore.
Whispers trailed in his wake.
It wasn't a roar. Not applause. Just the quiet breath of legends forming.
Eli Nam.
Not the devil. Not the ghost.
Now?
The last to walk out of Dogsung High.
And the first to walk into the streets.