The rain didn't stop, but Busan had changed.
Eli Nam walked beneath flickering neon and the broken buzz of halogen streetlamps. The air in South Busan was thicker than at Dogsung—choked with old oil, cigarette smoke, and tension that didn't come from schoolyard gangs.
He didn't have a crew. He didn't have turf. But the city already whispered his name.
He moved like he had somewhere to be—but in truth, he was watching. Observing. His first days out of Dogsung weren't filled with violence. Not yet.
They were filled with silence.
The streets didn't challenge him like the hallways once did. They studied him from darkened doorways and fogged glass. He felt eyes at every corner—some curious, some afraid.
Kids passed by and lowered their heads. Vendors paused mid-transaction. Drift runners followed at a distance, murmuring into burner phones.
He didn't speak. Just walked.
It wasn't time yet.
He ate stale gimbap in an alley behind a pawn shop. Slept on a rooftop where the tar bubbled and cracked. Used a burner phone to text old names from his notebook, measuring who responded and who didn't.
Names like Ghost. Like Seojun. Like Jace.
Some numbers rang. Most didn't.
He was alone. But not for long.
The docks were alive with illegal breath.
He followed the sound of underground life—past shuttered arcades, through alley shortcuts beneath rusted pipe scaffolding, toward an old warehouse lit by battery lanterns and grease fires. Inside, the scent of sweat and money hit like a fist.
Fighters grunted inside a steel-caged ring. Blood on canvas. Shouts in the air. Crumpled bills traded hands.
A lean man in a leather coat took notes. His left hand bore the faint brand of The Drift—a silver-gray fang tattoo beneath the wrist.
Eli stood at the edge.
No one noticed him at first. Then one by one, heads turned.
"...That him?"
"No way he came alone."
"Shit, don't stare."
He watched a fight end. One boy, smaller but faster, dropped his opponent with a snap kick and a flurry of punches.
The crowd roared.
The boy raised his arms, grinning through a broken lip. That grin faded the second he saw Eli.
Flashback: Doohwan screaming beneath him. The pop of cartilage. Blood running down his lip. The silence afterward—everyone watching, no one daring to breathe.
That same silence returned now.
Eli stepped forward.
The crowd parted.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
He leaned beside the ring, watching the next bout start. Two fighters, older, heavier, sloppier. One had the Drift fang on his neck.
Eli didn't care about the match.
He cared about the bookie.
"You run this place?" he asked, voice flat.
The man blinked, looking him over. "It's… sanctioned by the Drift. You got a problem, kid?"
Eli smiled thinly.
"You've got fifteen bodies guarding three exits. You took over Pit Dogs' territory two nights ago. You rig half your fights to double profits. And you've been running bets on my name without permission."
The man froze. "We—we don't mean disrespect. Just business."
Eli walked to the center of the ring. The current fighters paused, confused.
He looked at them, then at the crowd.
"Next round's on me."
He pointed at a man leaning against the wall. Younger than most, but stocky, with cauliflower ears and a heavy brow. The man stepped forward without a word.
"Name?" Eli asked.
"Wonsik. People call me Dogma."
A mini-boss. Not top tier, but known in these parts.
Fight Scene – Dogma vs. Eli
Dogma rolled his neck and cracked his knuckles. "You sure, kid?"
Eli just nodded, coat already slipping off his shoulders.
Dogma launched forward. A bull-rush. He swung wide—a looping right hook aimed to cave in Eli's skull.
Eli dipped under, pivoted his hips, and countered with a snapping low kick to Dogma's thigh. The meat-on-bone smack echoed.
Dogma hissed. Came again.
Jab-jab-hook.
Eli parried the jab, sidestepped the hook, and lashed a palm strike into Dogma's nose. Blood burst instantly. Then an uppercut.
Dogma reeled. But didn't fall.
"You're fast," he spat, blood staining his chin. "But I've bled more than you've walked."
He charged again. This time he clinched. Tried to use his bulk to throw Eli.
Eli let him.
Let the throw come—and mid-air, twisted.
Dogma landed first. Hard. Eli rode the momentum and landed knees-first onto Dogma's stomach, fists following like steel pistons.
One.
Two.
Three.
Dogma grabbed Eli's collar—desperate—and slammed a headbutt.
Eli's nose cracked sideways.
He blinked blood out of his eye. Laughed.
"Finally," Eli muttered. "A fight."
He tore free.
Hook to the liver.
Back elbow.
Then the finish: a feint, step-through spin, and a brutal spinning back-kick to the chest. Dogma flew back, crashing into the steel cage with a thud.
Silence.
Dogma coughed. Tried to stand. Failed.
Eli stood above him, nose bleeding, chest heaving—but smiling.
He turned to the crowd.
"Tell the Drift this house belongs to me now. They can keep their cut. But every bet, every match, every fighter? They answer to me."
Bookie: "You serious, kid? You think you can just walk in and—"
Eli: "You see anyone stopping me? No? Then shut your mouth and count your blessings. You're still breathing. That's the only bet you won tonight."
He walked out.
As he passed, the leather-coated bookie dropped his eyes.
From the shadows above, unseen, a boy leaned against a rusted beam.
Samuel Ryu watched Eli disappear into the night.
His expression was unreadable.
A call went out that night.
Not from Drift. Not from Dogsung. From further up the chain.
Someone wanted to know who Eli Nam was. And more importantly, if he was for sale.