[North Busan]
Rain lashed against windows before dawn. Samuel stirred on the cot, sheets twisted around his head like corpses in driftwood. His ribs sang each breath. He forced himself up, panting in the shallow gray light filtering through blinds.
He pressed a palm to the bandages. They held firm but burned like raw nerve. On his hip, his phone vibrated—notification ignored. He closed his eyes.
In that darkness: a flash. A sleek office, pristine white. A calm woman's voice offered salvation—"not a gang; a system." He remembered the brochure as her voice echoed in his mind.
He shuddered awake fully, the memory die-cut into his skull. Seojun rolled over, eyes flickering open. But he stayed put.
Samuel peeled himself off the cot and went downstairs, coat open, soaking in neon breath from the street. The others stirred after, drawn by the early pulse of conflict.
They walked the backstreets behind Shin's gym — puddles glimmering, silence as thick as stale rain. Not a child, not a vendor, not even a stray cat—just concrete and mist.
A yellow taxi passed, its headlights smearing across darkened shopfronts. The quiet pressed in.
Shin glanced over his shoulder, quietly:
Shin: "No graffiti. No bikes. No whispers. Too sterile."
Jace fingered the chipped concrete wall:
Jace: "That still doesn't feel safe."
Samuel found a damp leaflet stuck under a grate—it read "LENS.PRO – Craft Your Image." He pocketed it.
They didn't talk much. Each step forward felt like walking deeper into a slumbering dragon's lair.
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Turning a corner, they found the alley looked like any other—smoke stained walls, dripping laundry, flicking neon remnant.
Then he appeared. A teenager in a white T-shirt, eyes blank, stance impossible to read.
Samuel stepped toward him. The boy fought without twitch—an eerie calm before a strike.
The attack came in a heartbeat: a palm jab to Samuel's ribs, exploding like metal on bone. Pain washed over him.
Samuel shook it off, moving in with mechanical precision. Jeet Kune Do; pressure and tempo. Bone-counter strikes, feints, blocks — but the boy moved like ink on water.
Jace tried interference; the boy snapped a spinning elbow that sent him skidding into puppies tethered nearby, who yelped and fled.
Seojun leapt in, survival instinct—caught a brutal knee to ribs, hissing on pavement.
Samuel grimaced, sprayed through bare breath, but his strikes adapted: off–beat footwork, angular jabs into core, reversals that echoed like disrupted rhythm.
A final elbow to the jaw, a snap punch to the temple— the boy staggered, vanished into shadows without a word.
They stood staring, breathing hard. Rain started again.
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Inside Shin's gym, the neon glow felt distant through frosted windows. The same old smells—chalk, sweat, asphalt. Silence bristled.
A kid on a parked scooter watched from outside. Another filmed on a phone, frozen in horror and fascination.
Shin closed the door with a soft click.
Shin: "He didn't come for a fight. He came to send a message."
Samuel closed his eyes, hand on his ribs.
Samuel: "He's not recruited. He's programmed."
Seojun and Jace exchanged glances. The room felt too small for it all.
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Samuel walked to a dusty metal locker. He retrieved a rusted box labeled Ctrl9 – Youth Files.
Inside were glossy folder covers:
Samuel Ryu – age 14.
Min Joon‑Ki – age 15.
Notes: "High potential. Low resistance. Keep discipline > affection."
A folder cracked open; an old two-tone photo of young Samuel sparring with Joon‑Ki under summer sun. Laughter frozen mid-swing. Samuel blinked as a second flash hit: same boy, hospital bed, pale skin, tubes.
He placed the photo on the table, heart pounding.
Samuel (whispers): "They used him… me."
Shin stood by, expression flat.
Shin: "Origin myth's overturned—makes you either prophet or ghost."
Samuel found the LENS poster pressed inside, soaked through with glue.
He lit it on fire with a lighter and held it until it curled and dropped to the floor in a golden hiss.
Samuel: "No more ghosts."
He ripped up the folder and tucked pieces into his coat.
They stepped out into steady rain. Steam rose from sidewalk grates. Neon puddles swayed with their reflection. Samuel raised his face to the drizzle.
Jace lit a cigarette, exhaled in low arches.
Jace: "You ready for war?"
Samuel stared at his knuckles, cracked and bleeding.
Samuel (soft): "I'm done being the product. Now I'm the fire."
He flicked a piece of ash at the street.
Seojun checked his gloves.
Seojun: "Tomorrow, then."
Samuel tucked flakes of folder papers in his pocket.
Samuel: "Day after—no half-measures."
They walked into that misty night, the world around them alive with undercurrents, waiting for the explosion.
Rain tapped on concrete—soft, insistent: promise of a storm.