[North Busan — Abandoned School] / Shin's Gym / Gupo Bar
The abandoned school loomed under the streetlights—windows cracked, shutters sagging, pipes dribbling water like a heartbeat. Twilight stretched across North Busan like a living shadow.
Samuel paused at the gate, rain slicking his jacket. Seojun and Jace arrived behind him, cautious. Shin appeared last, hands buried in pockets, older but hunched with intent.
They moved inside slowly, boots echoing across the corridors hung with graffiti—gang symbols crossed out, campaign tags faded. A reckless spray: "CTRL9 WATCHING" scrolled under their feet.
Eyes adjusted. In one hallway, flickers of camera wires spilled from cut ceilings. Under doors, light breathed—steady pulses of power. Not an informal hideout; this was operational.
Shin pointed to a door marked "Lab 3." Bullet casings were littered beneath. Samuel's head snapped up—this was more than a front.
Inside, they found a dark room filled with racks of server boxes, tangled cables, and phone-charging stations. Chairs crushed in corners, cables tangled like roots.
Jace knelt by the servers, tapping cables as a whisper in his ear.
Jace: "Live feed. Cameras pointed at rooms two floors above, and—shit—those are cribs. Kids streaming."
A nauseating click: on Seojun's phone screen, someone was streaming kids in cages. Tags flickered—"Discipline," "Temper Test," "LENS_PRO."
Samuel locked eyes with Shin.
Samuel: "This goes deeper. We need names, faces."
They split roles.
Samuel headed upstairs to disrupt Streams 1 and 2.
Seojun stayed behind to cover the exit and ski-masked runners.
Jace prepped to copy hard drives.
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Stairwell carpet faintly damp. Samuel pressed up, pressing shoulder into the door. Chambers bathed in blue-white monitors; kids hunched, tied, hands shaking. Bully-officiants guided them with words.
His pistol jacket grip tightened.
Without words, he moved. Flipped tables, extinguished screens, shouted—
Samuel: "Digital PR stunt over. Free now."
Chaos sparked. Runners scrambled; kids cried. Amid confusion, masked goons pulled hammers and pipes.
Down below, Seojun surged, hooded kid dropped phone, tried to flee—Seojun grabbed him, hands brutal but respectful.
Seojun: "Names. Now."
The kid shivered out IDs, locations.
Upstairs, Samuel fought three goons—arms grappling, fists angled, living-room stunts, but he stayed composed. He broke a wrist, stomped a throat, ignored pain in ribs.
Jace fought a silent battle in server alcove—pulling cables, smashing drives.
Jace: "Got it. Data's out—names, client lists."
The basement shook as gunshots rang above. Then, a long electronic beep—
A warning. Lights flicked red.
They ran—data stolen, lives disrupted, streams broken, but alarms blared.
In the stairwell, heavy presence: a 17-year-old, movement like a vulture. Black shirt, eyes blank, stance precise.
No hesitation—palm-first into Seojun's chest. Seojun spat blood but held.
Samuel met him.
First contact—strike traded, dislocated shoulder. Samuel's jaw snapped back from a knife‑hand blow.
Samuel: "You go for pain. Leave."
The teen's lips parted. Calm breath.
Class‑Zero: "You brought noise."
They fought through stairs—knuckles scraping concrete, fighters collapsing into elbows, screaming vents—
A sucker punch. Samuel stumbled. Seojun lunged, but the teen twisted, threw Seojun into the wall with crushing elbow.
Samuel fought back: strikes to clavicle, knee to thigh, explosive elbow. Seojun joined with flying knee. Jace kicked in shin—together, they cracked the teen's guard.
The Class-Zero fighter paused—knelt—breathed damned slow, and then…
He reset. The fight resumed with savage efficiency. Blood spilled. The teen's elbows carved through muscle. Seojun went down with ribs broken. Jace staggered.
But just as it seemed they'd fall, Samuel countered—a spin kick split the teen's guard. Seojun recovered long enough to ram a elbow up, and Jace dropped a haymaker.
The teen fled—wound, but unbroken. Not defeated; withdrawn. They watched him disappear into the concrete darkness.
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[North Busan — Shin's Gym]
Shin's gym, late post-midnight. Seojun on a bench, pale as mist, rib cage bruised. Jace cleaned blood from gloves. Samuel crouched, open drives laid on a tarp.
The data spilled horrors: names, client lists, surveillance logs, estimated profits. But primary tag—"Samuel_R3voked"—his profile severed like shredded tape.
Samuel (quiet): "They deleted me from the network."
Shin's eyes steeled.
Shin: "They made you. Now they erase you. That's not business—it's war."
Jace sighed.
Jace: "Class-Zero 1 tried mess; 2 aimed to kill. They're not shredding nerves; they're auditioning."
Seojun coughed.
Seojun: "And they still fled."
Samuel hefted a USB drive.
Samuel: "We don't just fight. We expose."
They all froze.
Trees rattled outside in wind.
Samuel: "Tomorrow, we go live on them. Every floor. Every child. Every file."
Shin stared at him.
Jace nodded.
Seojun's eyes stung.
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[South Busan — Gupo Bar]
Three days later, Gupo Bar, neon stale on steamed glass. A man sat alone—in a leather jacket marked KC Box on the back.
Phone beep. He answered.
Man: "Tell him, Gupo's in."
He slid the phone away, met the eyes of a lean kid across the bar.
Man (low): "We blow that system down."
He rose, pulling a fighting jacket over shoulders.
Neon sign hummed through the window—North Busan wasn't the only warzone.