The night after Lee Jones's death, the city was alive with restless whispers.
News vans lined the streets outside the gleaming tower of Jones Industries, their cameras pointed at the ornate gates behind which the family's luxury cars sat gleaming under harsh floodlights. The CEO's office, a glass-walled chamber at the top floor, was dim—yet inside, the man himself paced like a caged beast.
"Get me everything on that kid," the CEO barked into his phone, voice tight with rage. "I want every feed, every witness. No mistakes."
Outside, the streets were flooded with reports: videos of a tall, shadowy figure moving like a ghost, dodging bullets as though time bent around him. His brutal method was clear—no mercy, no hesitation. Lee Jones's body had been found crushed in a narrow alley, bones broken as if squeezed by iron hands.
The internet was aflame.
Speculation raced across social media like wildfire—#GhostKiller trended nationwide. Some claimed Han Dae Su was a supernatural being; others whispered about a vigilante avenging forgotten victims. Conspiracy channels spun tales of government cover-ups, experiments gone wrong, even secret cults.
Meanwhile, the police were overwhelmed. Patrol cars zipped through neighborhoods, sirens piercing the air, as officers set up checkpoints and combed dark alleys. Briefings buzzed with anxious chatter about the 'Ghost Hunter'—the name given to the mysterious figure by news anchors desperate for answers.
At police headquarters, Commander Park slammed his fist on the conference table. "He's not human. No one moves like that, evades every shot, and leaves no trace. We need backup—military-level."
A tense hush filled the room. Outside, on the city's rooftop gardens, drones buzzed in formation, their cameras scanning relentlessly.
The government, too, was stirred.
In a sleek, windowless conference room, a gathering of ministers and intelligence chiefs debated in hushed tones. Maps were spread out, red markers blinking where Han Dae Su had struck.
Minister Kim, his face grim, spoke quietly but firmly. "This is no ordinary criminal. The stability of the city—no, the nation—is at stake. We can't allow this to continue. Issue the highest alert. Deploy the Special Tactical Unit. Capture him—dead or alive."
From the back of the room, a voice crackled over a secure line: "We've received word from the families. The Joneses demand swift action. They have resources; private security will cooperate fully."
The room grew colder.
Back in the shadows, the remaining eight bullies scattered like rats, their bravado drained by fear. Private bodyguards surrounded them—men with hard faces and weapons glinting under streetlights. The luxury cars no longer promised safety; they were mobile cages.
In a dimly lit penthouse overlooking the city, Hwang Jin-soo, son of a high-ranking government official, rubbed his temples. "We need to move," he said to his cronies. "The kid is hunting us all."
One of them, Park Min-jae, who once laughed at Han Dae Su's broken form, now stared wide-eyed at the screens showing live police helicopters sweeping their districts.
"We can't hide forever," Park whispered, voice cracking.
Outside, Han Dae Su watched it all from the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse. The cold wind tugged at his dark coat, his silhouette stark against the glowing city below.
His eyes, sharper now, traced the routes his enemies fled. Every detail etched into his mind—their faces, their voices, their fear.
He flexed his fingers, feeling Drenval's power surge beneath his skin, the ancient fire roaring like a living beast. The city's noise was a distant hum; his purpose was singular.
Tonight, he would remind the world what justice truly meant.
With a leap, he vanished into the night, a shadow swallowing the light.
The Hunt Continues
The next day, chaos spread like wildfire.
Park Min-jae was the first to fall after Lee. Surrounded by bodyguards, he had tried to keep a low profile in the bustling downtown plaza. But the crowd's chatter died to stunned silence as the 'Ghost Hunter' appeared.
Out of nowhere, Han Dae Su struck—his movements a blur faster than the eye could follow. Bullets screamed through the air, but he dodged with impossible grace, twisting, sliding, weaving between glass and steel.
Bodyguards fired relentlessly, their weapons spitting death, but it was futile.
Han Dae Su's hands closed around Min-jae's throat like iron shackles. The crowd watched in horrified fascination as the bully's struggles ceased in seconds, his body crumpling to the cold pavement.
No words, no mercy.
The silence shattered with sirens—the police arrived moments later, but too late. Cameras flashed; witnesses screamed.
Han Dae Su stood over the lifeless body, his breath steady.
"Ten," he spoke loudly, voice cold and clear as the plaza fell still. "I will take ten. One for each sin you buried in me."
The words sent ripples through the gathering crowd. Phones captured the scene, spreading it instantly.
In government offices, the announcement triggered urgent orders. Troops mobilized, surveillance intensified, and the city braced for the storm.
Behind Closed Doors
At the Jones estate, the CEO's face twisted in fury and helplessness.
"How does one boy bring us to our knees?" he snarled. "Find him. Stop him."
Meanwhile, other parents watched anxiously, their wealth and power unable to shield their sons from the growing terror. Private armies stood guard, yet fear gnawed at their hearts.
Even among the bullies, paranoia festered.
"Is he invincible?" one whispered. "Or is this something darker?"
Their once-carefree laughter was replaced by cold sweats and whispered prayers.
The city's pulse quickened, each heartbeat echoing the deadly hunt unfolding in its shadows.
Han Dae Su was no longer just a man. He was a reckoning.
And the world would never forget.