But before he could fully revel in that thought, the gentle knock that followed the sudden interruption drew his attention.
A middle-aged doctor, his face etched with a weary kindness, stood beside his bed. "Ah, Mr. Park. You're awake. Good. You gave us quite a scare."
He blinked. Mr. Park? The name, though expected, still felt alien, a jarring confirmation of his new, forced but welcomed identity. "Park?" he managed, his voice deeper, rougher than he remembered.
The doctor nodded, flipping through a chart. "Yes, Mr. Park. We found an ID in your clothes when you were brought in. You were found unconscious near the docks. A severe concussion, but thankfully, no lasting damage. You're quite lucky."
He paused, looking up. "We've tried our best to locate any family or friends, but we haven't been able to find anyone while you were unconscious."
"We'll just need to run a few final checks before discharge."
He performed a quick, professional examination, his brow furrowing slightly. Despite the severe concussion, his vitals were robust, his reflexes sharp, and his recovery nothing short of miraculous.
"Remarkable," the doctor murmured, more to himself than to him. "Absolutely remarkable. You're in perfect condition, Mr. Park."
"You can collect your ID from the counter downstairs," the doctor continued, gesturing vaguely towards the exit.
His mind already calculating, made his way to the bustling main counter downstairs. A young intern, barely out of medical school, greeted him with a tired smile. After checking details, "Mr. Park? Your discharge papers are ready. All treatment here are government funded to anyone below 18," she explained, her finger tracing a line on a form. "However, the medication prescribed for your recovery, those are a separate cost."
The medication's cost, which was surprisingly high as he counted the zeros, struck him with the weight of a heavy blow. An orphan in his previous life, he knew the crushing weight of financial instability. Now, in a body that wasn't his, with no funds in this brutal new world, a world he knew was rife with hidden dangers and cutthroat organizations, the hospital walls suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a trap.
"I'm leaving," he stated, his voice clipped and decisive, cutting through the intern's explanation of the charges. He just stretched his muscles.
The intern, sensing the shift in his demeanor, merely blinked, surprised. He turned from the counter, his senses already mapping the sounds outside: the faint squeak of a gurney, the muffled murmur of voices. He quickly located a discarded patient's uniform in a nearby utility room, swapping his hospital gown for something less conspicuous. He pushed through the service exit, the cool night air hitting him as he emerged.
The city lights of Seoul blazed around him, a vibrant, overwhelming spectacle against the dark sky. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the crisp air filling his lungs, washing away the hospital's stale scent. He walked, letting his new legs carry him, observing the neon-drenched streets, the hurried faces, the undercurrent of the city's pulse.
His sharp gaze analytically swept the street for opportunities. His eyes drifted, picking out subtler details: a dimly lit alleyway, a cluster of rough-looking men huddled in the shadows, the fleeting glint of a knife, shady business going there. A small, illicit gambling den, perhaps? Or a street-level loan shark operation. Either way, it promised the one thing he would undoubtedly need: cash.
He turned into the alley, his footsteps silent. The men, caught off guard, looked up, their faces hardening. A thug, blocked his path and sneered, "Where do you think you're going, squirt?" even though Gun was noticeably taller than him. A crude club appeared in the thug's hand.
His Reverse eyes, those unsettling black pools, sharpened. They didn't just see; they analyzed, predicted, highlighting weaknesses. He saw the tremor in the man's grip, the slight imbalance in another's stance, the fear flickering in their eyes despite their bravado. A cold, predatory smile touched his lips. "Just here to provide my services," he said, his voice low, a dangerous rumble.
The confrontation was over before it truly began.
One man lunged.
He moved — a blur of motion.
A precise block with his forearm, and the club shattered on impact. Another swung a fist, and he sidestepped, his knee connecting with the force of a truck to the man's gut, a visible shockwave rippling from his back.
The others froze, their bravado evaporating as they watched their companions crumple. The air crackled with a silent, overwhelming pressure emanating from him. This wasn't a fight; it was a massacre.
These people were thugs and didn't deserve any better, he explained to himself. There was no need to feel bad about them.
He stood over them, his gaze sweeping across their terrified faces. "The payment," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. Hands fumbled, wallets were produced, and a small pile of crumpled bills appeared on the grimy asphalt. He picked it up, counting it with cool indifference. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood," he murmured, his voice cutting through their fear. He turned to depart, leaving the stunned men to grapple with what had just happened, and to wonder who the real thug was.
As he walked away, the adrenaline began to recede. It was the first real fight he had ever been in, and the initial excitement he felt was quickly replaced by a realization. He'd read about fights like this in countless manhwas and webtoons, but living it – feeling the effortless impact of his strikes, the casual brutality with which he'd dispatched these men – was something else entirely.
A surge of the formidable confidence inherent to this body had flared, but now, a new understanding settled in. This wasn't just strength; it was an innate understanding of force, of impact, a terrifying efficiency that far surpassed anything he'd ever imagined.
He moved his limbs, pushing, pulling, flexing, exploring the raw power now at his command. Every muscle responded with instantaneous, almost violent power. This body remembered movements he had never learned, executed techniques he had only read about. He was a weapon, honed and lethal, and this burgeoning understanding brought a strange, dark thrill that mingled with the lingering fear of the unknown.
His past, that of an ordinary orphan who had learned to rely solely on his wits, now seemed a distant, almost irrelevant dream. Yet that self-reliance was more crucial than ever. He had no one. He possessed nothing but this formidable body and a fragmented knowledge of the world he now inhabited. He needed to master this power, to truly get used to this body, before he could truly manipulate the giants behind the scenes.
For now, the immediate tasks on his list were clear: find a place to stay, secure proper clothes, acquire more funds, and gather vital information about this dangerous new world, including its current timeline. Perhaps if the time was right, he might even join Shinan High School to mess with what he remembered would happen.
The Gun Park this world knew was gone. Now they will see the Gun he would create.
(A/N: ofc like the og Gun 😈)
….
<3