Docks – Haeundae Eastside, Morning
The docks always reeked of rust and regret.
Eli Nam stood beneath a bruised morning sky, the wind tasting of salt and metal. Oil shimmered in puddles across the alley like rainbow scars. He traced the faint outline of a bloodstain beneath a rusted shipping container. It was his blood—or maybe not. It didn't matter. The place had been gutted. No more boots on the ground. No more Drift.
Gone.
He clicked his tongue, chewing the silence.
From one of the nearby stilt houses, a door creaked. An old fisherman with glassy eyes and a bent back leaned on a splintered cane, watching Eli like he was an omen.
"You come lookin' for ghosts," the man rasped, "but the wolves don't howl unless the tide's turnin'."
Eli didn't reply. He turned and walked into the wind.
Backstreets – Jung District, Midday
It wasn't about waiting anymore.
Drift had ambushed him. Now he hunted them. Word spread: the King of Haeundae was bleeding for blood.
Eli tore through three of their training dens in two days. Kicked through doors, broke arms, cracked ribs, dragged punks out by their collars. No mercy. No restraint. Only one question:
"Where's your king?"
They never answered. Some didn't wake up long enough to try.
Outer Harbor – Floating Barge Arena, Midnight
The harbor was quiet at night, and yet something lived beneath it.
A floating barge moored in the shadows of abandoned cranes, rusted like forgotten gods. From above, it looked like a derelict container platform—but inside?
An arena.
Rust-laced metal formed a fighting pit at its center, circled by makeshift bleachers. Spectators leaned over rails, faces hidden by cigarette smoke and hunger. A ring of floodlights gave the water around it an oily, hellish glow.
At the topmost perch sat Gilwoo.
No mask. No alias.
He was tall, lean, built like a swimmer with the eyes of something older than rage. His silence made the noise around him feel irrelevant. Three rookies stood below, twitching with adrenaline—Kijo, Rayon, Byeonguk.
Gilwoo didn't glance at them. He spoke as if to the water.
"Let him bleed something tonight," he said softly.
"I want to see what color his pain is."
Floating Barge – Approach Tunnel, Moments Later
Midnight. Eli arrived alone.
As he walked, he passed rusted lockers bolted to the walls—each one with a name etched in blood-red paint. Some scratched out. Others… waiting.
One locker said: NAM
He didn't stop.
He walked straight across the floating platform like it was solid ground, ignoring the stares, the baited breath of the crowd.
Three figures dropped into the arena ahead of him.
Kijo came first. Thin, fast, legs like blades. Capoeira-turned-killer.
Rayon next—thick arms, short reach, low stance. Grappler with a grin that begged for teeth to be knocked out.
Byeonguk last—silent, twitchy, with brass knuckles and a jittery rhythm.
They circled him.
"Three-on-one?" Eli cracked his neck. "Getting cocky."
They didn't answer. They just moved.
Arena Floor – Inside the Pit, Ongoing
Kijo struck first—two spinning kicks in a flash, one aimed at Eli's ribs, the second a feint masking a heel aimed for his temple.
Kijo moved like he had ball bearings in his hips—fluid, unpredictable. His strikes weren't just fast—they sang, each kick cutting the air like a whipcrack. A performer bred for kill-speed.
Eli ducked, but not clean. His cheek split open. Blood kissed the rust.
He smiled.
Rayon charged, aiming to clinch. Eli twisted, let the momentum carry Rayon's weight past him, elbowed him in the back of the skull—but Byeonguk caught him with a cheap shot to the ribs. The pain bloomed deep.
Three minutes of chaos. Cut over the eye. Gash on the thigh. Breathing rough.
Then Eli stopped moving.
He watched.
Analyzed.
And something shifted in the pit.
Final Seconds – Center of the Pit
Kijo blinked—and Eli vanished. A blur. The punch struck beneath his clavicle, nerve cluster screaming, before a follow-up shattered his cheekbone. Kijo collapsed without a sound.
Rayon roared and rushed—but Eli stepped into the grab.
Using Full Counter he twisted inside the grapple, dug his knee into Rayon's solar plexus, then rolled over his shoulder.
Rayon hit the steel floor neck-first. Didn't get back up.
Byeonguk hesitated. Eli didn't.
He stomped his way forward, blood dripping from his hands.
Byeonguk swung wide. Eli caught the arm, broke it at the elbow, and slammed him down with one hand.
Stood over him.
Paused.
"You came to kill," Eli said, voice cold, low.
"But you didn't come to win."
"And that's why I'm still breathing."
And he Stomped his head to the ground.
The pit went silent.
The crowd didn't cheer. They stared. Some whispered. One man dropped his cigarette. A girl in the back began to cry.
This wasn't a win.
It was a warning.
Gilwoo never blinked.
He simply nodded, eyes calm, like he'd just watched a wave break perfectly against the shore.
Busan Prep Complex – Indoor Pool, Five Years Ago
Young Gilwoo stood at the edge of a swimming pool, goggles in hand, the scent of chlorine thick in his nose.
Nationals. He had a shot.
But his lane had been tampered with. Sabotage. His foot slipped at launch. He came in last.
No outrage. No protest.
Just silence.
He quit swimming two weeks later. Joined Drift the month after.
He never yelled. Never blamed.
Just trained—and learned.
Control. Breath. Flow.
"The ocean doesn't scream," he once told a junior.
"It swallows."
Nampo District – Underground Garage, Late Night
A quiet underground parking garage.
Neon buzzed overhead. A long shadow stretched from the pillars to where Samuel Ryu stood, jacket zipped, phone in pocket, eyes on a cloaked figure.
A woman.
Sharp voice. Incheon accent buried in hushed tones.
"You sure this is how you want to reopen the past?"
Samuel's smile was bitter.
"That door was never closed."
"I just left it locked."
She handed him a slim flash drive. CTRL9's emblem, faded.
"You do this," she said, "they'll come looking."
"Let them."
The garage echoed with silence as she disappeared.
Cliffhanger Ending
Harborfront – Seawall Overlook, Dawn
Back at the harbor.
Eli sat on a bench at the edge of the dock, hunched forward, knuckles scabbed, shirt torn, the salt wind curling through his hair. His ribs ached. Blood dried on his skin in rough patches.
Somewhere behind him, the night shifted.
Footsteps—light, too light.
A kid approached. Couldn't have been more than ten. Oversized hoodie, bare feet slapping softly on the planks. In one hand, a can of soda. In the other, a string tied to a paper boat.
He stopped beside Eli, held out the drink.
Eli took it without a word. Opened it. The hiss echoed like a fuse.
The boy didn't leave.
Instead, he spoke—voice small, flat, almost rehearsed.
"The ocean says you're not supposed to be here."
Eli looked up, eyes narrowing.
"Yeah?" he said, voice hoarse. "What's it say I'm supposed to be?"
The boy let go of the paper boat. It drifted down into the water.
"Not dead yet," the boy said.
"But it's getting impatient."
He turned and walked away, vanishing into the fog rolling in off the tide.
Eli sat frozen.
The boat floated toward the dark horizon—its paper slowly soaking, sagging, until it dipped beneath the surface.
No splash. No ripple. Just gone.
Like something took it.
He watched it until it disappeared.
Then he leaned back, took a long drink from the soda, and closed his eyes.
The waves spoke.
And this time, he listened.