[Dockside, Warehouse 5 – 10:42 AM]
The docks didn't move fast. They creaked.
Chains overhead shifted like tired limbs, shadows of gulls crossed the cracked pavement, and the sea mumbled against the concrete like it was tired of being ignored.
Eli walked between the containers like he'd done it a thousand times.
His jacket was heavier than usual. Still damp with sweat, salt, and someone else's blood from the cage last night. It clung to him like regret, but he didn't carry it like a burden. He wore it like armor.
He wasn't rushing.
He never rushed.
Two Drift watchers caught him from above the old scaffolding. One lifted a phone slowly.
"He's really here…"
"No one's with him?"
"Look at his hands. Do they look like they need someone?"
[Flashback – Jungang Pit, 13 Hours Earlier]
The ex-pro's arm had stopped twitching after the third stomp. Eli had stepped back, lips twitching into something like a smirk—except sharper. More surgical.
The cage floor was slick with sweat and blood. The crowd didn't scream anymore. They watched.
And someone in the back had slipped him a note.
Folded clean. Pressed into his palm in passing.
Eli didn't look at it right away.
Later, by the service tunnel exit, he opened it under the dim orange light.
"Come to the docks. Or we start taking pieces."
He read it three times. Then tore it in half. Then again.
He whispered something the pit couldn't hear.
"I don't think you brought enough bags."
[Warehouse 5 – Locker Room]
Bokgu could still remember the last time someone disrespected the chalk ring. 2007. The kid didn't even survive the hospital ride.
But this wasn't 2007.
And Eli wasn't a kid.
He sat in silence, knuckles wrapped. The iron ring lay on the bench beside him, the kind they used for old port chains. It wasn't for show. It wasn't for nostalgia either. It was for weight.
He flexed his fingers.
The pain in his wrist never fully healed from the Rowon era.
They all called Eli the Devil of Gupo. That was a name built off rumors. Viral clips. Out-of-context beatdowns.
But now?
Now Bokgu had to ask himself a worse question.
What if it wasn't a name?
What if it was a prophecy?
[Surveillance View – Rooftop, South Busan]
Samuel watched Eli on a jittery black-and-white feed patched into an old Drift camera tower.
Eli moved like a pressure front—silent, tight, on the edge of something catastrophic.
He reached the outer ring. Stopped. Looked up at the Drift sigil nailed into the crate. Someone had painted it over once, then redrawn it.
Eli lit a match. Held it to the wood.
Flames danced for a second. Then consumed the mark.
Samuel tilted his head.
"You're not just walking into enemy turf," he muttered.
"You're walking over it."
[Vendor Cart – Old Side Street]
The noodle cart hissed as the broth boiled. The old man didn't look up when the boy started talking.
"They say he ripped through Drift's second line. Didn't even breathe hard."
The old man stirred.
"They say he smiled after."
Another stir.
"…They say he talks like the Joker."
That made the old man pause.
Then: "He doesn't talk like the Joker."
A beat.
"He talks like someone who's already decided you're dead before you opened your mouth."
[Inner POV – Eli Approaching the Ring]
The ring was older than most of the boys who died in it.
Eli could see where the chalk had been redrawn too many times. Where blood had crusted and washed away and crusted again. Where names were forgotten and fists were remembered.
He didn't feel nervous.
Not because he thought he'd win.
But because winning had stopped being interesting.
This wasn't about the fight.
This was about showing Drift what happened when your legacy got lazy.
[Inner POV – Bokgu Watching Eli Enter]
He didn't bow.
Didn't look at the candles.
Didn't even look at Bokgu.
He just stepped into the ring like it was a train car and he was just passing through.
Bokgu hated that more than anything.
"You burn our flag and walk in here like it's your church?"
Eli finally met his eyes.
"Funny thing about churches," he said. "Sometimes the devil doesn't knock."
[Flashback – Bokgu's First Drift Kill]
He had dislocated the man's jaw with a bare elbow. No gloves. No ref.
That was the rule that day. "Winner doesn't pay for the ambulance."
It was the first time someone called him "ogre."
He hated the name.
But he never corrected it.
[Back to Present – Faceoff]
Eli was relaxed.
Bokgu wasn't.
The candle near the north side guttered. One flame. One breath.
The Drift boys watching from the shadows had already backed up four steps.
Bokgu shifted his weight forward.
Eli's shoulders tilted—too small to call it a stance.
Bokgu gritted his teeth.
"You think this ends with me?"
Eli's smile was barely there.
"No. You're just the start."
Bokgu lunged—
And the world blinked.