[Drift Observation Room – South Busan Feed Terminal]
Samuel watched the camera feed flicker. Grainy, low-framerate—an analog ghost in a digital war.
Eli was already past the Fog.
The corridor had emptied. The bodies were still breathing. Barely.
Samuel muted the audio. Closed his eyes. And waited for the next angle to load.
Another location. Another fight. Another step toward the edge.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then, on-screen: a new warehouse. Cleaner. Brighter. Empty.
A lone figure stood in the center, back to the camera.
Wrapped fists. Bare shoulders. Eyes down.
Taejin.
And the timestamp matched Drift's Bloodline schedule.
Samuel leaned forward.
"Next lieutenant."
He tapped the feed for an angle switch.
It didn't load.
The screen glitched.
Froze.
Then turned black.
[Drift Warehouse 2 – "The White Room"]
Unlike the rest of Drift's grounds, this warehouse had been cleared, cleaned, almost sterilized. No crates. No grime. No blood. The floor was smoothed concrete, the walls lined with white padding like a training dojo.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Eli stepped inside and immediately smiled.
"This feels expensive," he said.
Taejin didn't turn around.
"Not many people make it this far," he replied.
Eli kept walking. Slow. Hands behind his back.
"No furniture, though. You expecting a funeral or an interview?"
Taejin exhaled. "Neither."
A pause.
Then he turned.
His eyes were steady. Cold. Focused. Not hostile. Not afraid.
"I'm not here to fight you."
Eli stopped mid-step.
"Drift sent you. You're Drift."
"I am."
"And you're not going to stop me?"
"I'm not going to stop you the way they want."
Eli tilted his head.
"This is the part where you're supposed to scream something dramatic. 'You won't pass,' or 'You'll fall like the rest.' What happened to that?"
Taejin stepped forward. Not aggressive. Just honest.
"Gilwoo wants blood. But I want to see what happens when you don't get it."
[Flashback – Taejin, One Year Ago]
He had been a kid. Fast. Obedient. Good fists. Better reflexes.
Gilwoo had brought him up personally.
"You don't need strength," Gilwoo told him once. "You need control. Over others. Over time."
So Taejin learned to win without moving fast. To win without being loud.
But lately, the wins had stopped feeling like wins.
And Gilwoo's lessons started sounding more like shackles.
[Present – White Room]
Eli's voice was quieter now.
"You don't want to fight, but you won't join me either. Let me guess—you're loyal. But conflicted. A thinker."
Taejin didn't nod. Didn't blink.
"I want to see the limits. Yours. Theirs. Mine."
Eli laughed.
"Good. Because watching me is more dangerous than swinging at me."
He stepped into Taejin's space—close enough that normal people would flinch.
"You think Drift has a future?"
Taejin held his stare.
"No."
"Then what are you still doing here?"
Taejin stepped back.
"I'm waiting to see if you destroy the present."
He turned.
Walked to the far wall.
Paused.
"They won't let you leave clean."
"I never do."
[Outside the Warehouse – Three Drift Operatives]
The two who waited near the exit weren't part of the official fight crew.
They didn't wear rank. Didn't ask permission.
They watched Eli approach the exit and stepped forward fast—panic hits, not precise.
One had a pipe.
The other had nothing but fear.
Eli stopped walking.
Didn't dodge.
Let the first swing scrape his sleeve.
Then turned.
"You're not on the list," he said.
Both froze.
"You're not here for honor."
Step.
"You're not even here for revenge."
Step.
"You're here because you don't know who to be without someone telling you."
He stopped just before them.
"You want to hit me?"
Neither moved.
Eli leaned close.
"Then hit harder than your boss ever did."
No one swung.
He walked past them.
Didn't look back.
[Cut – Samuel, Now in Transit]
The tablet in the passenger seat sat dark. No feed. No signal. Just a muted void.
Samuel didn't flick on music. No distractions.
He gripped the wheel with steady hands, eyes locked ahead.
No need for noise. The silence carried its own weight—sharp, precise, like a blade waiting to strike.
He thought briefly of another boy, years ago. Same stillness. Same unread signals.
But this time, Samuel wasn't behind. He was ready.
[Last Shot – Warehouse Exterior]
Blood on the ground.
Two Drift men groaning against the wall.
Eli's coat draped over a pipe like a flag or a warning.
Above it, spray-painted freshly on the steel panel:
"Drift is bleeding."