Somewhere in Busan, 8:30 p.m.
The city shimmered under neon rain. Narrow streets glistened, smeared in the glow of red and blue signs, the humid air hanging thick like a wet blanket.
Choi Dae-Hwan, boss of the Red Scarves, sat alone in his office above a shabby nightclub, the stink of stale liquor and cigarette smoke clinging to the faded curtains. He cradled a phone to his ear, his face red with fury.
"I'm telling you, Ji-Yeon — you've lost control of this city!" he spat into the receiver.
At the other end of the line, Ji-Yeon lounged in a high-rise suite overlooking the harbor, legs crossed, a glass of aged whiskey in one hand, her gaze cold and unforgiving.
"You forget yourself, Dae-Hwan," she said, her voice calm and laced with venom. "This city is mine. Always has been. Always will be."
"No, not anymore," Dae-Hwan snarled. "Your people are dying like dogs in the street. The Wolves are gone. The Iron Blades haven't answered a call in days. You don't even know who's behind this, do you?"
A flicker of tension crossed Ji-Yeon's face.
She masked it with a cruel smile.
"And you think you'll do better? You think you can stand against what's coming?"
"I don't need to stand," Dae-Hwan growled. "I'm getting out. My men, my business, my cut — we're done."
A tense silence.
Then Ji-Yeon's voice dropped, icy and slow.
"Run if you want. But you won't outrun him."
And with that, she hung up.
Dae-Hwan hurled the phone against the wall.
The device shattered.
"Get the cars ready!" he barked to his men. "We leave tonight!"
A Mist That Hunts
By 11:00 p.m., three black sedans pulled up behind the nightclub. Dae-Hwan's men loaded weapons and cash into trunks, muttering nervously about the stories, about the Wolves, about the message left at Warehouse 19.
"Boss, maybe… maybe we should stay low," one stammered.
Dae-Hwan slapped him hard.
"Cowards die first. I'm not waiting for that freak to come knocking."
He should have known.
The mist was already crawling in.
The Night Bleeds Again
As the convoy pulled out of the alley, headlights cutting through the fog, something moved ahead. A figure. Dark. Silent.
The lead driver squinted, braked.
Too late.
A Molotov sailed through the air, crashing against the windshield. Flames burst, swallowing the car. The men inside screamed.
Gunfire lit up the street.
A shape flickered through the shadows.
A man yanked from a back seat, throat cut before he could shout.
Another stumbled out, shot clean through the eye with a suppressed round.
Dae-Hwan, panic in his gut, fired wildly into the mist.
Shadows darted.
His men fell.
The Red Scarves fought like cornered animals, but there was no escape.
One by one, the cars were disabled.
Bodies littered the alley.
Blood streaked the walls.
Dae-Hwan managed to stumble into a back entrance of the nightclub, clutching his pistol, chest heaving.
His ears rang with gunfire and the dying.
"Show yourself, you bastard!" he howled into the empty room.
The only answer was the flickering of a neon sign.
A final, sharp pain — a bullet catching him clean through the heart.
He hit the floor, a sick wheeze escaping his lips.
Another Message
In the morning, police found the bodies.
Fifteen dead.
The Red Scarves erased in a single night.
And on the wall, scratched with a knife into the paint, another message:
"THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING."
Detective Kang arrived on scene, his face pale, his gut twisting.
The city's gangs were dying faster than he could count, and whoever was behind it… wasn't stopping.