The sun lay heavy on Seoul, blazing off the Han River and the glass towers of Yeouido. Heat shimmered over the streets, carrying the faint scent of roasting chestnuts and diesel from the buses.

Two children darted along the crowded Jongno sidewalk, shrieking with laughter as they wove between office workers and market carts. A paper cone of hot hodu-gwaja tipped, scattering warm walnut cakes across the pavement.

“Did you hear?” a vendor muttered while sweeping crumbs from her stall. “Someone in a white mask pulled a woman off the subway tracks last night.”

Her friend snorted. “Urban myth.”

“Ya! Be careful!” another vendor shouted. The children only giggled, chasing a wayward plastic bag rolling toward the curb.

A horn blared. A delivery truck bore down, brakes whining against the asphalt.

...

A man appeared from the edge of the crowd. He crossed the lane in a blur, coat snapping at his sides, and swept the children up

He wore a plain white mask that covered his entire face, catching the sunlight like a flash of bone.

He scooped the children up, his grip firm, almost unnervingly so, and set them safely on the curb.

“Who is that?” a vendor whispered.

“Why’s he wearing a mask in broad daylight?” another voice said, half-uneasy, half-awed.

The man gave no answer. He set the children on their feet and walked away, the mask catching the sun as he disappeared into the crowd.

The crowd murmured after him, a low ripple of questions following the blank white face until it vanished.

...

A woman shouted for help as her grocery cart tipped into the gutter. The masked man was suddenly there, he intercepted the cart, catching it smoothly that seemed almost rehearsed, a faint smile hidden beneath the mask.

“Is that him?” a teenager whispered, phone held high.

“Same mask,” his friend said, already filming.

...

On wet riverfront bricks, a scooter fishtailed, the back wheel snapping sideways like a fish tail. The rider slid, limbs flailing.

The white mask appeared, steady hands pulling the rider to his feet.

“Why doesn’t he talk?” a vendor asked, holding her own phone just far enough to catch the shot.

...

In the evening market, an old man’s wallet slipped from his pocket. Before it hit the ground the masked figure caught it, he returned the wallet with a nod, lingering just a fraction too long, as if measuring how the man’s eyes followed him.

“He’s everywhere,” someone muttered.

“Guardian angel,” another replied.

“Or a thief with good PR,” someone else said, but they kept recording.

...

Clips metastasized across feeds.

#WhiteMask climbed the city’s trending list.

Some called him a hero, others a fraud.

On the streets, the murmurs grew louder.

“Who is he?”

“Why hide his face?”

“What’s he planning?”

The man never answered. He only kept moving, mask blank in the glow of screens, each small act turning rumor into legend.

...

Notifications stacked faster than anyone could read them.

On train platforms, in elevators, in the lull between meetings, people watched the same shaky videos: the masked man lifting a child, catching a wallet, stopping a runaway cart.

Thumbs tapped like and share.

Comments scrolled in every language of the city:

"He’s real."

"Where next?"

"Finally, someone who cares."

"A stunt. Watch, it’s marketing."

Screens lit the night trains like fireflies. Every replay sharpened the silhouette of the white mask.

Weeks later the streets began to change.

The main avenue pulsed with late-afternoon noise, music from kiosks, vendors calling prices, the smell of frying batter. And there, moving through the crowd, were dozens of masks.

A courier wearing a mask with a blue delivery bag stooped to help a woman with a twisted ankle.

Two students in matching hoodies and masks hauled a fallen bike upright and patched the rider’s chain.

A pair of office clerks, masks tied with ribbon, handed out bottles of water to workers resurfacing the road.

People cheered them on, phones raised again.

Near the fountain, a fresh poster clung to the brick wall.

Bold black letters over a poster with the masked man's figure:

“FOLLOW THE MASKED MAN, CHANGE.”

Wind tugged at the paper’s corners.

Someone stopped to take a photo.

Someone else started to record.

The crowd’s hum thickened, a low current of excitement running beneath the city’s everyday noise, as if a single quiet rescue had cracked something open, and now anyone could step through.

…

The plaza glowed with late-day sun. Towering screens reflected the light onto hundreds of faces packed shoulder to shoulder. Phones hovered like a forest of small moons.

At the heart of it all stood the man in the plain white mask.

People surged closer but held a respectful circle, their murmurs rolling like distant surf. Vendors climbed planters for a better view; children perched on shoulders.

He raised a gloved hand. The crowd quieted.

“This city belongs to all of us,” his voice carried, low and clear through a simple megaphone.

“Together we will bring change, to this country, to this world. We will help each other. We will not wait for permission!”

Everyone answered him with cheers, applause, the flash of phone cameras. Someone began a chant, and the plaza took it up, the word Change pulsing against the glass walls of the surrounding towers.

A photographer’s lens caught the moment the sun struck his mask, turning it into a perfect disk of white.

…But in the way he lingered on each gaze, there was something more: a careful orchestration, a pattern only he could see.

…

TWO DECADES LATER – SAME PLACE

Someone screamed.

but the scream was wrong… metallic, filtered through a police loudspeaker.

The masked man's head was tilted down, lights strobing red and blue across the mask’s new markings. His mask had changed: dark streaked with white lines like cracks across porcelain.

Night settled heavy and smoke-thick.

The plaza’s giant screens flickered with emergency alerts. Buildings along the avenue burned, their windows spilling orange light into the dark. Sirens wailed, mixing with the distant crash of glass and the shouting of masked figures scattering through the streets.

Around him lay fallen officers. Police vehicles smoldered, doors hanging open. A ring of armed units tightened, weapons drawn.

Two officers snapped cuffs onto his wrists. Cameras flashed from every direction. Citizens, reporters, maybe even those same early followers.

“STOP!”

Everyone froze. Mid-step, mid-shout, mid-fight, like time itself had paused. The masked figures turned their heads, rigid, waiting.

The man lifted his head, the black-streaked mask catching the firelight.

“Taeyang may have turned his back on us. But the fight does not end. Seojin will rise, and our legacy will continue. We are not finished!”

Murmurs spread among the frozen crowd, as if the words themselves held a weight stronger than fear or flame. The message was clear: the movement, the cause, and the myth were far from over.

The plaza trembled, not from the fire, not from the sirens, but from the certainty that a new chapter had begun.

…

“Breaking news from the city center: the masked figure who inspired hope has led an attack on multiple city blocks. Officers report widespread destruction and dozens of injuries.”

The feed cut to aerial footage: smoldering buildings, shattered windows, overturned cars, and streets littered with debris. Fires licked at the edges of storefronts; smoke curled into the sky.

“We now have official footage from police sources. This is the man behind the so-called ‘White Mask’ movement. Authorities confirm he has been taken into custody. Though even now, many refuse to believe it.”

A stark mugshot appeared on screen: the black-streaked mask removed, revealing a pale, unreadable face.

“For decades, the public believed him to be a hero, a protector of citizens and children. Today’s events make it clear he was not the person we thought he was. His name was Yeon Oryong, 36 years old.”

“Investigations over the past decade reveal that mysterious crime organizations, long thought to be separate and unrelated, were in fact coordinated by Oryong himself. He is now believed to be the mastermind behind a citywide network responsible for escalating violence, theft, and organized attacks.”

“In the last 24 hours alone, citywide crime reports have increased dramatically. All incidents involve individuals wearing masks. Footage shows masked individuals looting shops, clashing with officers, and setting vehicles on fire.”

The camera panned over streets still burning, flickering red in the night, crowds running, and police lines struggling to hold the chaos.

“In response, the government has announced a full ban on masks in public spaces. Law enforcement will enforce the ban immediately, and citizens are encouraged to report any violations. Mandatory self-defense courses are being rolled out in schools and workplaces to curb rising violence.”

“Officials emphasize: the era of anonymous vigilantes is over. The city faces an uncertain future, and Yeon Oryong’s actions may have forever changed the way we live among each other.”

“MASKS BANNED.”

…

The heavy metal door clanged shut behind him, locking with a hollow echo. The room smelled of disinfectant and stale air. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing harsh glare on the pale walls.

Yeon Oryong stepped forward in a plain prison uniform, the fabric stiff against his frame. His hands flexed slightly at his sides, eyes scanning the visitation room before settling across the table.

There, on the opposite side, sat a teenager. No clear indicator of gender, just a quiet, self-contained presence: black hoodie with hands buried in the pockets, jeans neat but worn, hair tied into a messy short ponytail, and an expressionless, tired yet pretty face.

The teenager glanced up at Oryong once, their eyes flicking over him briefly, then their gaze dropped back to the table.

Yeon Oryong studied them, reading the silence as a deliberate choice. The weight of expectation hung in the air.

He sat, leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the cold metal table. His eyes, sharp despite fatigue, locked onto the silent figure across from him.

“Yeon Seojin,” he said, voice steady, “do you have anything to say?”

Seojin’s lips twitched into a faint, ambiguous chuckle, unclear whether they’re about to cry or laugh.

“You know… I’ve been waiting for this day.”

Oryong’s lips curved into a brief, wry smile. “You’ve been waiting to take on the role? That’s–”

Seojin’s lips fell back into the emotionless line.

“No,”

Oryong’s expression shifted to confusion. He leaned back slightly, studying the teenager. Their calm defiance was unnerving, a weight he hadn’t anticipated.

“All these years,” they said, “I’ve been nothing but an animal living in captivity. Forced to serve, forced to fight battles I never asked for…”

Oryong’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of guilt crossing his features.

They continued, their tone steady, unflinching. “I’ve never known what it’s like to experience the warmth of a family… to be protected, to be loved. All I’ve ever known is the brutality of the world you’ve brought me into. The constant pressure to dominate, to survive… to be something I wasn’t meant to become.”

They let the words hang in the air, the room silent except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights.

Oryong’s lips pressed into a thin line. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, swallowing. The weight of what Seojin carried, everything he had endured, settled between them, heavier than any bars or chains.

“The thing I was waiting for…” they said slowly, each word deliberate, “was a new start. One without you being in control,”

“Your legacy… ends here.”

Oryong’s eyes widened, a mixture of shock and disbelief. “Did Taeyang… brainwash you?” he asked, voice tight, searching for some explanation.

Seojin said nothing. They simply stood, shoulders squared, and walked toward the metal door behind them. The chains of expectation and history seemed to fall away with each step.

“You don’t understand,” Oryong shouted, rising from the bench. “You have no other choice!”

Seojin paused only for a second “That’s what you said every time you put the mask on.”, then pushed the door open.

“They will follow you, Seojin! They will!” Oryong called after them, voice cracking with urgency. “This is your destiny! You’ll never live peacefully!”

Seojin’s silhouette moved through the doorway, stepping into the corridor beyond. The metal door slid shut behind them with a CLANG that echoed through the room, leaving Oryong staring at the empty space, the silence of the visitation room pressing down heavier than any sentence or prison wall.

Neon burned against the rain-dark glass.

KTX 427 — Seoul → Busan

Beneath the glow, Seojin stood still, hood drawn low, a heavy bag slung across one shoulder. They double-checked the ticket between their fingers, the paper soft from folding, before stepping inside.

The compartment stank of iron and smoke.

Men sprawled across the seats like they owned the train. One had a dragon curling up a lung scaffold.

Another wore prison numbers like bruises.

Chains clinked as one shifted. Another cracked his knuckles, sharp as a coin drop. The air carried a metallic tang, blood or rust, it was hard to tell.

Some of them glanced up as Seojin passed. Others didn’t bother.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the speaker hummed overhead,

“welcome aboard the KTX.”

At the far end of the car sat a man who didn’t move. His head rested against a metal bat, eyes half-lidded, gaze fixed to the side calmly.

Seojin’s eyes met his for a second before slipping past into the next compartment.

“This train is bound for Seoul,” the voice continued.

“The next stop is Busan Station.”

That was when every man in the compartment began to rise.

Blades, pipes, and chains caught the cabin lights.

“Please make sure your belongings are with you at all times,” the announcement droned,

“and do not leave them unattended.”

Their boots thudded against the floor as they approached the next door, the one that led to Seojin.

“We wish you a pleasant journey.”

The metal-bat man stood.

“Thank you.” the announcement finished.

He wrapped a bandage around his palm and the bat’s handle, winding it tight until the cloth stretched white.

“I’m afraid your stop is here,” he said, resting the bat across his shoulder.

The metal-bat shone.

“Whatever’s waiting in Busan… isn’t yours to meet.”

…

Inside the next compartment, it was calm.

Passengers dozed with earbuds in; others scrolled their phones, faces lit by cold blue light.

Seojin found a seat by the window. They pulled out their phone.

The wallpaper was old: a photograph from the city plaza decades ago.

A family frozen in the bright afternoon sun.

Their father, Yeon Oryong, stood in his white mask, one arm wrapped around their mother. In her other hand, she held the small hand of a five-year-old boy who turned shyly from the camera.

In Oryong’s arms was a toddler, Seojin, grinning. The crowd behind them cheering, clapping, believing in something pure.

The smiles looked staged. Maybe they always were.

Seojin was numb from the photo, as if being lied to has been a normal occurrence of their life.

…

Seojin blinked, and the memory bled into others, the ones they tried not to see.

Bloodied faces.

Men with tape over their mouths and wrists, kneeling. shirtless, wounded, eyes wide, bruised and terrified.

Dozens of photos, one after another, trophies of punishment, sent years ago to the same man who once held them in that family picture.

Their father’s world. Their inheritance.

The air around Seojin seemed to tighten.

A voice interrupted.

“Sir…”

Seojin looked up.

The train attendant was shocked. “O–oh, I mean… miss?”

Seojin did nothing but stare at the train attendant.

“Your ticket, please.”

Seojin handed it over casually. The attendant scanned the QR code, handed it back, but didn’t leave.

“Your bag,” he said hesitantly. “I’ve been ordered to check it.”

Seojin’s voice was quiet, even.

“…Why do you need to see what’s in it?”

“I–I don’t know,” he stammered. “Higher-up’s orders.”

Before Seojin could respond, thuds began to echo from the next car. Again and again.

Every head in the compartment turned, the floor started to vibrate.

…

The door burst open.

The metal-bat man stumbled through, blood streaking down his forehead. He kicked one of the gangsters ahead of him, the body crashed into the aisle, then vaulted in after it.

“MOVE!” he shouted.

Passengers surged, bags and phones flying, as metal struck metal and glass shattered in overlapping chaos.

The train attendant didn’t think, he lunged forward and grabbed Seojin’s arm.

“Run!” he shouted, dragging them toward the crowd.

Seojin didn’t react to the train attendant’s sudden bravery. They just let him pull them along, bag still in hand. The hand on their sleeve jolted them back to motion, their hood slipped, eyes flashing in the chaos, and then they were being pulled along, stumbling into the press of bodies.

The attendant shoved Seojin through the aisle, then turned back, breath ragged.

He scanned the compartment, making sure everyone had cleared.

A woman had fallen between the seats, lost in the crush. She reached out, hand trembling, her scream drowned by the roar of boots and panic.

The attendant hesitated only a second before sprinting back for her.

He vaulted over an overturned suitcase, sliding between seats to reach her.

“Come on!” he shouted, grabbing the woman’s arm and hauling her upright. She stumbled, nearly falling again, but he pulled her close, shielding her as the gangsters surged closer.

The metal-bat man swung, his strike connecting with a crack that split the noise apart. One gangster’s tooth flew, glittering briefly in the fluorescent light before disappearing into the chaos.

He spun, the bat’s arc a blur of motion, pushing back the tide.

“GO!” he roared, planting his feet and holding the line.

The attendant wrapped an arm around the woman, forcing a path through the crowd. The compartment shook as the fight erupted behind them, metal on flesh, grunts, shouts. He didn’t look back.

CRACK!

A blow caught him between the shoulders, he stumbled, teeth gritting, but kept his grip on her. The door to the next compartment loomed ahead.

Behind him, the metal-bat man was pressed against the wall, gangsters piling on, pinning him down.

The attendant shoved the woman forward.

“Run! Go!”

She slipped through the door just as another gangster yanked the attendant back by the collar, dragging him off his feet.

“WHERE IS YEON SEOJIN?!” the gangster roared, fist slamming into the attendant’s ribs.

Through the narrow window of the next compartment, Seojin stood halfway across the aisle, one earbud dangling, eyes fixed through the compartment’s door.

The attendant gasped through bloodied lips, shaking his head.

“I–I don’t know who that is!”

Another punch.

Seojin looked down at the mask in their bag, the dark mask of the late Oryong. Their reflection stared back from its surface, the train lights flashing across it like passing memories.

Everything in them screamed to let the mask rot, to leave it buried, and yet their hand didn’t move.

…

One last time.

…

The gangster raised his knife.

SLAM!

The gangster was flung backward, crashing into a row of seats.

From the attendant’s blurred vision, he saw the figure in the hood standing above him, face hidden behind that familiar, cold mask.

Seojin tilted their head, voice low but clear over the ringing chaos:

“Get out.”

The attendant stumbled up and ran, clutching his ribs, disappearing into the next compartment as the door slammed behind him.

The compartment fell eerily silent.

The fight stopped mid-motion, fists froze, blades half-raised. The gangsters turned, their eyes meeting the reflection of the mask, catching the same kind of light as Oryong’s.

The metal-bat man, breathing hard, lowered his bat slightly. His head turned toward Seojin.

Even the hum of the train seemed to fade, replaced by the dull vibration of the tracks beneath their feet.

One of the gangsters whispered, disbelief cutting through the quiet.

“...Boss?”

The word rippled through them like a current.

“Boss Yeon?” another muttered, the tension folding into confusion.

Seojin stood still, shoulders level, hood shadowing half the mask.

The air pressed tight, every breath from the others sounded too loud.

Then one of the gangsters stepped forward, voice trembling but defiant.

“We’re here on orders... to make sure you don’t run from your role.”

Seojin’s tone was calm, almost casual, but the weight in it stilled the air.

“Did Oryong give you this order?”

A few exchanged glances, none wanted to answer until the same one spoke again.

“He did. We were told to either bring you back... or eliminate you if you resist. Nobody says no to Oryong… even you.”

The silence that followed was knife-sharp.

Then Seojin tilted their head slightly.

“Then…”

A faint metallic hum filled the compartment as the KTX began to accelerate, the walls vibrating, the floor rumbling beneath their boots.

“…if I’m your boss,” The words felt heavy in their mouth, but they said them anyway.

“Kneel.”

A recoil pulsed in their chest, as if part of them tried to step back… but the mask didn’t.

The gangsters staggered slightly as the sudden surge of speed pressed against them, the force of the acceleration pushing them back, coats flaring, chains rattling.

The fluorescent lights flickered in rhythm with the pulse of the train.

None of them moved at first. Then, slowly, one man’s knees buckled. Another followed. The weight of the speed pressed them lower, as if gravity itself had chosen Seojin’s side.

Even the metal-bat man, whose arms were steel and fury, froze at the sight of the mask and the figure beneath it.

The train attendant burst through the doorway into the next car.

Car 4.

Unaware passengers snapped their heads toward him, confused and startled.

He stumbled forward, nearly slipping on the polished floor.

Car 3.

He burst through the sliding door, almost crashing into a woman in a navy-blue service vest, another attendant.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

“Woori?” she stammered, startled by his unusual expression. “What happened–?”

Woori grabbed her shoulder, his voice cracking.

“...Car Seven!” he panted, chest heaving, “There’s a fight— RIGHT NOW!“

She flinched. “H-how many people?”

“...More than ten–” Woori gasped, barely able to talk now, “–they’re armed! Metal rods, knives… I don’t know!”

The words came out too fast panickedly, but real fear always sounds messy.

She flinched. That was more than enough for protocol.

“...Police, call the police–!” he blurted. “Right now!”

She froze for a split second, before rushing for the intercom panel mounted near the door.

Woori leaned against the seat, shaking so hard his vision blurred.

…

“Attention,” Seojin ordered calmly. A finger jabbed toward the far end, toward the metal-bat man. “He’s with me. Make way.”

The gangsters slid apart, forming a narrow corridor through the middle of the compartment. Seats loomed on either side, passengers frozen with phones raised. The metal-bat man chuckled, resting the bat on his shoulder, then stepped into the aisle beside Seojin.

Seojin’s voice cut low and sharp. “Keep your eyes down.”

A thumb hooked at the bat‑man’s wrist. Seojin guided him silently toward the next compartment where phones hovered through the open door, people filming, capturing everything.

One brave gangster rose from the center of the aisle behind them. “That’s not how it works.”

Another pushed to his feet, cracking knuckles, shadows falling across the seatbacks. “We follow Oryong’s orders. You’re our boss only when you return.”

The line fractured, some shifting closer to the walls, others hesitating mid-step.

Seojin’s voice rose, pointing toward the gangsters. “Hey! You do not defy your boss!”

The metal‑bat man sighed, facepalming quietly beside them.

A laugh, thin and sharp, cut through the moment. “Do you think we’re naive enough to believe what you’re saying and then just let you escape so easily?”

“Men,” another shouted, voice tight with rage, “eliminate him!”

They surged forward.

…

The first crowbar swung wide toward Seojin.

Their eyes tracked the arc for a brief moment.

Then, a quick glance to the side. The metal-bat man was already swinging, bat cutting through the air toward the same target.

Seojin took a step back, lifting their foot forward, wrapping their heel around the lead gangster's knee.

CRACK!

The metal-bat man’s strike came from the side, catching the attacker in the jaw. The body dropped in place, folding instead of flying to the side, the crowbar slid out of his grip.

The next man stumbled over him, the crowbar sliding just past his chest as Seojin caught it mid-air.

WHAM!

The crowbar slammed across the gangster’s face, a sharp crack echoing through the aisle. Blood sprayed the seats, and the man folded sideways, collapsing over the armrest.

The rest were already closing in, filling the narrow passage, weapons raised. Seojin turned, the crowbar spinning once in his grip before he hurled it down the line.

WHOOOSH! It cut through the air in a clean arc.

One man saw it coming and ducked, too late to warn the one behind him.

CLANG! The steel bar struck the second man in the temple, dropping him instantly and shoving the pack behind off balance.

Before they could recover, the metal-bat man lunged through the opening. His swing came down in a blur, the bat hammering into the lead ducking gangster’s head.

CRACK! The impact echoed like a gunshot, sending him sprawling across the floor.

Then– a crowbar spun through the air, right toward the metal-bat man’s face.

It came from the right. The metal-bat man lifted his weapon instinctively.

The two metals clashed mid-flight with a metallic CLANG. Sparks flew as the crowbar scraped against the bat, its path veering off course.

Seojin was in the middle of bending to grab the pipe from the unconscious gangster on the floor– Until the wind from the crowbar brushed their hood with a quick, loud WHOOSH, drawing back their hood as their short ponytail swayed from the wind.

CRACK!

Then screams were heard.

Seojin turned slightly, just enough to see the crowbar buried deep in the next compartment’s glass door, the surface splintered like a spider’s web. Passengers on the other side stumbled back, hands over their mouths, eyes wide with terror.

Seojin rose slowly, pipe in hand, turning back to the fight.

The metal-bat man was still fighting, bat spinning like an iron windmill. Gangsters fell back, bodies crashing into seats and walls… And one of them stood out from the crowd, locking eyes with Seojin through the metal-bat man and the gangsters, a lean man in a torn jacket.

He sprinted down the aisle, leaping off the seats. His foot crashed against the side of the metal-bat man’s ribs, driving him sideways. Then, in a flash, the gangster planted a boot against the wall, pushing off into a smooth arc that carried him behind the bat-man.

–landing between Seojin and the chaos.

The train shuddered as it tore down the tracks, fluorescent lights flickering.

The gangster’s breath steamed through the air; his eyes locked onto Seojin’s.

He grinned, teeth blood-streaked, and clenched his fists.

Seojin narrowed their eyes beneath the mask.

…

When Seojin was eight, their father sat them at the kitchen table with a deck of old family playing cards.

He never called it training.

He called it a “game.”

“Don’t look at the face,” Oryong said, spreading the cards out like tiny masked people.

“Look at the hands. The hands always move first.”

He made Seojin point out where each card’s “weakness” was: elbows, wrists, knees, imaginary joints Oryong told them to circle with their finger.

And every time Seojin guessed wrong, Oryong didn’t scold, he just stared, calmly, disappointed in a way that hurt much worse.

“Attack is noise,” he said, tapping the back of Seojin’s hand.

“Control is quiet.”

Seojin nodded back then, because at eight years old they thought they were just playing cards with their father.

…

For a moment, time seemed to slow down.

The shriek of metal, the rattle of wheels, the rhythm of metal against bone, every sound started to distort. The compartment behind them blurred, screams started to echo. Each vibration carried through Seojin’s chest, a pulse of pressure that thudded in time with their heartbeat.

All of the acrobatic gangster’s movements were centered in Seojin’s concentration: Him lifting his shoulder, cracking his fingers, taking a step forward.

Seojin’s gaze locked onto his, then all of the world blurred, except for the gangster.

A jagged tremor ripped through their vision, like something inside their head had finally cracked.