"He tore through fifteen of them. Not just Drift grunts—Hyeon Do was there. That guy's put people in comas."
The voice belonged to a scarred street brawler leaning against a ramen cart in East Busan. His audience? Three younger fighters with fresh cuts and too much ambition. Their noodles went untouched.
"I heard he smiled while bleeding. Broke a guy's nose and asked if it counted as a nose job."
"They say he never raised his voice. Just looked at them like... like they were in the way."
Clips of the Dockside Gym incident were already circulating. Grainy. Shaky. Half of them in portrait mode. But the image burned into everyone's mind: Eli Nam, standing in a ring of broken bodies, breathing heavy, eyes like ice.
A myth had begun.
Scar Chain Headquarters - East Busan
The underground chamber beneath the old print shop was painted in dim reds and soft shadows. Scar Chain headquarters wasn't a flashy place—just like its leader. was painted in dim reds and soft shadows. Scar Chain headquarters wasn't a flashy place—just like its leader.
Jaeyoon Seo leaned back in a beaten leather chair, fingers steepled under his chin. A projector flickered against the far wall—footage of Eli from a Drift member's confiscated phone.
Two of his lieutenants argued near the back.
"We either make him an ally or we eliminate him now. He's a variable."
"He wrecked Drift. That means he's useful. Dangerous, but not our enemy."
Jaeyoon raised a hand. Silence fell.
He studied Eli's still image on the wall—hoodie soaked, jaw clenched, one eye bruised.
"Let him walk for now," he said. "But if he circles too close to our chain, we choke him."
Someone laughed nervously.
Jaeyoon didn't.
He turned to his second-in-command.
"Track him. Quietly. If he bleeds again, I want to know who made it happen."
CTRL9 Watchpoint - North Busan
"Play it again."
The hotel suite was soundproofed, sleek, and smelled of cologne and gun oil.
A large screen played the Drift fight on loop. In front of it stood a man in a navy suit, cufflinks shaped like knives. He was flanked by two interns in sharp black uniforms. One of them adjusted his glasses.
"Subject: Eli Nam. Unknown origin. Rapid rise. Behavioral pattern indicates strategic brutality."
The man sipped his whiskey. CTRL9 didn't move unless there was data. And this kid?
"What about the other one? Ryu."
"Formerly listed as deceased in Incheon territory database. Resurfaced. Quiet. Watching."
The man smirked.
"Then we watch back."
He turned to the window and muttered, "A ghost boy and a devil king. Fun."
Rooftop - Central Busan
Rain tapped on the roof like fingers playing a slow piano.
Samuel Ryu stood at the edge, looking down at a neon-drenched intersection. His coat whipped behind him like a shadow. In his hand was a burner phone, screen glowing softly.
A name popped up: J.H.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he slid the phone back into his pocket and took out a folded slip of paper—a ledger of names, numbers, dates. Some crossed out. One underlined in red: CTRL9.
He spoke aloud, softly. "You think Busan's a war zone, Eli. But wait 'til the ghosts of Incheon knock."
He turned and walked away.
Backroom Safehouse - Near Gupo
The hideout was dark, silent, tucked behind an abandoned record store. Eli sat in front of a broken mirror, cleaning dried blood off his knuckles.
His reflection didn't flinch. Neither did he.
He exhaled.
Flash.
A memory. A small basement. A man yelling. A young Eli, ten maybe, standing over a body, bruised and silent.
Back to now.
His phone buzzed. Samuel.
S.R.: They're watching. Scar Chain wants to leash you. CTRL9 might move. You started the war. Now own it.
Eli smirked. The sarcastic-smile.
He whispered to himself: "Good. Let them watch. That means they're blinking."
Behind him, on the wall, were photos. Not of targets. But of zones.
South, East, North, West.
Busan wasn't just a battlefield.
It was a chessboard.
And now?
Eli Nam was ready to play God.
Old Café - Incheon Periphery
A small cafe. Flickering lights.
A boy ran in, breathless. Behind the counter, a gray-haired man calmly dried a cup.
"They're back," the boy whispered. "CTRL9... they asked for Ryu."
The man stopped wiping.
"Then the graves didn't stay shut."
Il-sung's Gym - West Busan
Late evening. A boxing gym long since closed for the night. Lights flickered only in the backroom.
A man sat with his back to the camera—broad shoulders, cigarette glowing. His name was Kang Il-sung, a retired legend of Busan's fight scene.
Across from him stood a kid with a fox-like face, high cheekbones, and nervous energy. Minjae Oh.
"You want to learn how to win against someone like Eli Nam?"
Minjae nodded once.
Il-sung exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing through the haze.
"Then stop playing with fists. Start playing with fear."
Late evening. A boxing gym long since closed for the night. Lights flicker on only in the backroom.
A man sits with his back to the camera—broad shoulders, cigarette glowing. His name is Kang Il-sung, a retired legend of Busan's fight scene.
Across from him? A kid with a fox-like face, high cheekbones, nervous energy. Minjae Oh.
"You want to learn how to win against someone like Eli Nam?"
Minjae nods once.
Il-sung exhales smoke.
"Then stop playing with fists. Start playing with fear."