The Mapo alley was dark, the kind of dark that swallowed sound and made every rustle feel like a blade. I crouched behind a dumpster, the stink of rotting kimchi burning my nose, waiting for Bulldog to signal. The text from earlier—Nice trick with the kids, Dragon. Won't help you tonight—had my nerves on edge. Someone was coming for me, and they weren't sending middle school bullies this time. I was a 13-year-old math nerd now, not the White Dragon who'd ruled Seoul's underworld, but I still had my brain. And my brain said this smelled like a setup.
Bulldog, bless his thick skull, was supposed to be watching the alley's entrance. I'd told him to blend in, but when I peeked out, there he was, "hiding" behind a lamppost like a cartoon goon. His black jacket strained against his shoulders, and—God help me—he'd added a scarf. In August. I hissed into the cheap earpiece I'd scavenged from a pawn shop. "Ki-bum, you look like a K-pop reject. Move back."
His voice crackled back, too loud. "Boss, I'm stealthy! Nobody's gonna—"
A shadow moved at the alley's mouth, cutting him off. Two figures, lean and mean, with the kind of walk that screamed hired muscle. One had a bat, the other a glint of metal—a knife, maybe. My stomach twisted, not from fear but from the sheer inconvenience. I could've taken these punks at thirty, but at thirteen? My arms were twigs, and my only weapon was a half-eaten kimbap I'd swiped from Sun-hee's lunch.
"Ki-bum, now!" I whispered, hoping his brute force would make up for my current… limitations.
Bulldog charged like a runaway truck, tackling the first guy before he could swing. The bat clattered to the ground, and the second thug froze, clearly not expecting a human tank in a scarf. I darted out, grabbing the bat and swinging it at the second guy's knees. He yelped, collapsing, but not before his knife grazed my arm. Pain flared, hot and sharp, but I bit it down. I'd survived worse on Incheon's docks.
"Boss, you okay?" Bulldog panted, pinning his guy in a headlock. The thug wheezed, face turning purple.
"Peachy," I snapped, tying the second guy's wrists with a zip tie from my backpack. Old habits die hard. I crouched, yanking his hood back. Just a lowlife, mid-twenties, with a snake tattoo curling up his neck. "Who sent you? Jin-woo? Talk, or my friend here turns you into bibimbap."
Bulldog grinned, flexing. The thug sputtered, "N-no names! Just a job. Some guy in Mapo, said to take out a kid poking around. Paid cash!"
Mapo. The "new player" Bulldog mentioned. Not Jin-woo, then—or not directly. I leaned closer, voice low. "Next time, pick a better job. Tell your boss the White Dragon says hi." I nodded to Bulldog, who knocked the guy out with a tap that looked like it could've cracked concrete.
We ditched the thugs in a dumpster—poetic, really—and slipped back to Mapo Station. My arm stung, but I'd bandage it later. Sun-hee would kill me if I came home bleeding. "Ki-bum," I said, tossing him the bat, "find out who's hiring in Mapo. And lose the scarf."
He saluted, still grinning. "You got it, Boss. Man, it's like old times!"
Old times. Right. Except back then, I had an empire, not a curfew.
Morning hit like a hangover. Sun-hee was already up, packing her hospital bag with the precision of a general. "Oppa, you look like you slept in a trash can," she said, tossing me a clean shirt. "Hurry up, or Eomma'll make us both clean the fish stall."
I groaned, pulling on the shirt to hide the bandage on my arm. Last night's ambush was a warning, but it gave me a lead: someone in Mapo was scared enough to send goons after a kid. That meant I was getting close, even if I didn't know to what. For now, I had to play Lee Do-hyun, math prodigy, and drag my ass to school.
Hong Middle School was buzzing with festival prep, posters plastered everywhere like a K-pop invasion. Kim Hae-rin, class president and professional pain in my neck, cornered me in homeroom. "Do-hyun, festival committee. Today. No excuses." She shoved a clipboard at me, her eyes narrowing at my rumpled look. "What's with you? You're acting… off."
"Late-night gaming," I lied, flashing a grin. "You should try it, might loosen you up."
She snorted, but I caught that glint in her eye again—half-curious, half-suspicious. Hae-rin was a puzzle. Her family's wealth screamed shady, and her watching me with Bulldog last night wasn't a coincidence. I needed to know more, but poking around her could backfire. For now, I'd play along.
The festival meeting was a circus. Kids argued over booth themes—haunted house, kimbap stand, some godawful talent show—while I crunched numbers for the budget.
Turns out, my old logistics skills worked just as well for school events. I cut costs on decorations by redirecting funds to food stalls, earning cheers from the class. Hae-rin raised an eyebrow. "Not bad, Lee Do-hyun. Didn't know you had it in you."
"Don't get used to it," I muttered, but inside, I was grinning. A school festival was the perfect cover. I could slip an old contact into the crowd, maybe even move some cash through the event. The White Dragon wasn't dead—he was just selling tteokbokki.
After school, I took Sun-hee to her hospital appointment. The Mapo clinic smelled of antiseptic and bad coffee, and Sun-hee clutched my hand as the doctor rattled off test results. Her condition was stable, but "stable" wasn't "cured." Every word about her meds and follow-ups felt like a knife. In my old life, I'd have bought this hospital to get her the best care. Now, I was scraping by, hiding millions I couldn't touch without tipping off Jin-woo.
"You're quiet," Sun-hee said as we left, her voice small. "Worried about me?"
"Nah," I lied, ruffling her hair. "Just thinking about how you'd eat all the festival snacks."
She laughed, but her cough cut it short. My chest tightened. Whoever was behind those texts, if they touched her, I'd burn Mapo to the ground.
My phone buzzed as we reached home. Another text, same number: Good dodge last night, Dragon. Next time, we won't miss. I stared at it, my smirk cold. They thought they were hunting me. They had no idea I was already planning their funeral.