The compartment had become a battlefield.
Bodies lined the aisle, unconscious, groaning, or too injured to move.
Seats were torn, glass scattered across the floor like frozen rain. The cold wind from the broken window screamed through the hole, whipping the curtains and cutting across the blood-slick metal.
The train thundered onward, its motion uneven, the lights above flickering in pulses, on, off, red, white.
At the far end, Kangwoo, the metal-bat man lay slumped against the wall, one arm hanging limp. The space around him was a wreckage, shattered bottles, twisted pipes, men crawling away from him. His head tilted just enough to see the aisle ahead.
And there, Seojin, laying helplessly on the ground, their mask cracked, the three men standing over them.
His gaze lowered to his empty hand, the bat was gone.
A breath hissed between his teeth. He tried to push himself up, but pain shot through his ribs. His shoulder trembled, refusing to hold weight.
"Damn it…"
The leader, the one holding his bat now, tapped it idly against the floor, each metallic thud sinking into the hum of the train. The sound was slow, deliberate, measured like a countdown.
THUNK.
THUNK.
THUNK.
He dragged the bat along the floor, letting the metal sing against the rails.
Around him, the other gangsters had begun to stir. Those still conscious crawled to their knees, wiping blood from their faces, watching in silence.
The man with the bat looked down at Seojin, the mask's crack running down the cheek, one lens half-shattered. He tilted his head, studying them.
The jacket gangster chuckled, wiping blood from his lip.
"Hey…" he said, nodding toward Seojin. "You ever seen what he looks like under that mask? He's never taken it off once."
The mohawk gangster snorted. "Bet he looks like a damn chick."
"Fucker's got a feminine ass voice too," the leader sneered, tilting his head mockingly. "That might be true."
Their laughter rose, sharp and cold, echoing through the wrecked compartment.
The leader crouched slowly, the bat resting against his shoulder. His eyes lingered on the cracks spreading across Seojin's mask.
"Well then," he said, his grin thin and cruel, "let's see what our 'boss' was supposed to look like."
The leader's grin lingered as he stood up.
"After this." The metal-bat got off his shoulder as he swung it hard straight toward the immobile Seojin's face.
Seojin was static.
The compartment started to fall silent, only the sound of the wind splitting apart from the bat's momentum.
The metal-bat hovered closer and closer to Seojin.
And then… everything went white.
…
The world dissolved.
Everything was black.
No train, no walls, no bodies laying around. There was only an empty black void that felt like suffocating.
And within that void, only one single thing moved, a hand.
The metal bat, swinging down.
It was slow, cutting through the dark like an angel's message that marks the end of this legacy.
Each inch it moved closer, light began to bloom, thin white veins spreading from nowhere, swallowing the dark.
Seojin's breath shivered as their lashes lowered.
The bat was only getting closer and closer, so close it blurred in the brightness.
Seojin closed their eyes.
…
"…Get up."
The voice cut through the light, blurred and distant.
Seojin's fingers twitched.
The whiteness dissolved into static, bleeding into shades of gray.
…
They were sitting on a cracked road, surrounded by ruins. Shattered windows, burnt cars, collapsed walls, the remains of a world that once lived.
Bodies surrounded them, sprawled across the cracked floor. Then came the familiar smell: iron, smoke, dust.
Ahead of Seojin stood five figures.
Their faces were shrouded in shadow, leaving only their outlines against the dim light.
To the left: a man with a metal bat resting on his shoulder, the faint gleam catching what little light remained. Behind him was a woman in casual clothes, jeans and a windbreaker, bending slightly to look at Seojin with quiet concern.
To the right: a tall man in a leather jacket and jeans, a silver watch glinting on his wrist. He towered over the rest, a wall of calm strength. Behind him was a figure of uncertain shape, neither clearly male nor female, gazing off into the distance.
And in the center stood a man in a coat and baggy black pants, with a relaxed, casual posture.
He took a step forward.
Seojin didn't look up. Their head hung low, eyes fixed on the ground, voice faint.
"Taeyang… just leave me alone."
Taeyang lowered himself to one knee, coat brushing the floor.
"You turned against Oryong to side with us," he said quietly. "...May we know what's the reason behind it?"
Seojin didn't speak a word.
"You know…" Taeyang continued, voice calm but steady, "I used to be just like you. My life revolved around following orders, doing whatever Oryong wanted. I thought that was all that mattered, and it doesn't matter whether or not I gave up everything."
He looked at his hand briefly, flexing it before curling it into a fist.
"But… when I get to feel what it's like to be normal, to laugh, to fail, to breathe without permission. I realized how pointless that life had been."
He rose slowly to his feet.
"But it's never too late to start over. To change, to become someone you truly want to be."
Taeyang paused, "You want to change too, don't you?" his voice softened. "What's your name?"
Seojin's mouth parted for a moment, hesitating before finally speaking. "…Yeon–"
"No." Taeyang's tone was firm but gentle. "Your name is Kwon Yujin."
Finally, Seojin looked up.
The light shifted, revealing only the lower half of Taeyang's face, his mouth curved into a faint, genuine smile.
"That's the name Mom wanted to give you," he said quietly.
The words struck like thunder, small, simple, but shattering.
Taeyang extended a hand.
"So… who are you?" His smile widened slightly. "Yeon Seojin, or Kwon Yujin?"
Seojin stared at his hand… Then, slowly, they reached for it.
Taeyang's fingers closed firmly around theirs. "Yujin," he said, voice steady. "Start over, and never give up."
The warmth of that grip lingered, then shattered like glass.
…
Seojin's eyes snapped open.
The sound of the train returned first: a low, droning hum beneath the floor, steady and alive.
Light flickered through the cracks of Seojin's mask, pulsing with each beat of their heart.
And then they saw it. The bat, descending again, cutting through the air like a guillotine.
Time stretched as the edge of the bat's shadow split across the air, reflected in the fractured lens of the mask.
Seojin's eyes, visible through the cracks, gleamed with something new. It wasn't fear, wasn't anger, but clarity.
Their fingers twitched.
The world seemed to move slower and slower…
the sway of the lights,
the shiver of the metal walls,
the faint breath from the gangster's open mouth.
The bat fell closer.
Then, Seojin's hand rose.
…
ZAP!
The flash was blinding.
A crackle of blue light split the air: two darts snapped against the leader's chest, wires trailing like veins of lightning.
His body convulsed instantly, the swing froze mid-arc.
The metal bat clanged harmlessly to the floor as his legs buckled, muscles seizing under the shock.
He dropped to his knees, eyes wide, teeth grinding against the current before his whole body jolted.
THUD! then fell still.
Smoke rose faintly from the contact points.
For a moment, no one moved.
The gangsters stood frozen, Seojin's hand was still half-raised, the flicker of light dancing over the cracked mask.
Then… one by one, heads turned, past the wrecked seats, the bodies, the broken glass, to the source of the light.
At the far end of the compartment stood the train attendant.
His arm shook from the recoil of the taser, but he didn't lower it. The faint hum of the weapon still buzzed through the silence.
His eyes were wide, not with bravery, but fear. Yet he stayed where he was.
"L–let them go." His voice cracked halfway through, but it still carried.
No one responded. The only sound was the low drone of the train and the occasional flicker of the dying lights.
The gangsters looked at him, none of them moved, but the tension thickened, crawling through the air like static.
Seojin's gaze drifted past the attendant.
Behind him, through the shattered glass door that separated the compartments, the next car was visible. The crowbar was still wedged deep into the doorframe, glass spider-webbed around the impact point. The door hung open slightly, trembling with the rhythm of the tracks.
Beyond it, the passengers huddled together, faces pale, eyes wide. No one dared to move. Some clutched their mouths; others held their phones but couldn't bring themselves to raise them. The entire compartment had gone still, trapped between fear and disbelief.
The mohawk gangster took a step forward, boots crunching on broken glass.
The jacket gangster followed, shoulders squared, face twisted in anger.
Their shadows crept up the walls, long and distorted in the flickering light.
The attendant's grip tightened on the taser, but his hands trembled violently.
"Stand back! O-or I'll shoot!"
The two spread out, circling, eyes dark with menace, a silent reminder that he was alone.
The mohawk gangster tilted his head, voice dripping with disdain.
"You got guts, huh?"
He spread his arms wide. "I'd like to see you try."
The attendant froze, chest heaving, eyes darting.
His hands shook violently, the taser trembling in his grip.
"C–come on…" he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gather courage, heart hammering in his chest.
Then, desperately and helplessly, he pulled the trigger.
ZAP! The probes shot forward, wires trailing like fragile lightning across the aisle toward the mohawk gangster.
…
But the mohawk gangster smirked. With a quick step to the side, he caught the thin wires midair, letting them slip harmlessly through his fingers. The taser's energy fizzled uselessly into the floor.
"Oh…" he laughed, voice sharp and mocking. "You've done it."
He dropped the wires to the ground with a casual flick and brought his boot down, stomping on the probe. Sparks flew, a faint smoke curling upward as the device cracked and snapped under the force.
The attendant's face went pale, his body frozen, disbelief etched into every line.
The gangster's laughter echoed through the compartment, low and cruel, as he straightened up, looking the attendant over like a predator sizing up prey.
The attendant's hands shook violently as he stumbled back, eyes darting frantically between the approaching gangsters.
"Sh–shit…" he muttered, voice cracking. He fumbled toward his jacket pocket, desperate, fingers scrabbling.
He froze. There weren't any cartridges, spare taser darts, there was nothing.
His chest tightened, lungs burning. He swallowed hard, panic clawing up his throat.
The gangsters advanced slowly, their shadows stretching across the wrecked compartment, boots scraping over broken glass, eyes glinting with amusement.
The attendant's fingers hovered uselessly over empty fabric, mind racing.
"I'm done for…"