The night his parents died never truly ended. It simply stretched into years.
Han Dae-Sung was only seven then. The blood on the floor had dried long before the sirens stopped. The smell never left him.
When he woke up the next morning in a cold hospital room, the world already felt empty. No relatives came. No neighbors asked questions. The police officers filled out forms, signed papers, and handed him a folded blanket and a plastic bag of his parents' things.
A necklace.A broken wristwatch.A photo with three smiling faces.
That was all.
Seoul didn't care about forgotten children. The city was too busy surviving.
At first, he lived in a government-run shelter, sharing a narrow bunk with four other kids. But nights were hell. He couldn't sleep—the sound of rain hitting the window reminded him of the gunfire.
When he turned nine, he ran away. He wandered through the alleys of Guro-dong, sleeping behind convenience stores, washing dishes for leftover rice. The old women at the noodle shop pitied him, but pity couldn't fill the hole in his chest.
He learned quickly—how to steal without getting caught, how to run faster than the police, and how to lie without blinking.
But even as he drifted through the streets, the vow he made that night stayed sharp inside him:"I'll kill every single one of them. Every man who destroyed my family."
When he was ten, Dae-Sung found a small underground gym in the corner of an abandoned subway station. The man who ran it—Mr. Kang, an ex-gangster with a scar running from his ear to his jaw—saw the boy stealing protein bars from his shelf.
Instead of yelling, Kang tossed him a towel."Since you're already here, clean the floor."
From that day, Dae-Sung stayed.
He washed floors, carried water, fixed punching bags. And every night, when everyone left, he trained.
Kang noticed."You've got a stare like someone who's already seen hell," he said one night.Dae-Sung said nothing.
Under Kang's guidance, he learned boxing, judo, knife defense, and how to use improvised weapons. Kang taught him more than fighting—he taught him survival."Pain is your teacher," Kang said. "Control it, or it'll control you."
By thirteen, Dae-Sung was beating grown men in sparring. But he never smiled.
Around the same time, Dae-Sung began digging into his parents' case. The file had been marked closed—no suspects, no motive.
But he found things. Old newspaper clippings, records, and fragments of police reports mentioning a gang—The Crimson Fang, once arrested for illegal weapon trade, mysteriously released after a "government deal."
He realized something horrifying—the people who killed his parents weren't just gangsters. They were connected to higher powers—politicians, maybe even foreign syndicates.
He started keeping notes in a secret black notebook. Names. Faces. Locations. Every rumor that whispered about "The Crimson Network."
By the time Han Dae-Sung turned fifteen, he was no longer that scared little boy. He was calm, sharp, and calculating—a student on paper, a shadow off record.
He lived in a small rooftop apartment near Gangdong District, attending Han High School on a scholarship. Teachers called him brilliant. Students called him weird.
No one knew he spent nights in the old gym, training till his knuckles split. No one knew about the black notebook hidden under his floorboards.
He didn't care. Every scar, every drop of blood, was one step closer to the truth.
The city buzzed with its usual rhythm—cars honking, students laughing, neon signs fading under sunlight.
Dae-Sung walked down the cracked pavement, his uniform neat, his expression blank. In his earphones, there was no music—just silence.
A family passed by—a mother holding her son's hand. He looked away quickly.
The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted from a street stall. He stopped, bought one, and stood there quietly, staring at the steam rising from the paper bag.
Sometimes he wondered—if that night hadn't happened, would he have been one of those normal boys? But then the image of his parents' blood flashed again, and the question died.
"Morning, Dae-Sung!"
The voice snapped him back. It was Min-Jae, his only friend—a cheerful guy who never stopped talking."You look like death again, man. Studying or not sleeping?""Both," Dae-Sung replied.
They entered class. Students chatted, took selfies, and complained about math tests. Dae-Sung sat near the window, staring outside, tracing the raindrops on the glass with his finger.
When the bell rang, their homeroom teacher entered with someone new."Class, we have a transfer student today. Please welcome Yoon Ha-Rin."
She stepped in.
Long black hair tied loosely, calm posture, eyes that carried something cold and intelligent. Even before she spoke, the class fell silent.
Ha-Rin bowed politely."Nice to meet you."
Her gaze moved across the room—until it stopped on Dae-Sung. For a second, it felt like time paused.
Her eyes weren't curious; they were analyzing. As if she could see through his mask.
He looked away first.
Min-Jae leaned closer, whispering,"Dude… she's pretty. But also scary. Did you see how she looked at you?"Dae-Sung didn't respond. He just flipped a page in his notebook, hiding the corner that read "Crimson Fang – known associates."
But as the day went on, he noticed her again—the way she moved, the way she scanned every corner before sitting down. Her precision was military. And her gaze, sometimes, lingered on the scars near his wrist—the ones he forgot to hide.
The rain started in the evening. Seoul's streets shimmered under the orange glow of streetlights.
Dae-Sung was walking home when he heard voices behind him."Hey, quiet boy."A group of seniors stood there—uniforms messy, cigarettes glowing under umbrellas.
He kept walking."Don't ignore us!" one yelled, grabbing his shoulder.
Dae-Sung's body moved on instinct. He twisted the guy's arm, used his elbow to break free, and kicked his knee sideways.
Another swung a metal rod—Dae-Sung ducked, grabbed the weapon, and hit his stomach with the blunt side.
Rain poured harder, washing the blood from his knuckles.
Two more came from behind—one with a knife. He spun, kicked one in the chest, grabbed the knife hand, and twisted till it dropped.
They tried again—louder this time, desperate. He moved like he'd done this all his life—quiet, focused, unstoppable.
In less than a minute, five were down.
He stood in the rain, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling. The rod clattered to the ground.
From across the street, someone was watching—holding a black umbrella. Yoon Ha-Rin.
Her face unreadable, her eyes deep—like she had seen this before.
Lightning flashed. For a moment, her expression softened—almost admiration, almost warning. Then she turned and walked away.
Back home, Dae-Sung cleaned his wounds with alcohol, hissing softly. He opened his black notebook and wrote new words in careful strokes:
"Crimson Fang – sightings in Incheon port.""Government silence = cover-up.""Names to confirm: Director Oh, Assemblyman Jang."
He closed the book and looked out the window. Rain again. Always rain.
He thought about Ha-Rin's gaze. It wasn't normal curiosity—it was recognition. And that scared him.
He'd built his life on secrets. If she saw through them, everything could collapse.
Across the street, a black car sat under a flickering lamp. Inside, a man in a suit watched through tinted glass. His voice was low as he spoke into a phone:
"The boy matches the description. Combat trained, highly disciplined.""Are you sure it's him?" the voice on the other end asked."Yes. Han Dae-Sung. The son of the man who defied the Crimson Syndicate."
The car drove away silently, leaving ripples in the puddles.
Midnight. Dae-Sung sat on the rooftop, knees drawn up, city lights flickering below.
He took out the old photo of his parents—the one saved from that night. The edges were torn, faded by time.
He whispered, "I'm still here. I'm still fighting."
The rain fell harder, like the sky itself was crying for him.
And somewhere deep inside the city, the first pieces of the old Crimson network began to move again—because the son of their enemy was alive.
And he was coming for them.