The suit fit better than I expected.
All black. Clean lines. Heavy fabric that didn't wrinkle when I moved. Jichang had good taste—annoyingly so. The kind of suit meant for men who didn't kneel and didn't ask permission.
I looked at myself once in the reflection of the car window.
Didn't recognize the guy staring back.
"…Tch," I muttered. "You'd laugh at this, teach."
Jichang was already out of the car, waiting with his hands in his pockets. The sky above Seoul was gray and swollen, clouds hanging low like they were pressing down on the city.
Rain threatened.
Figures.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Not really," I replied, stepping out. "But let's get this over with."
He didn't comment.
That was good.
The funeral was crowded.
Too crowded.
People packed the space shoulder to shoulder—men in dark suits, women dressed neatly, expressions ranging from genuine grief to careful neutrality. Whispers rippled through the air like insects.
Gapryong Kim had been loved.
Or feared.
Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.
As we walked forward, eyes turned toward us. Some widened. Some dropped. Some followed us with quiet unease. Two First Generation Kings didn't blend into a crowd, no matter how black their suits were.
Then I saw him.
Jake.
Small.
Too small.
Standing near the front, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together by force alone. He looked older than he should have. The older you don't earn with time.
I exhaled and pushed forward.
People parted.
No one argued.
When I reached the front, Minseon Kang stood there—Gapryong's wife. Strong posture. Calm expression. Eyes tired in a way only years of standing beside a monster could make them.
I leaned down slightly and kissed her cheek.
"…He was annoying," I said quietly. "But I hope he didn't give you trouble, Miss."
She smiled faintly.
"Thank you for coming, Bouya."
I nodded.
Then I turned to Jake and ruffled his hair gently.
I murmured. "Don't rush growing up. It's overrated."
He didn't respond.
Just stared ahead.
I took my seat in front of the portrait.
Gapryong Kim stared back at me from the frame—strong, proud, eternal in a way reality refused to honor.
I poured a cup of soju.
Didn't hesitate.
Drank it in one go.
The burn hit hard.
Good.
I refilled the glass, raised it toward the portrait.
"…You owe me an explanation old man," I muttered.
Then I stood.
People watched.
I didn't bow.
Didn't speak.
Just turned and walked away.
Outside, the rain finally started.
Soft at first.
Then heavier.
I paused at the top of the steps and looked back one last time—eyes scanning the crowd. Faces. Expressions. Familiar silhouettes.
My jaw tightened.
My scowl deepened.
I didn't see them.
None of them.
Not a single former member of the Fist Gang.
"…Cowards," I muttered.
Jichang opened the car door without a word.
I got in.
The door shut, sealing out the rain.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
"Do you have any information on the Fist Gang?" I asked finally.
"No," Jichang replied with raised brows. "Nothing concrete."
I sighed, leaning my head back.
"I didn't see any of those bastards here," I said.
He didn't argue.
That told me enough.
"If you get any rumors," I continued quietly, "any information about those old bastards… You let me know."
Jichang nodded once.
The car slowed.
I opened the door before it fully stopped.
"Bouya," he said.
I paused.
"…Call if you need help."
I smirked faintly.
"Pfft, whatever you say budd."
I stepped out into the rain.
Didn't look back.
The road stretched ahead—wet, empty, waiting.
And for the first time since Gapryong Kim died, I wasn't protecting the past anymore.
I was hunting it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It didn't take long.
Men like him never disappear properly.
Former Fist Gang members who weren't strong enough to rise and weren't important enough to die always ended up in the same places—cheap streets, cheap habits, cheap lives. The kind of people history forgot because history never needed them in the first place.
I found one behind a closed arcade near the shopping district, pacing like a rat that could smell something hunting it.
He froze when he saw me.
Wide eyes.Dry mouth.Shaking hands.
Good.
"You," I said calmly.
He tried to smile.
Failed.
"I—I don't want trouble—"
"Relax," I replied, stepping closer. "I just need some directions, stop being dramatic."
That made it worse.
I stopped an arm's length away, towering over him. Blond hair plastered to my forehead from the rain, black suit spotless despite the filth around us.
"Tell me something," I said. "Where would I find one of the main captains of the Fist Gang?"
His breath hitched.
The shaking got worse.
"I—I don't—"
He turned.
Ran.
I sighed.
My foot shot out.
The kick landed square between his shoulder blades.
CRACK.
His body flew forward and slammed into the concrete wall with a sickening thud. He collapsed, coughing violently as blood splattered onto the pavement.
I walked over slowly.
Unhurried.
Looked down at him as he clutched his shoulder, gasping like he was drowning on land.
"…I'll ask again," I said evenly. "Where would I be able to find one of them?"
"T-they—" he choked. "A clinic—!"
I blinked.
"…A clinic?"
"In the shopping district," he wheezed. "A— a clinic!"
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
"…Of course it's a clinic."
I crouched down in front of him, face level with his.
"Who may I find there, buddy?" I asked, annoyance creeping into my tone.
He looked up at me, eyes glassy, gripping his stomach like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
"I don't know," he said weakly. "I swear—I just know that's where we used to go. That's where we met up with… Hyung-nim Park."
My eyes narrowed.
"Park."
Jinyoung.
I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket and held it out.
"Address," I said.
His hand trembled as he wrote it down.
I took the paper, stood up, and paused.
Then I reached into my pocket again and tossed something onto his chest.
Candy.
A lollipop.
"Eat it," I said flatly. "It didn't even hurt."
He twitched.
I turned away before he could say anything else.
The rain swallowed my footsteps as I walked toward the shopping district, paper clenched in my hand, conviction burning hotter with every step.
A clinic.
Of all places.
"…Alright, Hyung-nim Park," I muttered. "Let's talk."
The Golden Lion was done chasing ghosts.
Now he was knocking on doors.
__________________________________________________________________________________
The clinic wasn't hard to find.
That bothered me.
I stood across the street under a flickering streetlight, rain dripping from my coat, eyes locked onto the building. The sign was still there, faded but readable. The windows were dark.
Boarded.
Every entrance sealed with metal shutters, dented and scratched like something had tried to claw its way out—or in.
"…Tch," I muttered. "Figures."
This wasn't abandonment.
This was erasure.
I crossed the street slowly, boots splashing through shallow puddles. The place smelled wrong. Old disinfectant mixed with rot, like something that used to heal people, had been forced to forget how.
I planted my feet in front of the shutter.
Didn't hesitate.
My fist drove forward.
BOOM.
Metal screamed.
The shutter buckled inward as my punch tore a hole clean through it, jagged edges curling like paper. I reached in, grabbed the bent steel, and ripped it aside with a grunt.
The interior was dark.
I stepped in.
The clinic was trashed.
Not looted—destroyed.
Chairs overturned. Cabinets ripped open. Medical trays were scattered across the floor. Blood stains dried dark against white tile. Walls cracked. A reception desk was split clean down the middle like someone had been slammed through it.
"…There was a fight," I muttered.
And not a small one.
I moved deeper, scanning the room. My eyes caught everything automatically—footprints, broken glass, impact marks too high for normal people.
This wasn't a hit-and-run.
This was a purge.
I sighed.
"So you were here," I said quietly. "And someone didn't want you found."
My fingers curled slowly.
Then—
Footsteps.
Behind me.
I stopped.
Didn't turn.
Didn't breathe.
"And what," a voice said calmly, dangerously, "would someone like you be doing here?"
My brow furrowed.
That voice.
Old.Rough.Familiar in a way that made my spine tighten.
I turned.
And there he was.
Broad as a wall. Scarred. Hair wild and untamed, eyes sharp with a predator's patience. He stood in the doorway as he'd always belonged there—as the room itself knew better than to question him.
Tom Lee.
The Ultimate King.
One of the main captains of the Fist Gang.
One of the men I'd been looking for.
My fist clenched.
"You weren't at the funeral, old man," I said flatly.
His eyes narrowed.
"So?" he replied.
My jaw tightened.
"Don't tell me you turned your back on your friend."
The words scraped out of me, teeth grinding together.
For a split second—
Something ugly flashed across his face.
Then he seethed.
"You're the one breaking into my pal's clinic," Tom snapped, voice rising with fury, "and you've got the nerve to accuse me?"
The air went still.
Not silence.
Stillness.
Like the world had sucked in a breath.
Ten seconds into the future tried to open—
And failed.
My foot slid forward.
So did his.
At the exact same time.
Then—
BOOOOMMM—!!
We lunged.
Our fists collided mid-charge, each punch landing square, heavy, absolute.
CRACK.
My head snapped back.
So did his.
The shockwave rattled the walls, dust raining from the ceiling as both of us skidded back a step, shoes scraping against blood-stained tile.
I grinned. cracking my neck
"…Heh."
Tom wiped his jaw slowly, eyes burning.
"So," he growled, rolling his shoulders, "you're Gapryong's golden mutt."
I cracked my fist.
"And you're still breathing," I replied. "Guess today's a good day to fix that."
The clinic creaked around us.
Two kings.
No past.
No future.
Just fists.