The alarm rings at 5:47 AM sharp.
Jin-Woo's eyes snap open, the familiar orange-gold irises adjusting to the dim light of his room. He reaches to silence it, already mentally preparing for the day ahead.
Then he remembers.
"Shit," he mutters, staring at the ceiling. "No job to go to today."
Jin-woo swung his legs over the side of his thin sleeping mat, wincing as his ribs protested. The bandaged cut on his hand had finally stopped bleeding, but the wound beneath felt hot and tight. Infection setting in, probably. Something else he couldn't afford.
He pushed himself up, ignoring the pain. No job meant no reason to wake at 5:47, but his body didn't know that. Eighteen years of survival meant routine was safety. Routine was control.
Check the door. Hair still in place. Check the street below. Early workers moving through morning darkness. No threats.
The apartment felt smaller in daylight. Twelve square meters of broken concrete and peeling wallpaper that somehow felt like confinement now that he had nowhere to go.
One hundred push-ups. Every morning. No exceptions.
Jin-woo dropped to the floor, jaw clenched against the pain in his hand. He managed twenty before the wound reopened. Blood seeped through the dirty bandage.
"Damn it."
He switched to sit-ups. His body needed the rhythm, the discipline. Something to hold onto when everything else was uncertain.
Jin-woo counted his money for the third time since waking. Still ₩55,900. No amount of recounting would make it more. The bills felt thin between his fingers, insubstantial as paper dreams.
Three weeks, maybe. Then nothing.
A knock at the door froze him mid-motion. He grabbed the metal pipe, approaching silently. Nobody visited him. Nobody knew he was here except,
"Jin-woo-ya! Are you awake?" Mrs. Park's familiar voice called through the thin door. "I made too much rice porridge this morning."
He hesitated, pride warring with hunger. The pipe lowered slowly to his side.
"Jin-woo-ya?" she called again.
He unbolted the three locks, opening the door just enough to see her weathered face, the deep lines marking decades of hard work. She held a steaming container, the smell hitting him like a physical force. His stomach tightened.
"You didn't need to," he said, voice rough from disuse.
Mrs. Park clicked her tongue. "Nonsense. It will spoil otherwise." She pushed the container toward him. "My husband can't eat this much."
They both knew she'd made it specially. That her husband had been dead for three years.
"Take it," she said, more gently. "Everyone needs help sometimes."
Jin-woo's hand closed around the warm container, something tight loosening in his chest.
"Thank you," he said, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.
Jin-woo sat cross-legged by the window, forcing himself to eat slowly. The rice porridge was simple but delicious, warm, salty, with bits of kimchi and tiny flecks of meat that Mrs. Park couldn't afford to waste on him. Each spoonful felt like undeserved kindness.
He'd left half for later when voices filtered up from the street. The deep rumble of men talking, then Mrs. Park's voice rising in response. Something in her tone made Jin-woo freeze mid-bite.
Fear. Unmistakable fear.
He set the container down and moved to the window in one fluid motion. Four floors below, Mrs. Park stood with her arms crossed, blocking the entrance to the building. Five men surrounded her, their postures aggressive even from this distance.
In the center stood a man with a pronounced limp, leaning on a makeshift crutch.
Jin-woo's stomach dropped. The leader from yesterday's fight. The one whose knee he'd shattered with his pipe.
"I told you, no one lives here," Mrs. Park was saying, her voice wavering. "Building condemned. You see the signs? You police? You have warrant?"
The leader laughed, the sound drifting up like poison. "We don't need warrants, grandmother. We just need him. The one with the freaky eyes."
Jin-woo's hand tightened on the windowsill. How had they found him? He'd been careful, always careful.
"No one here," Mrs. Park insisted, but her voice trembled.
The leader moved faster than Jin-woo expected from a man with a broken knee. His hand shot out, grabbing Mrs. Park's thin wrist. She gasped in pain.
"Listen, old woman. I know he's here. The Wolf. The one with the gold eyes. He broke my fucking knee yesterday, and I'm going to break every bone in his body. So either you tell me which floor, or we start checking them all, after we teach you some respect."
Jin-woo was already moving. He grabbed the metal pipe, shoved his feet into his boots without lacing them. No time for a shirt. No time to think.
Mrs. Park had fed him when he was starving. Had slipped him medicine when he was sick. Had never asked questions, never wanted anything in return. The only person in eighteen years who'd shown him kindness without ulterior motives.
Jin-woo took the stairs three at a time, pipe held tight in his bandaged hand. Blood seeped through the wrapping, but he didn't feel it. Four flights in seconds, his breath controlled, his mind clear with familiar battle calm.
At the ground floor, he paused in the shadowed hallway, assessing. Five men. One injured but dangerous. Two with visible knives. Mrs. Park still in the leader's grip, her face twisted in pain.
No time for subtlety. No room for error.
Jin-woo stepped into the sunlight.
"Let her go."
His voice cut through the morning air. Five heads turned toward him at once. Mrs. Park's eyes widened in horror.
"Jin-woo, no! Run!" she cried.
The leader's face split into a vicious grin. "There you are, freak. Been looking for you." He shoved Mrs. Park roughly aside. She stumbled but caught herself against the wall.
Jin-woo's eyes, those distinctive orange-gold eyes, narrowed. "You found me."
"You broke my knee." The leader gestured to his makeshift crutch.
"You'll survive." Jin-woo positioned himself between the men and Mrs. Park. "Unlike what happens if you touch her again."
The four standing men spread out instinctively, trying to circle him. Street fighters, experienced. This wouldn't be like yesterday's fight. These men were prepared, and they wanted blood.
Jin-woo felt Mrs. Park's presence behind him, her frightened breathing. He couldn't fight all five here, not without her getting hurt.
"Mrs. Park," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the men. "Go inside."
"But… Jin-woo!"
"Now."
The men tensed, ready to move if she tried to escape. Jin-woo raised the pipe slightly, drawing their attention.
"You want me?" Jin-woo took a deliberate step to the right, away from the building entrance. "Here I am. But she has nothing to do with this."
"She helped you," the leader snarled. "That's enough."
"I'll go with you," Jin-woo said. "No fight. Just let her go inside first."
The leader's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You expect me to believe you'll come quietly?"
Jin-woo held his gaze. "My word."
Something in his voice, the absolute certainty, the unwavering honor, made the leader hesitate.
"Fine. The old woman goes. But any tricks, and we'll come back for her after we're done with you."
Jin-woo nodded once. "Mrs. Park. Inside. Now."
"Jin-woo, don't…"
"Please." A word he rarely used. His eyes stayed fixed on the threats before him.
He heard her reluctant steps, the door closing. Relief washed through him, immediately replaced by cold calculation.
Five against one. Bad odds, but he'd faced worse. And now, with Mrs. Park safe, he could fight without restraint.
The leader gestured to his men. "Take him."
Jin-woo's grip tightened on the pipe. "You should have brought more men."