[South Busan – Drift Arena Rooftop, 4:44 AM]
The sea was dark.
Gilwoo stood above it, the rooftop wind tugging gently at his coat. Below him, the lights of the Drift pit flickered—some still red, some blown out from the chaos. The ring was quiet now. Cold.
He wasn't looking at it.
He was looking at the sky.
A cigarette burned low between his fingers, untouched. The smoke curled sideways in the early morning breeze.
Behind him, one of the lieutenants spoke.
"We should move. Streets already heard. And our name... it's not—"
Gilwoo didn't turn.
"Let it rot for a few more hours."
The lieutenant fell quiet.
"Let them think they survived something."
Another beat.
"Dogs bite hardest when they think they've tasted fire and lived. But inside…""They don't notice their legs are still burning."
He turned, finally.
His face was unreadable.
"Tell the pit fighters to rest. Tell the lieutenants to wait. No retaliation. Not yet."
"Sir?"
Gilwoo smiled faintly.
"Let Eli wear his crown. Let him think it fits."
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[Gupo Backroom, Eli Alone]
Eli sat in silence, surrounded by the scent of old alcohol, blood-soaked gauze, and rusted fan blades spinning overhead. A bowl of water steamed beside him. His coat hung near the door, drying.
He wasn't cleaning the wounds so much as examining them.
Each cut had weight. A name behind it. A movement learned.
He dabbed the side of his ribs, wincing slightly. His breath hitched. Not from pain.
From recognition.
The blade had traced a line across an old scar — one he hadn't thought about in months.
His eyes narrowed.
"Namgang Blade…"
He said it aloud like it was a line from an old script he hadn't finished.
The name didn't make him angry.
Just alert.
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.
"I didn't bury them. I just left them in pieces."
He closed his eyes.
"I should've made sure they stayed broken."
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[Yeji Text Exchange]
Yeji [6:08 AM]: Gupo crews are shifting. Drift lieutenants are silent. Something's off.
Eli [6:11 AM]: Let it ferment. Don't stir yet.
Yeji [6:13 AM]: Golden Syndicate's moving early.
Eli [6:14 AM]: Then let them watch.
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[Samuel's POV]
Somewhere deeper in South Busan, lights buzzed in a black-glass apartment. Samuel sat at his desk, tablet open, fingers still.
The replay showed Eli in the Drift pit.
He paused on Gihun's final moments.
The camera feed glitched briefly—but not enough to hide the face.
Recognizable.
Samuel pulled a folder out of the drawer. Thin. Labeled: Namgang Blade – Obsolete Threats,
Tier C.
He skimmed the notes: street consolidation attempt. Boss-tier enforcer. Crushed after a long battle. Suspected fatalities.
The final entry was dated before Eli even stepped into Dogsung.
Samuel's voice was flat:
"They're still standing."
He stared at the last name on the page. Hyosang — no photo. No confirmation of death.
He tapped the corner of the file.
Then deleted it.
Not because it wasn't important.
But because some names aren't meant to be archived.
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[Drift Compound – Whisper Network]
Inside the inner corridors of Drift's hideout, silence lingered like mold. A group of fighters sat against the walls, some still bandaged. One was pressing ice to his jaw.
"I heard Gilwoo's letting him walk."
"Bullshit."
"I'm telling you. He gave the order. No contact."
Another one—older, bitter—leaned in.
"Then maybe we're not Drift anymore."
The room went silent.
But the seed was planted.
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[Near South Busan- 8:00 am]
A bus pulled into South Busan's edge. The streets were mostly empty. Neon lights flickered on half-shuttered shops.
A man stepped off.
No bag.
Leather jacket.
Scar across the side of his neck, barely visible beneath the collar.
He didn't speak. Didn't ask directions.
He just walked. Slowly.
In his memory, Gihun's voice played like an echo:
"He'll come. Not for pride. For balance."
The man adjusted his gloves.
And smiled once.
Not for joy.
For purpose.