Tae Hwan, the leader of the gang, sat at his desk, smoking his second cigarette in a row. His laughter echoed throughout the room.
"Hahahah! Look at this guy," he said with the cigarette in his mouth, rubbing his hands together in amusement. "He really made us sweat!"
Taek Jung, sitting nearby, looked at his boss in confusion.
"You mean Ming You? He beat us by making his own team lose, Tae Hwan. Doesn't that mean he's smarter than we thought?"
"Smarter?" Tae Hwan burst into laughter again, but this time, his voice was full of admiration. "He really surprised me! There's something special about him. I see potential in that kid. He knows how to play the game, and he's not afraid to take risks!"
"But he put us in danger. We shot him in the leg on his own orders, and if he hands that bullet over to the police, we're all done for," Taek Jung pointed out, glancing uneasily at his comrades. "Shouldn't we be more careful?"
"Careful?" Tae Hwan leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "You don't get it! This is just the beginning. Ming You thinks he's one step ahead, but I know how to reel him in. He's overconfident—that's his weakness. Plus, he's just a high school kid."
The other gangsters exchanged glances, their doubts slowly fading under Tae Hwan's unwavering confidence.
"So, what's your plan?" asked one of them, Sung Wo. "We can't just let him keep playing us like this."
"It's simple," Tae Hwan replied, his tone growing serious. "We'll set up a situation where he has no choice but to keep manipulating things—and in the process, make us money. We'll force him to come to us for help. It'll be a brilliant move!"
"But how?" Taek Jung asked, still skeptical of his boss's plan.
"We'll set up a game," Tae Hwan said, his grin widening. "But not just any game. We'll gather the best players from all over and let Ming You try to handle them. If he loses—he's ours! And if he wants to keep playing the role of the caring captain, he'll have to play by our rules."
"That's risky," Seong Ho remarked. "What if he wins?"
"If he wins," Tae Hwan raised a finger, "we'll just set another trap. Sooner or later, he'll slip up. He doesn't have our experience. He's just a kid who thinks he can control this game."
"To brilliant moves and successful schemes!" one of the gangsters cheered, raising a glass of alcohol.
"Yeah!" the others joined in, and laughter once again filled the room, creating an atmosphere of unity and confidence in their upcoming plans.
…
The next day, at 2:40 PM, Ming You—still in his school uniform—approached the streetball court. At the moment, it was empty, but a few benches were occupied by men in black leather jackets.
"First step—know your opponents. Since they gave me info on the last team, they might do it again. And even if they don't, information can always be bought, especially from people like them."
Without hesitation, Ming You walked up to one of the benches and called out to a gangster.
"Taek Jung, I've got a proposal. I know you're aware of the upcoming matches. I want info on the team we're up against."
Taek Jung raised an eyebrow and smirked.
"Interesting. And what are you offering in return?"
Ming You knew he didn't have much time, so he quickly adjusted his approach.
"Last time, you gave me the info for free."
"That's because you wanted to place a bet. But now, the stakes are higher. For 500,000 won, I'll tell you about the team. And for another 500,000, we'll dig up all their weaknesses and hand them to you."
"I could figure out the weaknesses myself, but my time's limited. So I need both the team info and their weak points," Ming You declared confidently, tossing a million won onto the bench.
"Your team doesn't know you're throwing money around like this while they're all in debt, huh? Heh." Taek Jung chuckled.
"Just tell me about the team already," Ming You pressed.
"The team itself isn't anything special, but their most dangerous player is their center—the one who controls everything. The whole team adjusts around him, making them nearly invincible on the court. If you want to win, you and your team need to focus on Hee Rak. He's their heart and brain. If you can shut him down—cut off his attacks and intercept his passes—the rest won't stand a chance."
Ming You memorized every word, knowing this intel could be the key to victory. He could already feel his plan taking shape, and his confidence grew.
"Thanks, Taek Jung," Ming You said as the conversation wrapped up. "Pleasure doing business with you."
"Likewise, Ming You," Taek Jung replied, counting the money once more.
…
Back at home, Ming You sat at his desk, tilting his head back as he analyzed the upcoming match.
"Based on their high school and college game records, this team stands out, especially in offense. Their last match—first place in last year's winter season. That's a serious problem for me… But every team has its weaknesses."
"Hee Rak," he muttered aloud, pointing at a photo on his phone—a muscular, tanned guy who was the star of the opposing team. "He's their trump card. If I neutralize him, victory is guaranteed."
Ming You continued his train of thought, lowering his phone.
"Hee Rak isn't just an exceptional player—he's the team's leader. His presence on the court inspires his teammates and intimidates opponents. Physically, he outclasses me in every way, so in-game strategies won't cut it… The only way to win is to take him out of the equation."
"Murder," he whispered, considering the idea. "That's the only way. In the game, he surpasses me in every aspect, but what about outside of it? Heh. If I can take him out, the rest will fall apart."
Ming You raised his head, gripping his phone tightly as he leaned over the table, staring at the bright screen. His fingers swiftly scrolled through Hee Rak's social media profile. The platforms revealed everything—his school, hobbies, even his latest post: a photo of him hanging from a basketball hoop.
The background of the picture caught Ming You's attention. He zoomed in, studying the reflections in the windows of nearby buildings—the outlines were familiar. The neighborhood was one he knew. Without wasting time, he switched to a maps app, input the landmarks, and quickly found the exact court. Then he checked the distance to Hee Rak's school: less than five minutes on foot.
"The tactic is quite simple. If Hee Rak comes here often, it means he lives nearby. All that was left was to wait, but having a backup plan never hurt."
Ming You opened Hee Rak's friends list, skimmed through the names, and stopped at the profile of his classmate. They could only be attending the same school, and unlike Hee Rak, this guy was in the volleyball club—a perfect option.
He clicked on the chat and wrote from a blank account that had no photos, no personal information, not even a real name—just a gray avatar and a registration date. The profile was so clean it looked like it had been created five minutes ago, but the registration date was from a year earlier.
The classmate's status glowed green: "Online." Ming You quickly typed a message, keeping his tone casual:
"Hi-hi :) Can you give me Hee Rak's number? Can't reach him, and we've got training soon."
The reply came four minutes later:
"Ok, hold on"
Two more minutes—and the number appeared on the screen. Ming You copied it, then, remembering to keep up the act, added a short:
"Tysm"
He didn't close the chat. Instead, he left it open, watching the status. Twenty minutes later, the green dot disappeared—the classmate had gone offline. No one else wrote, no unnecessary questions were asked.
Ming You went to the profile settings, found the "Delete Account" option, and confirmed. A few seconds later, the page vanished as if it had never existed.
Ming You set the phone aside, continuing his train of thought:
"Now all that's left is to catch him. A crowbar can neutralize him, and crowbars are lying around in almost every alley… The location is trickier, but there must be a secluded spot between the court and the school."
He picked up the phone again and opened the maps. His gaze slid over the digital streets, studying every turn, every alley between the court and the school. Suddenly, Ming You paused at a narrow passage—something felt off.
The buildings stood close together, but in one spot, the wall curved unnaturally, as if hiding something behind it. Ming You zoomed in, swiped across the screen, checking angles.
"Yeah, there must be a basement there—either built into the slope or artificially dug out. The location is set, now just need to think about disposing of the evidence… I've dismembered bodies before, but cleaning up takes too much time, and corpses in trash bags can still be identified. Last time, I did it out of desperation, and my actions weren't professional."
Ming You abruptly stood up from the chair and stepped into the adjacent kitchen. He reached for the lower cabinets, opening the drawers one by one. The metallic clang, the dull thud of plastic—and there, behind the kitchenware, his fingers brushed against thick rolls.
Plastic.
Ming You pulled one out, checked the thickness of the film, then placed the rolls on the kitchen table.
"Perfect. Less time cleaning up, fewer traces left behind…"
Ming You methodically rummaged through the kitchen drawers until his fingers touched cold steel—a serrated kitchen knife and a heavy meat cleaver. In the far corner, among the utensils, a sharpener glinted. He picked it up with a confident motion and ran it over each blade a few times, carefully checking the sharpness. The blades gleamed under the lamp's light as he ran his fingertip over them, assessing the edge.
Then he bent down, opened the bottommost drawer, and pulled out a roll of black trash bags. Counting out ten, he carefully unfolded one, turning it into a makeshift sheath, and placed the knife and cleaver inside. He folded the edges to prevent the blades from cutting through.
Without haste, Ming You carried the bundle to the table, then headed to the hallway. There, he took his backpack off the hook, unzipped the main compartment, and returned to the kitchen. Inside, he packed the rolls of plastic, the remaining bags, and then carefully placed the bundle with the knives, making sure everything was snug and wouldn't rattle when moving.
…
The next morning at 08:44
Ming You got out of bed, his black T-shirt and sweatpants slightly wrinkled after a short rest. Without unnecessary movement, he took them off and changed into a dark hoody and sturdy khaki pants that didn't rustle when he walked. Checking his pockets, he made sure his phone was there, then slung his backpack over his shoulder, adjusted the straps, and left the room.
In the kitchen, his gaze immediately fell on the top drawer. He opened it, and inside, among other small items, lay a transparent bag of medical masks, black duct tape, and synthetic ropes. First, he took out one mask, folded it in half, and stuffed it into his pants pocket. Then he shrugged off one of his backpack straps, unzipped the front pocket, and tucked the ropes and tape inside.
After slipping on his black sneakers, he paused in the hallway for a second, assessing whether he had everything. Then, with a sharp motion, he opened the door and stepped outside. The cold air hit his face, but he didn't slow down. Locking the door behind him, he pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and dialed the only number. The dial tone echoed in the silence as he descended the stairs.
"Hello?"
"Jung Ho, can you mark me as present at practice? I'm working on the plan right now and can't afford to get distracted by physical training."
"Okay, did you figure out the team?"
For a brief moment, Ming You flashed a sly grin, though he knew there was no point in faking emotions right now:
"Yeah, I did. I'll give you the details and the plan tomorrow at school."
"Alright, I'll mark you. You are the brains of the team, after all."
Hearing the answer, Ming You hung up.
He was already walking down the sidewalk, heading toward the target block. His pace was measured, blending in with the crowd. When he reached the basketball court, he slowed down, carefully observing the scene. Hee Rak, dressed in athletic wear, was energetically running laps, his movements precise and practiced to the point of automation. He seemed completely absorbed in his training, oblivious to everything around him.
Twenty minutes later, at 11:01, a group of four approached the court. Their gait, gray-blue basketball uniforms, and demeanor marked them as a team. One of them, a tall, lanky guy with a buzz cut, immediately called out to Hee Rak, clearly familiar with his habits:
"Hey, let me guess—you started training early again, didn't you?"
"Damn right I did," Hee Rak replied without breaking stride, sending the ball into the hoop with a precise shot.
"Don't forget we've got practice at the gym later," another teammate remarked, shrugging off his backpack.
Ming You watched from a distance, leaning against a building wall. His gaze never left Hee Rak, but he made no move to step into the light. He was waiting for the right moment—when Hee Rak would be alone.
Meanwhile, the team took turns shooting hoops. Each player demonstrated accuracy and confidence—most shots found their mark, with only a few misses. However, Hee Rak's shots stood out from the rest. He hit nearly every one, and only a single risky attempt—a long shot from mid-court—failed.
After half an hour of intense play, the team, tired but in high spirits, gathered the balls and left the outdoor court. Their chatter and laughter grew louder as they walked toward the sidewalk.
Hee Rak's team noisily moved down the street, filling the space with loud shouts and laughter. They shoved each other, waved their arms, and cracked jokes only they understood. Between the chaos, they discussed yesterday's streetball bets—who messed up, who carried the game, and who would have to make up for their losses today.
Hee Rak himself walked slightly apart, not joining in the roughhousing but smirking at their antics. Every now and then, he threw in a sharp comment, sparking new bursts of laughter, or delivered a sarcastic remark that only fueled their energy.
Meanwhile, on the adjacent sidewalk, keeping his distance, Ming You walked silently. His gaze, cold and analytical, never left Hee Rak.
At the bus stop, the group began to disperse—some loudly calling out as they headed toward the subway, others huddling by the curb to hail a cab via an app. Hee Rak, not joining either group, lazily waved off their farewell shouts and headed home, hands stuffed in his pockets.
Ming You, hidden in the shadow of the bus shelter, watched as the others gradually disappeared down the streets. Making sure no one stayed behind with Hee Rak, he began moving again, maintaining his distance. His steps were silent, his stare unrelenting.
Hee Rak, casually kicking an empty soda can, turned from the noisy street toward the familiar basketball court. Glancing at the hoops, he smirked—but walked past without stopping. He pushed open the entrance door and vanished into the dimly lit stairwell.
Ming You slowed his pace and stopped at the edge of the court. Leaning against the fence, he froze as if rooted in place. His eyes flicked to the windows of the entrance, where Hee Rak had disappeared. Waiting? No problem. He was used to waiting. For now—he observed.
Three hours later, the door finally swung open, and Hee Rak stepped out, having changed from his light basketball gear into a gray hooded sweatshirt. White earbuds blocked out the world, his hands buried in his pockets. His stride was quick but unhurried, as if he wasn't in a rush but had no intention of lingering either.
Ming You, who had been sitting on the curb near the basketball court, slowly pushed off from the fence and followed. He kept his distance, blending into the pedestrian flow but never losing sight of Hee Rak.
Hee Rak reached the sidewalk and picked up his pace, ignoring the biting wind. He arrived at the bus stop where he'd parted ways with his team four and a half hours earlier.
The bus stop was empty—just a couple of teenagers with headphones and a Romani woman with a cart. He checked the digital schedule: three minutes until departure. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through messages, completely unaware that behind him, in the shadow of a billboard, a stranger stood motionless.
The bus arrived with a hydraulic hiss. Hee Rak boarded first, tapped his transit card, and took a window seat. A moment later, the doors closed—but just before the lock clicked, another passenger stepped inside. A medical mask, a hood, khaki pants, head lowered. Nothing unusual for flu season. Ming You sat a row behind, by the aisle. The bus jerked forward and drove off.
Three stops later, Hee Rak got off at the fourth. The doors hissed open, and he stepped onto the sidewalk without looking back. The front of the bus emptied behind him, and seconds later, Ming You slipped out the rear exit.
Hee Rak walked confidently, never slowing. His back, straight and slightly tense, quickly receded into the crowd. He turned a corner, heading toward the college gym.
Ming You pretended to browse gum at a kiosk near the stop. His fingers trailed over the bright packaging, but his eyes were locked on the retreating figure. He waited until Hee Rak disappeared into the crowd at the entrance, then exhaled slowly.
Once Hee Rak was out of sight, Ming You turned and walked in the opposite direction. His route meandered—he wandered through streets, peering into alleys.
The alleys here were narrow and dirty. Ming You moved slowly, examining every corner. Something glinted in a pile of construction debris. A crowbar. Rusty but heavy. He picked it up, tested its weight, ran his finger along the jagged edge. Unzipping his backpack, he tried to fit it inside, but it stuck out, blunt and threatening.
Adjusting his hood, making sure no one was watching, he moved toward the school gym, sticking close to the walls as if dissolving into the gray concrete.
Ming You stopped by the college fence and pressed his back against the cold metal bars. His elbow rested on the railing, fingers relaxed. Now, all that was left was to wait. The minutes dragged, but he didn't move.
An hour later, when it was already dark, Hee Rak left the training hall. Ming You noticed him heading toward the bus stop. This was his chance. He quickly assessed the situation:
"There's no one around who could interfere with my plan. I've killed out of desperation before, but now it's time to kill for victory."
Ming You dialed a number on his phone and chose the perfect moment—just as Hee Rak stopped to check the incoming call he'd just staged.
"Hello? Who is this?" Hee Rak asked into the phone.
Ming You approached from behind, pulling the crowbar from his backpack, gripping it tightly with both hands. He swung sharply and precisely at the back of Hee Rak's head—
Thud!
"Ugh—" Hee Rak didn't even have time to process what was happening before he lost consciousness. Ming You quickly grabbed him and, careful not to draw attention, dragged him toward a nearby basement, not far from the bus stop and his training spot.
"Bring a knife to a gunfight... heh." Ming You smirked darkly and carried him like a drunk friend toward the basement.