Cigarette smoke danced in the air, filling a room thumping with underground music. Neon lights blinked red and purple, casting a hazy glow on faces that held more secrets than they revealed. At the far end of the club, a man lounged on a black leather sofa, a crystal glass of bourbon in his right hand.
Jung Joon.
His brows were sharp, his smirk arrogant — every movement radiating the presence of a leader who tolerated no defiance. He was no longer the brother from Jung Kok's old memories. Now he was blood's adversary, waiting for the right moment to take everything.
"Have they marked the area?" Jung Joon asked, voice low but firm.
Beside him stood a broad-shouldered man with a bald head and a long scar running down his cheek — known only as Taek. He was Jung Joon's right-hand man: loyal, but brutal.
"Yes, boss. Our symbol was left behind. No one saw us. No cameras. No living witnesses," Taek replied proudly.
Jung Joon gave a crooked smile. "Good. Let's give my naive little brother a slow warning. Let him know that filthy place can't be sanctified."
He leaned back, sipping his drink. One eye half-closed, memories flickering in his mind — Jung Kok, the little boy he once saved from a rival gang's beating. The boy who used to fear the dark… and blood. And now he wanted to play the savior?
Ridiculous.
On the other side of the city, night wrapped around a dark alley that served as a temporary shelter for several street youths. The dilapidated building was half-burnt — smoke still drifted from broken windows. In the middle of the street, a teenage boy sat hugging his knees, his eyes filled with trauma.
Jung Kok stood not far away, silently observing the wreckage with an unreadable expression.
"No one died," one of his men reported. "But this clearly wasn't a robbery. They knew what they were doing. Nothing was stolen. They just… wanted to send a message."
Jung Kok nodded slowly, his eyes fixated on a strange symbol spray-painted in black on the wall — a dragon fang clutching a skull.
He knew that symbol.
But he wasn't ready to say the name — not yet.
At the family mansion, Hwang stood before a wide glass window. His hand gripped a freshly delivered report. The streetlight outside cast a reflection on the glass, showing the silhouette of an old man who once ruled the streets like a king.
"Joon..." he whispered to himself. "I knew you wouldn't stay quiet."
On his desk, an old photo stood upright — the three of them: Hwang in the center, Jung Joon to the right, Jung Kok to the left. Their young faces once beamed with laughter.
Now there was only silence… and blood.
That night, Jung Kok didn't return straight to his base. Instead, he stepped into an old dojo that hadn't been used in years. The walls still bore the marks of intense training. A wooden bokken still hung in the corner.
He sat cross-legged in the middle of the room. Silent. Calm.
And in his mind appeared the face of Jung Joon — when they were teenagers, still learning to fight, still calling each other by affectionate nicknames. Still… brothers.
"What made you change, brother?" he whispered to no one.
No answer came. Only the night wind slipping through the cracks in the old door.
Suddenly, the sound of an engine echoed outside. Jung Kok stood immediately, moving quietly, hand gripping the old bokken still hanging on the wall. He peeked out.
A black car had stopped not far from the dojo. Tinted windows — he couldn't see who was inside.
Seconds passed. No one stepped out. No other sound.
Then, the car drove off again, disappearing into the night.
> "If this really is your doing, brother... I won't stay silent." Jung Kok's voice was soft, but his eyes burned. And in the distance… someone was watching him from inside that unfamiliar black car.