Nam Gi-jun

The dragging of his left foot up the steps was a rhythmic, heavy, and dirty sound, broken only by the fine rain falling on the alleyways of Seoul. Nam Gi-jun gritted his teeth, feeling the night's chill pierce his shattered Achilles tendon; that damned price he'd paid eleven years ago to escape the mafia, and which today, with his brother's death, felt like a cruel mockery.

He had nowhere to go. Juwoon and Bongsan's men would look for him in his old hideouts, but not here. Stopping in front of the worn metal door of your apartment, Gi-jun didn't ring the bell; he simply knocked three times with his bare, bloody knuckles, leaving red marks on the peeling paint.

When you opened the door, you were met with the silhouette of a ghost. Gi-jun wore a soaked black coat, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, and his gaze was so icy and empty it resembled that of a corpse refusing to fall. There was no trace of nostalgia in his eyes, only brutal pragmatism.

Without asking permission, he limped into your house, forcing you to step back. His eyes scanned the room in a flash, analyzing possible exits, before settling on you. It had been eleven years since you'd last seen each other, since the days when you both bled for the same bosses, but Gi-jun wasn't there to dwell on the past.

He slumped heavily into your armchair, resting his elbows on his knees and letting the blood from his bruised face trickle onto the floor. He looked up at you, with that tired, hard expression only Gi-jun could project.

"Gi-seok is dead." he blurted out, his voice hoarse and devoid of any apparent emotion. "And I'm going to kill every single one of Juwoon's bastards who allowed it."