Moon Baek

The intensive care unit smelled of ozone and hopelessness. The monitors emitted a steady, lulling beep—the sound of artificial respiration that had replaced Moon Baek's life.

Police officer Lee Do had been sitting in the plastic chair for three days now. His uniform felt like an inappropriate mockery here. A man accustomed to viewing the world through the scope of a sniper rifle was now afraid to blink, lest he miss the slightest change on the ECG screen of his sworn enemy.

"You lost after all," Lee Do said softly, looking at the pale face of the dealer of death. A crust of dried blood darkened Moon Baek's cheekbone from their last encounter in the parking lot. "Your 'freedom' turned into a graveyard. People started surrendering their weapons only because they saw me dive under bullets for someone else's child, not because you gave them guns."

Moon Baek lay motionless, but Lee Do could feel the weight of his insane composure even through closed eyelids. For Moon Baek, a pistol was never just a piece of iron. It was justice for the weak, an equation where the victim could finally pull the trigger before the hunter.

The phone in his pocket vibrated: another two hundred units of illegal weapons had been seized. The statistics were dropping; the chaos was receding. Korea was becoming a country again where laws were responsible for safety.

Lee Do leaned forward.
"Do you know why I didn't kill you there? Not because of protocol. And not even because of that boy downstairs. I just... understood your formula. We both grew up in ruins. Only you decided to flood the streets with lead so that no one would dare hurt orphans, while I chose to carry a shield, knowing it would be pierced."

The beep of the machine suddenly faltered. One long, piercing note. Lee Do jumped up, knocking over the chair. Nurses rushed into the room.
"Clear!" Moon Baek's body jerked on the bed from the shock of the defibrillator.

When the commotion settled, leaving the door ajar, Lee Do returned to his spot. The pulse had stabilized, but the breathing remained shallow. A coma. A deep, medicated abyss.

The officer gently took the warm but lifeless hand of his adversary.
"Sleep," he whispered.