In a dimly lit office above Seoul's business district, Gun sat silently behind his mahogany desk, eyes fixed on the footage playing across his monitor. The blinds were drawn, casting vertical shadows across the room, and the only sounds came from the low hum of the air conditioning and the distant traffic far below.
The screen froze on a single frame: Noah, bloodied belt draped over his shoulder, walking away like he'd just run errands—not just flattened two Big Deal elites who were considered legends in the underground scene.
Gun's fingers drummed against the desk's surface in a steady rhythm, a habit he'd developed when deep in thought. The footage had been captured by multiple security cameras, each angle revealing something new about Noah's fighting style, his casual confidence, his complete lack of concern for the consequences of his actions.
The door creaked open behind him, the sound sharp in the quiet office.
"Guess that went as expected," Goo said, entering with a lazy stretch and an expression of mild amusement. He was dressed in his usual expensive suit, but his tie was loosened and his jacket hung open, giving him a deceptively casual appearance.
He dragged over a chair and flopped into it with theatrical casualness, nodding toward the screen. "You really sent Jake for that? Poor guy probably thinks he's lost his touch."
Gun didn't respond immediately. He rewound the footage, slow and focused, eyes narrowing as he tracked Noah's posture, balance, expression—every small detail that might reveal something about his true nature. The way Noah moved wasn't just skilled; it was economical, purposeful, like someone who had learned to waste nothing in combat.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"He used to be a thug, you know. Before all this."
Goo raised an eyebrow, his interest genuinely piqued. "You mean before he started wrecking everyone's plans and making the underground scene nervous?"
Gun nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving the screen.
"A group from the underground—old syndicate leftovers, desperate and running out of options—approached me a while back. Paid well. Very well. Said they needed me to deal with some low-level thug who was causing problems in their territory. Disrupting their operations, taking their money, making them look weak."
Gun's eyes darkened as he recalled the meeting. "I didn't take it seriously at first. Just another street rat with more confidence than sense. So I sent a few high schoolers to test him. Good fighters, but nothing special. Figured they'd rough him up, send a message, and that would be the end of it."
He paused, his expression growing more serious.
"He almost killed them."
Goo let out a small chuckle, but there was no real humor in it. "So you went in yourself."
"I thought it'd be routine. Just another street rat with confidence and decent instincts. Beat him down, send a message, collect the money, and move on to more important matters."
Gun leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly on the armrest in that same steady rhythm. The memory was still vivid, still troubling in ways he rarely admitted to himself.
"I was wrong."
Goo's smirk faded as he recognized the tone in Gun's voice. "You lost?"
Gun didn't respond. He didn't have to. The silence stretched between them, heavy with implications.
"He struggled at first," Gun admitted, his voice carefully neutral. "I had him on the ground, bleeding, barely conscious. Any normal fighter would have stayed down. Should have stayed down."
He turned toward Goo, eyes sharp now with something that might have been respect or concern.
"But each time he got back up, he was stronger. Smarter. Like something was fueling him from the inside. He adapted. Grew during the fight. Started reading my patterns, countering my techniques, finding weaknesses I didn't even know I had."
Gun stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the city lights beginning to twinkle in the growing darkness.
"That's not normal, Goo. That's not how human beings work."
Goo leaned forward slightly, his usual casual demeanor replaced by genuine curiosity. "So what, you're gonna keep watching him? Turn this into some kind of long-term surveillance project?"
"For now," Gun said, not turning away from the window. "Jake and Jerry weren't sent to win. They were sent to confirm."
"Confirm what?"
Gun clicked the screen off, the room falling into deeper shadows.
"That Noah doesn't fight like a thug anymore. He fights like someone who's seen death. Someone who's fought for survival—real survival, not just street brawls and territory disputes. And now he's cold, clean, and focused."
He stood up, straightening his jacket and adjusting his tie with practiced precision.
Goo looked up at him, studying his expression. "So what about the people who hired you? You gonna tell them you failed?"
"I'll refund their money," Gun replied flatly, his tone suggesting the conversation was over.
Goo blinked in surprise. "Really? You never refund money."
Gun's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—calculation, perhaps, or recognition of a threat that went beyond simple business.
"They paid me to eliminate a threat," he said. "I won't."
A pause filled the room, heavy with unspoken implications.
"Not yet."
Gun walked toward the door, pausing only to add, "Keep monitoring him. I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he talks to, everything he does. But keep your distance. If he notices us watching..."
"What then?"
Gun's smile was cold and sharp. "Then we'll find out just how dangerous he really is."