Chapter 16
The Fall of the Wolf
The storm raged like a beast uncaged, lightning splitting the sky, rain hammering against the bridge.
Sung Ho stood trembling, bloodied and half-broken, but Xin Min didn't see weakness anymore. He saw something worse—defiance.
The bully's lips curled back, his teeth bared like an animal. "You think killing them changes anything? You think you can erase me, dog?"
He charged.
Sung Ho barely had time to raise his arms before Xin Min's fist smashed into his face. Pain exploded, his vision going white. He staggered, tasted blood, and Xin Min struck again—jaw, ribs, stomach. Every blow landed heavy, trained fists of a boy who had grown up with boxing coaches, martial arts lessons, and every privilege Sung Ho never had.
Sung Ho fell to his knees, spitting blood onto the rain-slick concrete.
"Pathetic," Xin Min hissed, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head back. His broken nose leaked blood down his sneering lips. "You're nothing but a bug. You killed my men? I'll make you pay for every—"
Sung Ho moved without thought. A surge of raw, desperate strength filled him, born not from skill but survival. He shot his hand upward, ramming his thumb into Xin Min's bleeding nose.
Xin Min screamed, letting go as fresh blood spurted.
Sung Ho lunged, slamming his shoulder into Xin Min's stomach, driving him back. Both boys crashed onto the wet concrete, fists flailing, teeth bared. They rolled through blood and rain, grappling, each strike sloppy but vicious.
Xin Min landed on top, straddling Sung Ho, his fists hammering down. The world dimmed with each blow, Sung Ho's mind screaming for air, for escape, for anything.
His hand brushed something cold. A jagged piece of railing, broken loose from the earlier scuffle.
Without hesitation, without thought, Sung Ho grabbed it and swung.
The sharp metal edge tore across Xin Min's cheek, ripping skin open. Blood sprayed warm across Sung Ho's face. Xin Min roared in pain, trying to rip the weapon from Sung Ho's grip.
They struggled, the shard pressing dangerously close to both of their throats.
Then, with one final surge, Sung Ho twisted his body and drove the metal deep into Xin Min's neck.
The sound was sickening—like meat tearing, cartilage splitting. Warmth spilled over his hands, hot even in the cold rain.
Xin Min's eyes went wide. He clawed weakly at the wound, choking, gurgling. His blood poured out in thick gushes, mixing with the storm until the bridge ran red.
Sung Ho held on, pressing the shard deeper, his own screams drowned by thunder. He didn't stop until Xin Min stopped moving.
Until his eyes lost their fire.
Until the wolf was dead.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the rain.
Sung Ho's chest heaved, his body trembling violently as he knelt over Xin Min's corpse. His hands were soaked in blood, his own breath ragged, each gulp of air tasting of iron. The jagged shard of railing still jutted from Xin Min's throat, a grotesque marker of the boy's end.
Sung Ho wanted to scream. Wanted to vomit. Wanted to wake up and find it was all a nightmare. But the three bodies around him—the shattered skull, the drowned boy, the wolf with his throat torn open—were undeniable.
He had killed them.
"God… what have I done…" His voice broke into the storm.
But panic quickly drowned his despair. No one could know. If anyone saw, if anyone found out—he would be finished. His life, his family, everything would collapse.
Shaking, he forced himself to move.
He grabbed Xin Min's limp body first. It was heavier than he imagined, dead weight resisting every pull. He dragged it across the slick concrete, his palms burning, the corpse leaving a thick smear of blood behind. Reaching the railing, Sung Ho paused only a heartbeat before he heaved with everything he had left.
The body tipped over, crashing into the raging river below with a heavy splash. The current seized it immediately, dragging it into the darkness.
His arms shook, but he couldn't stop. He moved to the first goon, the one with the broken skull. His head lolled grotesquely, one eye crushed, the bone cracked wide open. Sung Ho gagged but pushed on, dragging him to the railing and tipping him into the river's embrace.
The second goon was gone, swallowed earlier.
Three lives erased. Three bodies claimed by the storm.
Sung Ho collapsed to his knees, staring at the red-streaked water rushing below. His stomach twisted violently, and he vomited until there was nothing left, bile mixing with the rain at his knees.
When he finally lifted his head, the bridge was empty. No corpses, no witnesses—only the bloodstains smeared thin by the relentless downpour.
It was as though the storm itself had chosen to keep his secret.
But Sung Ho knew better. The images would never leave him. The crunch of bone. The splash of bodies. The hot spray of blood across his face.
They were burned into him, carved deeper than scars.
He stumbled away from the railing, eyes hollow. There was no going back. Not after this.
As he disappeared into the storm, the river below roared on, carrying its grim cargo into the endless night.