# Novel: Scion of the Storm
## Chapter One:
The air in the narrow Jongno alley was thick, saturated with the smell of old rain, rotting garbage, and the cheap barbecue smoke drifting from a nearby stall. Arthur hunched deeper into his worn coat, trying to ignore the damp chill that seeped into his bones. It wasn't raining now, but the cracked pavement still held small puddles reflecting the dim neon lights from the main street, flickering billboards promising a better life far removed from this grim reality.
He was waiting. Waiting was a large part of his life; waiting for the next job, the next payment, waiting for another day to pass without disaster. His sharp eyes, an unusual shade of grey that looked strange under the swinging lamplight, scanned the alley for the thousandth time. Every shifting shadow, every sudden noise – the creak of a metal door, the meow of a stray cat, the distant rumble of a car engine – was registered and analyzed with the survival instinct honed by years of living on the edge.
He was here to pick up a package. A simple job, or so he'd been told.
Just pick up a small box from a man he didn't know, deliver it to another address for a few won barely enough to keep him warm and fill his stomach for two days. "Simple" in this world often meant "indirectly dangerous," but Arthur wasn't in a position to choose.
The sound of faint, hesitant footsteps broke the monotony of the alley sounds. They weren't the steps of someone confident or accustomed to these places. Arthur raised his head slightly, without changing his relaxed posture that hid his alertness. A short man appeared, wearing a low baseball cap that hid most of his face and a raincoat that looked suspiciously new for this neighborhood. The man looked around nervously, clutching a small cardboard box, about the size of a shoebox, under his arm.
"You... you the one?" the man muttered in a low voice, barely audible over the faint city noise.
Arthur didn't answer immediately. He let him wait for a moment, assessing his tense body language, the faint scent of fear that seemed to cling to him. Then he nodded slowly, a small movement barely visible in the darkness.
The man hurried forward, as if afraid Arthur would change his mind. He pushed the box towards Arthur. His hands were trembling slightly.
Arthur took the box. It was lighter than he expected, but he felt something strange shift inside it, or perhaps it was just an illusion born from the tension of the situation. He didn't try to open or inspect it. The job was transport, not curiosity. Curiosity in this world was a quick ticket to trouble, or worse.
"The money?" Arthur asked in a quiet, flat voice, devoid of any expression.
The man fumbled as he pulled a crumpled paper envelope from his pocket. He pushed it into Arthur's outstretched hand. Arthur didn't bother counting the cash now. He'd do that later when he was alone. Just touching the envelope gave him a rough idea of the amount – it was less than they'd agreed on, as he'd expected.
"Go now," Arthur said, his tone carrying a subtle warning.
The man didn't need telling twice. He turned quickly and practically vanished back into the darkness he came from, his steps becoming faster and more chaotic.
Arthur remained in place for a few moments after the man left, his ears alert for any sound of pursuit or surveillance. Nothing. Just the usual city sounds. He exhaled softly, the white vapor condensing for a moment in the cold air.
He glanced again at the box in his hands. There were no distinguishing marks on it, just plain brown cardboard. But the strange feeling of "wrongness" lingered at the back of his mind. Maybe it was just the paranoia that had become second nature to him. Or maybe... maybe this "simple" job was about to seriously complicate his quiet life.
He tucked the envelope into his inner pocket and held the box more firmly under his other arm. Time for the second part of the job: delivery. As he started walking away from the alley, heading towards the nearby subway station, he couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were watching him from the shadows, eyes that weren't entirely human.
He dismissed the feeling as mere fatigue and stress. In Jongno, every shadow could hide danger, and every whisper of wind could carry an ill omen. He had to focus on the task, on staying invisible, on getting through another day. That was all that mattered. Or so he tried to convince himself.