Moon Baek didn't believe in happy endings.
Not anymore.
The diagnosis came weeks ago. Terminal. Inoperable. The doctor had looked at him like he was already dead.
But death didn't scare him.
Living in a world that never cared if he lived or died? That did.
He sat in his warehouse, the low hum of refrigerators hiding the arsenal stacked against the walls. Pistols. Rifles. Crates marked with fake import stamps.
A younger recruit approached him nervously.
"Baek‑hyung… the police are already investigating. Maybe we should slow down."
Moon Baek's gaze sharpened.
"Do you think they care about people like us? Do you think slowing down changes anything?"
The boy lowered his eyes. "No, hyung."
Moon Baek patted his shoulder with an unnerving calmness.
"Then keep going. The only people who get remembered are the ones who force the world to see them."
Across the city, Detective Lee Do flipped through reports on his desk.
The numbers weren't adding up.
Three shootings in less than 24 hours. No connections between the victims. No witnesses who could describe the shooters.
But the casings told a different story.
All three matched.
Same supplier.
Same source.
His superior entered the office.
"Lee Do, drop this. This isn't our jurisdiction anymore."
"Whose is it then?"
"National Intelligence. It's political now. Stay out of it."
Lee Do clenched his jaw.
They could bury the case.
But they couldn't bury the truth.
And he wasn't about to walk away.
That night, Moon Baek leaned against the railing of his warehouse rooftop, overlooking the city that had forgotten him.
For years, he'd been a ghost.
Now?
He would be a storm.
And storms didn't ask for permission.