Knock. Knock. Knock.
Arin's eyes fluttered open, his chest rising and falling fast. For a second he still felt the weight of the sword in his hand, the taste of cold water on his tongue, the faint glow of a star burning in his chest.
But the cubic world was gone.
All that remained was the cracked ceiling above him and the yellowed fan that had stopped spinning months ago. Sweat soaked through his thin white shirt, sticking it to his skin.
Damn… what the hell? Was that… a dream?
The knock came again, louder this time, shaking the flimsy door.
"Wake up, shit!"
Arin groaned. "Tch. Who the hell is it now? I was having such a good dream…"
The banging didn't stop. In fact, it grew harsher. A heavy boot slammed against the wood, making the frame rattle.
"Open the door, bastard!" a voice barked. The tone was sharp, angry, dripping with contempt.
Arin froze. That voice was familiar. Too familiar.
His stomach sank. Shit. Don't tell me…
Another kick. "You think you can hide? Because of you, boss sent us here before the damn sun even came up. You've been enjoying your beauty sleep while owing fifty grand?"
Arin clenched his jaw. F**k. It's them. The loan sharks.
He remembered too clearly—the desperate day he borrowed fifty thousand dollars. He needed it to cover the ridiculous monthly interest of another loan. One debt covering another debt. It was a cycle he couldn't escape.
Four jobs, endless hours, fifteen thousand dollars handed over each month for 6 months—yet the thugs called it "just interest."
And last month, he couldn't even pay that.
"This is the third damn month you've missed," he muttered bitterly, looking up at the cracked ceiling. "What a miserable life."
If only I could've stayed in that world forever.
The door shuddered again.
Arin sighed and pushed himself up from the thin mattress on the floor. His bare feet touched the cold, cracked tiles as he hesitated. His whole body felt heavy, drenched in sweat. Even his shirt was half-transparent, clinging to his skin and exposing the faint outline of his abs.
Slowly, almost resigned, he shuffled toward the door. His hand trembled as he reached for the knob. He knew the moment he opened it, hell awaited him.
But he opened it anyway.
The door creaked wide.
Three men stood outside.
The first was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself like a wolf circling prey. His leather jacket hung loose, his jawline sharp, a toothpick dangling between his lips. His eyes were cold, dangerous—the eyes of a street predator.
Behind him, two teenagers in flashy clothes tried to look tough, their grins cocky but their eyes betraying nervous excitement. Wannabes.
The tall man smirked, leaning forward, his hand casually slamming against the doorframe with a thunk.
"Ooh, finally decided to open up, huh?" he drawled. His eyes scanned Arin up and down before narrowing. "You got some nerve… taking money and living peacefully while we bust our asses looking for you. Don't you have any shame, bastard?"
Arin said nothing. His shirt clung tighter with every bead of sweat.
The tall man's gaze flickered to his chest, then to his arm—
—and froze.
A sword glimmered faintly in Arin's right hand.
"…The hell? A sword?"
Arin blinked, glancing down. His heart skipped.
It was real. The same crimson-leather sword he had held in the cubic world.
His breath caught. It's… not gone.
The two younger thugs burst into laughter.
"Oi, boss, he's gone crazy. Who the hell waves around a toy sword first thing in the morning?"
"LMAO, what's he gonna do, slice rent money out of thin air?"
Their mockery barely reached Arin's ears. His mind was racing.
System.
A familiar blue panel blinked into existence before him.
System:[Yes?]
Arin's lips curled. A smirk crept across his face, widening into something darker—something feral.
His eyes gleamed. His lips parted.
"Hahaha… ha ha ha ha!"
The laugh echoed through the narrow alleyway, sending a shiver down the spines of the two wannabes. The tall man's brow furrowed, his toothpick snapping between his teeth.
"What the fuck's wrong with you? You think this is funny?"
The thug grabbed Arin's shoulder, fingers digging in tight. His face twisted into a snarl, the confident mask of a predator asserting dominance.
"I ain't here for jokes. I'm here for money. So stop your laughing and tell me—" his eyes narrowed into slits "—when the hell are you paying us back?"
The thug's grip tightened on Arin's shoulder, his knuckles pale as if trying to crush bone.
He leaned down, a full head taller, his breath reeking of smoke and liquor.
"Where do you think you're going, huh?"
Arin didn't flinch. Slowly, almost lazily, he raised his head. His eyes met the gangster's—calm, steady… too calm.
And then—he smiled.
Not the nervous smile of prey. Not the fake grin of someone trying to hide fear.
No… this was the kind of smile that made the air turn cold.
The kind that told everyone watching that a few moments from now, someone would regret ever crossing him.
The gangster had no idea. But he was about to experience the worst moment of his miserable life.
The two teenage punks who had come along froze. Their bravado melted in an instant, their throats dry as they instinctively flinched back. That smile… it didn't belong to a normal man.
Arin's voice cut through the air, low and cold.
"You're not going to get a single coin from me. And wearing this suit… you really think I'm the one who looks desperate?"
The gangster sneered. "Hah, big words for a dead man walking. Looks like you really want to make your miserable life even worse."
Arin's smile widened, sharp as a blade.
"…Then let's see who ends up miserable in the next moment."
Before the gangster could react, Arin's left hand shot up, clamping around his throat like an iron vice. In one motion, he lifted the larger man clean off the ground, his feet dangling, kicking uselessly.
How the hell did he do that?! the thug's mind screamed.
"Put me down! Do you know who I am?! If you don't let me go right now, you'll face the consequences!" he rasped, struggling against the crushing grip.
Arin only chuckled. The sound was low, cold, mocking.
"Consequences? You should be more worried about breathing."
The gangster's eyes bulged as Arin's hand tightened. His lungs burned, veins popping across his forehead, every cell in his body begging for air. Fear—raw, suffocating fear—began to claw at him.
"Help! You two—" he tried to call out.
But when he turned his eyes toward the teenagers, there was nothing.
No help. No loyalty.
They had already bolted, vanishing into the night.
Arin's smirk deepened. "Hah. Very trustworthy friends you've got there."
The thug's fingernails dug desperately into Arin's wrist, but the grip only grew tighter. His other hand cocked back, veins rippling across his arm as if darkness itself clung to him, twisting the very air around his body.
And then… he smiled again.
That twisted, bone-chilling smile.
The thug's heart sank. Cold dread pierced his chest.
This guy…
From that smile, from that grip, from the suffocating killing intent pouring off him—
He really wants to kill me!