The compartment had become a battlefield.
Bodies lined the aisle, unconscious, groaning, or too injured to move.
Seats were torn, glass scattered across the floor like frozen rain. The cold wind from the broken window screamed through the hole, whipping the curtains and cutting across the blood-slick metal.
At the far end, Kangwoo, the metal-bat man lay slumped against the wall, one arm hanging limp, unconscious. The space around him was a wreckage, shattered bottles, twisted pipes.
And in front of him was Seojin, laying helplessly on the ground, their mask cracked, the three men standing over them.
The leader, the one holding his bat now, tapped it idly against the floor, each metallic thud sinking into the hum of the train. The sound was slow, deliberate, measured like a countdown.
THUNK.
THUNK.
THUNK.
He dragged the bat along the floor, letting the metal sing against the rails, then looked down at Seojin, the mask's crack running down the cheek, one lens half-shattered. He tilted his head, studying them.
The jacket gangster chuckled, wiping blood from his lip.
"Hey…" he said, nodding toward Seojin. "Have you ever seen what he looks like under that mask? He's never taken it off once."
The mohawk gangster snorted. "Bet he looks like a damn chick."
"Fucker's got a feminine ass voice too," the leader sneered, tilting his head mockingly. "That might be true."
Their laughter rose, echoing through the wrecked compartment.
The leader crouched slowly, the bat resting against his shoulder. His eyes lingered on the cracks spreading across Seojin's mask.
"Well then," he said, his grin thin and cruel, "let's see what our 'boss' was supposed to look like."
The leader's grin lingered as he stood up.
"After this." The metal-bat got off his shoulder as he swung it hard straight toward the immobile Seojin's face.
Seojin was static.
The compartment started to fall silent, only the sound of the wind splitting apart from the bat's momentum.
The metal-bat hovered closer and closer to Seojin.
The air pressed against their cheek… not a strike yet, just the force of the swing.
The pressure was the last thing they felt.
And then… everything went white.