The smell of fried oil and exhaust filled the air.
Kang Tae-min balanced a box of take-out on one arm as he pedaled down the narrow street, weaving between cars and puddles. The restaurant's logo was fading off his delivery jacket; the bike creaked with every turn. It was almost midnight. Most of the town had gone quiet, but the Central Business District never really slept—just changed moods.
He reached the address, dropped off the food, and got back on his bike. Another delivery done. Only two more and he could finally go home.
That was when he heard shouting.
At first, he ignored it. Fights weren't rare around this area. But then came the sound of breaking glass, the heavy thud of a kick, a scream. Tae-min slowed his bike and looked toward the alley that led behind the row of shops.
Five men were there. Black jackets, tattoos crawling up their necks, faces red with liquor and anger. They had surrounded a middle-aged man in an apron—the owner of a local convenience store.
"Didn't we tell you?" one of them snarled, grabbing the man by the collar. "You sell here, you pay here. That's our rule."
"I already paid you last week!" the man cried, his voice cracking.
The gangster laughed and punched him across the face. The man fell to the ground, clutching his cheek.
Tae-min's grip tightened on his handlebars.
He hated scenes like this—not just the violence, but the helplessness. His father used to step in during situations like this, back when he was alive. Tae-min remembered that tone in his father's voice: calm, but absolute. Do something, or you'll remember not doing it forever.
He parked his bike at the corner, just out of sight. His pulse picked up. He was calculating, not heroic—he knew how badly things could go. Five men, all older, probably armed. But something inside him refused to move on.
Then, headlights flashed at the end of the alley.
Another car screeched to a halt, and four new figures climbed out. They weren't cops—they were dressed too cleanly, their posture too confident. The man who stepped in front had an easy smile and an air that filled the narrow space.
His voice was light, even playful. "You guys picked the wrong block tonight."
The first group turned. "What the hell do you mean, your block?"
"This is my part of town," the newcomer said. "You want to shake down stores, do it somewhere else."
The tension snapped like a cable.
A punch was thrown first, then chaos. Bottles shattered, curses echoed, fists met flesh. Tae-min stood frozen for half a second, watching the swirl of bodies. He could leave. He should leave.
But his body was already moving.
He sprinted forward, ducked under a swing meant for someone else, and drove his shoulder into one gangster's ribs. The man hit the wall and gasped for air. Another charged at him—Tae-min sidestepped and swept his leg, sending the attacker sprawling.
His mind went silent. Every move was instinct, a rhythm carved by years of training he thought he'd left behind.
Someone grabbed him from behind—he twisted, elbowed, turned, and kneed the man in the gut. The fight blurred. He caught glimpses of the charismatic leader, laughing as he fought, moving like someone who enjoyed the chaos.
Within minutes, the first group started to falter. One of them pulled out a pocketknife, waving it desperately. The leader's grin vanished.
He picked up a broken bottle, eyes narrowing. "Put that down."
The man lunged instead.
Tae-min didn't think—he reacted. He kicked the attacker's wrist, the knife clattered to the ground, and the leader slammed his bottle against the wall beside the man's head. The sound froze everyone.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
"Cops!" someone shouted.
"Scatter!" another voice yelled.
The gangsters fled in every direction. Tae-min turned to run but felt a hand grab his arm. It was the leader—the one with the grin.
"Not that way," he said, tugging him toward the main street. "Follow me!"
They sprinted through the maze of alleys, past neon signs and flickering lights, until they reached the tall karaoke building where Tae-min worked part-time.
"Here!" Tae-min said, gasping. "Stairs lead to the roof."
They ran up, skipping steps two at a time. The pounding of police boots echoed somewhere below. When they reached the top, wind slammed against them. The city stretched out before them, a mess of rooftops and light.
The leader jogged to the edge and looked across. Another building stood just a few meters away. Close enough to jump—barely.
"You've done this before?" the leader asked.
Tae-min exhaled. "Once or twice."
Without waiting, he sprinted and leapt. For that brief second in the air, the world went quiet. He landed hard, rolled, and came up steady.
The leader laughed behind him, half in disbelief, half in thrill, then backed up and jumped too. His landing wasn't as clean, but he made it.
They stood side by side on the neighboring roof, catching their breath, sirens fading below.
"You," the leader said, pointing at him with a grin. "You've got guts. And legs. What's your name?"
"Kang Tae-min."
"Nice to meet you, Tae-min. I'm Ryu Sang-ho." He extended a hand—rings glinting under the rooftop light.
Tae-min hesitated, then shook it. "You're a gangster."
Sang-ho smirked. "Businessman. I run a loan service. People borrow, people pay. Some just need… reminders."
He pulled a small black card from his pocket and handed it over.
White letters on matte surface: Ryu Sang-ho — Apex Loan Services.
"If you ever want to make real money," Sang-ho said, still smiling, "call me. You've got talent."
Tae-min stared at the card, unsure whether to laugh or throw it away. "Not interested."
"Not yet," Sang-ho replied. "But give it time. Guys like you always end up working for guys like me."
Before Tae-min could answer, Sang-ho patted him on the shoulder and walked toward the stairs on the other side of the building.
"See you around, kid."
The door clanged shut behind him, leaving Tae-min alone on the roof.
He looked at the city lights—blinking, alive, full of noise he couldn't hear from here. The card was still in his hand, black against the glow of the skyline.
He turned it over, then slipped it into his pocket.
"I'm not that desperate," he muttered.
But as he climbed down the stairwell, the weight of exhaustion and bills waiting at home pressed against his chest.
Maybe he was.