The Gangnam district was a lie.
To the tourists and the cameras, it was a city of glass and light—a glistening monument to South Korea's economic miracle. But if you walked three blocks east of the main station and took the narrow alleyway behind the convenience store, the scent of expensive perfume was replaced by the smell of stale smoke, rotting garbage, and sewage.
This was the Grey Zone. The place where the law turned a blind eye as long as the bribes were paid on time.
Kang Jin-woo walked down the alley, his shoes crunching on broken glass.
His school uniform—a white shirt, a dark blazer with the school crest, and grey slacks—stood out like a beacon in the gloom. He looked like a sheep wandering into a wolf's den. Passersby, men with tattoos peeking out from their collars and women with tired, heavy makeup, stared at him.
Jin-woo ignored them. He didn't hunch his shoulders. He didn't hurry. He walked with the measured, arrogant stride of a man who owned the pavement.
In the underworld, looking out of place was a power move. It made people wonder who backed you.
He stopped in front of a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a dying insect: [Seven PC Cafe].
To the average high school student, this was just a place to eat instant ramen and play League of Legends for a dollar an hour. To Jin-woo—the man who had once bought this entire city block to turn it into a luxury mall in 2026—it was a front.
In the basement, beneath the rows of gaming computers, was a "Sutda" gambling parlor run by the Viper Gang.
Jin-woo pushed the heavy metal door open and stepped into the stairwell. The air grew colder, heavy with the smell of damp concrete. At the bottom of the stairs stood a steel door and a man.
The man was massive. His neck was thicker than Jin-woo's thigh, and he wore a cheap black suit that strained against his shoulders.
Choi Dal-su.
Jin-woo recognized him instantly. In his past life, Dal-su was a low-level enforcer. He was a brute, but he had a fatal flaw: he was cripplingly superstitious. He would eventually go to prison in 2022 for stabbing a rival because a fortune teller told him it was his "lucky day."
Dal-su crossed his massive arms, blocking the path. He looked down at Jin-woo with a sneer.
"School's out, kid. Go home to mommy. No minors allowed."
Jin-woo didn't blink. He didn't step back. He looked at Dal-su's nametag, then up into the giant's eyes.
"Choi Dal-su," Jin-woo said. His voice was quiet, cutting through the low hum of the ventilation fan.
Dal-su frowned. "You know me?"
"Your left shoelace is untied," Jin-woo said casually. "That's bad luck. Especially on a Tuesday."
Dal-su's eyes went wide. He instinctively looked down at his feet.
His laces were tied perfectly tight.
Realization flashed across Dal-su's face, followed by anger. He snapped his head back up, his face flushing red. "You little—"
"If you touch me," Jin-woo interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, "Razor will find out you've been skimming ten percent off the entry fees. You have until Friday to pay back your debt to the loan sharks, don't you?"
The air left the stairwell.
Dal-su froze. His hand, which had been reaching for Jin-woo's collar, stopped in mid-air as if he had touched burning iron. The color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly shade of grey.
"How..." Dal-su stammered, his eyes darting around the empty stairwell. "Who are you?"
"A customer," Jin-woo said simply. "Open the door."
Dal-su swallowed hard. He looked at the teenager in the school uniform, searching for a wire, a badge, anything. But all he saw were eyes that looked dead. Ancient.
Dal-su stepped back, trembling slightly, and punched the code into the keypad.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Click.
The heavy steel door hissed open.
A wave of noise hit Jin-woo. The basement was a different world. The air was thick with cigarette smoke that stung the eyes. The sound of plastic tiles slapping against felt tables, the clinking of glasses, and the low, desperate murmurs of men losing their livelihoods filled the room.
Jin-woo walked in. He had 5,000 won in his pocket.
He scanned the room, his eyes dissecting the chaos. There were three tables.
Table 1 was low stakes. Useless. Table 2 was Poker. Too slow. Table 3 was Hwatu (Flower Cards). High stakes. Fast pace.
That was the hunting ground.
Jin-woo didn't sit down. The house edge was designed to bleed players dry over time. He didn't have time. He needed a host—a parasite he could attach himself to.
He found him at Table 3.
A middle-aged man in a wrinkled grey suit was sitting hunched over his cards. He was sweating profusely, despite the air conditioning. His tie was loosened, his top button undone. He had the frantic, twitchy energy of a man who had already lost his rent money and was now gambling with his life savings.
Jin-woo approached the table silently. He stood directly behind the sweating man.
The dealer dealt the next round. Two cards each.
The man in the suit reached for his cards, his fingers trembling. He peeled up the corners. A 1 and a 9. Gabo. A strong hand.
The man's eyes lit up. He reached for his chips to bet.
"Don't," Jin-woo said.
The man jumped, nearly knocking over his stack of chips. He whipped around. "What the hell? Who are you? Go away, kid!"
"Fold," Jin-woo ordered.
The table went silent. The other three players looked up. The dealer, a man with a jagged scar running through his upper lip, narrowed his eyes at Jin-woo.
"Kid," the dealer growled. "Get lost. No spectators."
Jin-woo ignored the dealer. He kept his eyes locked on the sweating man. "The dealer has a 3 and an 8. Gwang-ddeng. If you bet, you lose everything."
The man in the suit looked at Jin-woo, then at his own cards, then at the dealer. "You... you're crazy. I have a 1 and a 9!"
"Fold," Jin-woo repeated. "Or lose your house."
The authority in Jin-woo's voice was absolute. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a statement of fact.
The sweating man hesitated. The pressure was crushing him. He looked at the dealer. Scar-Lip was smiling—a predatory, confident smile.
Fear won out.
"I... I fold," the man whispered, throwing his cards down.
The dealer's smile vanished. He sneered and flipped his own cards.
A 3 and an 8.
The strongest hand on the table.
The room went dead silent. The only sound was the hum of the ventilation fan.
The man in the suit stared at the dealer's cards, his mouth hanging open. If he had bet, he would have been wiped out. He slowly turned his head to look at Jin-woo. He looked at the boy as if he were a shaman, a ghost, or a god.
"How..." the man breathed. "How did you know?"
Jin-woo didn't explain.
He didn't explain that in his previous life, he had spent years studying micro-expressions. He didn't explain that Scar-Lip had a 'tell'—a microscopic twitch in his jaw muscle whenever he dealt himself a winning hand from the bottom of the deck.
Jin-woo wasn't gambling. He was auditing.
"I can get you your money back," Jin-woo said, staring down at the man. "All of it."
The man swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
"My fee is 50% of the winnings," Jin-woo said, ignoring the question. "Do we have a deal?"
The dealer, Scar-Lip, stood up. "Hey! You little punk, you can't—"
"Deal!" the man shouted, desperate. He shoved a stack of chips toward Jin-woo's side of the table. "50%. Just tell me what to do!"
Jin-woo smiled. It was a cold, sharp expression that didn't reach his eyes.
"Good," he said, pulling out the empty chair next to the man and sitting down. He smoothed out his school uniform. "Put everything on the next hand."