Chapter 1: The Final Cut
The rain in Seoul always smelled like wet asphalt and expensive cologne, at least in Gangnam.
"And... Cut! Perfect, Ji-hoon-ah! Absolutely perfect!"
Director Choi's voice boomed through the megaphone. The blinding lights of the film set dimmed, and the artificial rain towers were shut off. Han Ji-hoon, eighteen years old and currently the most famous face in South Korea, wiped fake blood from his lip and bowed deeply to the staff.
"You worked hard!" Ji-hoon called out, his voice melodic and warm. "Please, get home safely."
"Ji-hoon is truly an angel," a makeup artist whispered to her assistant as she rushed to hand him a towel. "He's been crying on cue for six hours, and he still thanks the lighting crew first."
Ji-hoon smiled at her, a practiced, dazzling smile that had sold millions of cosmetics and soft drinks. "Thank you, Noona. The lighting was beautiful today."
He was perfect. He was rich. He was beloved.
He was also terrified of himself.
Two hours later, the perfection was peeling away.
Ji-hoon sat in the back of his black van, the tinted windows shielding him from the flashing cameras of the sasaeng fans camping outside the studio. His manager, Hyung-seok, was driving.
"You have school tomorrow, Ji-hoon. Try to sleep," Hyung-seok said, glancing at the rearview mirror. "And don't forget, the press conference for 'Blue Summer' is at 2 PM. Smile, be humble, talk about how much you respect your seniors."
"I know, Hyung," Ji-hoon murmured, staring out at the blurred neon lights of the Han River bridges.
He asked to be dropped off a block away from his high-security apartment complex. He needed air. He pulled a black bucket hat low over his eyes and adjusted his black mask. In this outfit, he wasn't Han Ji-hoon, the National Treasure. He was just a lanky teenager in oversized streetwear.
He turned into a narrow alleyway, a shortcut he often took to avoid the paparazzi stationed at the main gate.
That was his mistake.
The sound came first—a dull, wet thud. Then, a whimper.
Ji-hoon froze. His heart, usually steady during the most intense acting scenes, skipped a beat.
Ten meters ahead, under the flickering yellow light of a broken streetlamp, three men were surrounding a figure curled on the ground. It was an old man, likely a recycling collector. His cart was overturned, cardboard spilling onto the wet pavement.
"Look at this trash," one of the men sneered, kicking the old man's ribs. "You scratched my car with your cart. Do you know how much that paint job costs?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the old man wheezed, clutching his side.
"Sorry doesn't fix a Mercedes, grandpa." The man raised a heavy, steel-toed boot.
Ji-hoon felt it then. The familiar, terrifying itch at the base of his skull.
Don't look, his rational mind begged. Call the police. Run away. You are Han Ji-hoon. You cannot be involved in a scandal. You are a good person.
But Han Ji-hoon was too good. He couldn't walk away. And because he couldn't walk away, the other thing inside him—the thing that hated evil more than it loved survival—woke up.
The world tilted. The sounds of the city—the distant traffic, the wind—faded into a muffled hum. The only thing sharp and clear was the sound of the thug's laughter.
Ji-hoon's breathing slowed. His posture changed. The slouch of a tired teenager vanished, replaced by the predator-like grace of a dancer. Or a killer.
He didn't pull out his phone. He stepped forward.
"Hey!" the thug shouted, spotting him. "Get lost, kid. Unless you want to die."
Ji-hoon lifted his head. Under the brim of the bucket hat, his eyes were no longer the warm, puppy-dog eyes that made teenage girls swoon. They were dead voids.
"The paint job," Ji-hoon said. His voice was different. It wasn't melodic anymore. It was a low, jagged whisper, like tearing silk. "You're worried about the paint job?"
"Are you deaf?" The leader of the group, a burly man with a neck tattoo, marched toward Ji-hoon. He threw a punch aimed at Ji-hoon's face—the face insured for millions of won.
Ji-hoon didn't flinch. He didn't block. He simply moved.
He sidestepped with terrifying speed, grabbing the man's wrist. With a sickening crack, he twisted it backward.
The man screamed, dropping to his knees.
"Shut up," Ji-hoon commanded. It wasn't a request.
The other two men charged.
In his normal state, Ji-hoon hesitated to kill a mosquito. In this state, he saw human anatomy as a geometry problem to be solved.
He ducked a swinging pipe, drove his elbow into one attacker's solar plexus, and swept the legs of the other. It wasn't a fight. It was a dismantling.
He didn't stop when they were down. The "Evil" demanded payment for the sin.
Ji-hoon stood over the leader, who was clutching his broken wrist, sobbing. Ji-hoon tilted his head, watching the man's fear. It felt... intoxicating. It felt right.
"You like breaking things that can't fight back?" Ji-hoon whispered, crouching down. He picked up the discarded steel pipe. "Let's see how you like being the wreckage."
He raised the pipe. His face, usually so expressive, was a mask of cold apathy.
"No! Please!" the thug screamed.
Stop, the tiny voice of the real Ji-hoon cried out from deep inside. You're going to kill him.
But the Shadow didn't care. The pipe came down.
CLANG.
He missed the man's head by an inch, smashing the pipe against the concrete pavement. The sparks flew, illuminating Ji-hoon's face for a split second.
The shock of the impact jarred him.
The Red Haze evaporated.
Ji-hoon blinked, the breath rushing back into his lungs as if he had been drowning. He looked down. Three men were groaning on the ground, broken and bleeding. The steel pipe was vibrating in his hand.
He dropped it as if it were burning hot.
"Oh my god," Ji-hoon whispered, his normal voice trembling. "Oh my god."
He looked at his hands. His knuckles were bruised. There was blood on his expensive limited-edition sneakers.
The old man, the victim, was staring at him. Not with gratitude, but with absolute horror.
"Monster..." the old man whispered, shrinking back against the wall.
Ji-hoon's heart shattered. He wanted to help the old man up, to apologize, to pay for his hospital bills. But he heard sirens in the distance.
If he was found here, like this, standing over three battered bodies...
Han Ji-hoon, the Nation's Angel, ran. He ran into the darkness, terrified not of the criminals, but of the reflection he might see in the mirror.