PRESENT DAY…

The warehouse looms like a rusted skeleton beneath the moonlight, silent and brooding. A cold wind snakes through its broken windows, whistling softly as if the building itself is holding its breath.

Crouched low behind a tower of crates, YU-JUN waits—black-clad, ski mask snug against his face, eyes narrowed and unblinking. Every inch of him is coiled, focused, still. He’s not just here to make noise. He’s here for blood. Specifically, the BOSS’s.

He hurls the knife.

It slices through the air like it has a personal vendetta, lodging itself in a guard’s shoulder with a satisfying thunk.

The man yelps like a kicked chihuahua, clutching his wound and stumbling backward. 

The warehouse, moments ago deathly still, erupts in chaos—shouts, scuffling boots, doors slamming open. The hornet’s nest has been kicked.

YU-JUN doesn’t flinch.

He’s already moving—slipping through shadows like smoke, dodging between crates, silent and surgical. He's on a mission, and no amount of bad cologne and cheap suits will stop him.

Inside, the BOSS hears the screaming and does what all great cowards do—runs. He bolts to a sleek black car waiting at the edge of the lot, starts the engine, and peels off like a bat out of hell.

YU-JUN sees it. His jaw tightens. No. Not tonight.

He sprints. A blur.

One man lunges—gets elbowed in the gut so hard he forgets his mother’s name. Another tries to draw a weapon—loses it before he can blink. YU-JUN fights with ruthless grace, each move clean and brutal.

But the numbers are catching up.

Panting, blood slick on his side, YU-JUN glances around. More coming. Fast.

He curses under his breath, makes the call: retreat.

Feet pounding the pavement, he disappears into the night. The men chase, but shadows are YU-JUN’s native tongue. By the time they catch their breath, he’s gone.

He stumbles into the alleyway beyond, every breath sharp, every step a lesson in pain. But he’s alive.

POLICE STATION – NIGHT

The police station hums under flickering fluorescent lights. The printer is jammed, the coffee’s expired, and someone’s clearly microwaving fish. 

In the corner, POLICE OFFICER 1, barely out of rookie status and already two cups past his caffeine limit, sits hunched over his cluttered desk like it’s the last line of defense between him and a breakdown.

His computer screen glows back at him, pages of boring reports open—but then, ring ring. The ancient landline buzzes to life with all the drama of a thriller film. He snatches it up like it owes him money.

POLICE OFFICER 1
(into phone, breathless)
"It’s him again. The anonymous guy. He dropped another location... the BOSS’ op in the docks this time."

He waves over his partner—POLICE OFFICER 2, all confidence and enthusiasm, mid-coat swing, holster halfway on.

POLICE OFFICER 2
(grinning like he’s about to win a lottery)
"Whoever this guy is, I owe him snacks. We’ve shut down three of the BOSS’ spots in a month thanks to him. He’s my hero."

Suddenly—cue dramatic music—CHIEF DETECTIVE walks in like a storm cloud in human form, now the dreaded Head of Gang related crimes division. 

His trench coat flaps dramatically (no one knows why, there's no wind). He stops just long enough to throw a bucket of cold realism on the mood.

dry, deadpan he goes,
"Hero? He’s a vigilante. This isn’t a comic book. He should leave this to the police ."

The junior officers freeze like kids caught sneaking snacks. The CHIEF DETECTIVE keeps walking, grumbling like an old cat with a limp and a vendetta against optimism.

CHIEF DETECTIVE
(half to himself, half to the universe)
"Though… yeah, we’ve actually made progress thanks to him. Which is infuriating."

He pauses near the window—classic reflective moment. Rain hasn’t started, but if it did, you bet it’d be slow-motion.

His brows knit together. Something’s nagging at him like a fly that won't die.

(muttering, voice low)
"Feels too precise. Too surgical. Whoever’s behind this... knows the BOSS inside out. It’s not guesswork. It’s personal."

He turns, a flash of suspicion in his eyes.

 (quietly, more certain)
"It has to be them... those two boys. Only they would know how to hit him where it hurts."

He spins back toward the bustling officers like he’s had three espressos and a vision.

 (snapping)
"Let’s move! I want boots on the ground ten minutes ago!"

The officers scramble, adrenaline kicking in. Coats fly, radios crackle, someone nearly trips over a filing cabinet.

The CHIEF DETECTIVE storms out, throwing himself into a waiting squad car like he’s diving into war. The engine roars, sirens blaze, and just like that—
They vanish into the night.

The squad cars screech to a halt outside the decrepit dockyard. Rusted shipping containers tower like crooked tombstones. A thick fog rolls in off the water, just in case the mood wasn’t already grim enough.

CHIEF DETECTIVE steps out, trench coat flaring dramatically again—possibly due to a hidden fan he keeps for moments like this.

CHIEF DETECTIVE
(growling)
"No lights. No sirens. We go in quiet. If anyone so much as sneezes, I will personally transfer them to traffic duty in the sewers."

The officers nod, serious. Except for POLICE OFFICER 2, who accidentally cocks his gun too loudly. Everyone glares.

POLICE OFFICER 2
(whispering)
"Sorry! It’s new."

They split up, moving like shadows across the concrete. The only sounds are the distant creak of steel and the occasional seagull screaming like it saw something unspeakable.

Inside, it’s worse—dim lights flicker overhead, casting long, twitchy shadows across the maze of crates and contraband. Armed men in sleek black suits move through the space, unaware of the imminent chaos.

Suddenly—glass shatters.

POLICE OFFICER 1 crashes through a window like a caffeinated raccoon. He rolls behind a crate and yells:

POLICE OFFICER 1
(shouting)
"POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!"

Naturally, everybody moves. Guns come out. Chaos erupts like popcorn in a microwave.

CHIEF DETECTIVE bursts in through the front, takes one look at the mess, and sighs with the weight of a thousand paper reports.Then he fires a warning shot into the ceiling

"I SAID NOBODY MOVE!"

A thug fires. The CHIEF DETECTIVE sidesteps like a seasoned salsa dancer and nails him with a taser that definitely wasn’t department issue.

Gunfire crackles. Officers shout. Somewhere, someone’s playlist starts blaring Eye of the Tiger over the warehouse PA system.

Backup storms in. Tactical teams take control.

It’s swift, clean(ish), and loud enough to wake half the district.

Minutes later, silence returns.

Smoke drifts through the warehouse. Men are cuffed, groaning. A few officers are bruised, but nothing permanent—except maybe pride.

POLICE OFFICER 1
(panting)
"We got ‘em. But the BOSS… he wasn’t here."

CHIEF DETECTIVE
(quietly, thinking)
"Of course not... but I have a feeling we will get him soon."

Outside, moon hangs low and cold above the empty road, bathing everything in a pale, ghostly light. Wind rustles the dry leaves that line the edges of the forest, but the silence feels too loud—too still.

YU-JUN stumbles forward. One foot drags. The other barely holds. Blood sticks to the fabric of his shirt like a second skin, warm where it shouldn’t be. Each breath tears through him like glass. His vision is fogged, doubling the trees, stretching the road.

He grits his teeth. Keeps moving. One step. Another. He’s not sure what’s holding him up anymore—pride? Spite? Maybe that stubborn little flame of unfinished business still burning behind his ribs.

The phone in his hand is slick with blood. He fumbles with it, swearing under his breath as his thumb misses the screen once, twice. On the third try, it rings.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

“Please...” His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. “Pick up...”

He makes it to a tree and leans hard against the trunk, the bark scraping his shoulder as he slides down. His knees give way. His body trembles with exhaustion, eyelids fluttering shut before he forces them open again.

"Not yet.
Don’t black out yet."

After what feels like eternity-

A low rumble. Distant at first, like a memory. Then closer. Louder. A motorcycle engine tears through the night, cutting into his consciousness like a blade.

Headlights crest over the hill, twin beams splitting the darkness in two. The bike swerves hard and skids to a stop just feet away, gravel flying. The rider jumps off before the wheels stop turning, helmeted, dressed in black, fast and fluid like a shadow with purpose.

“YU-JUN!”

The voice—sharp, panicked, familiar.

He blinks up, too tired to lift his head fully. His lips twitch into a weak smile.

The rider curses, yanks off their helmet. Hair spills out. Eyes go wide with alarm.

“Oh my god,” they breathe. “You’re bleeding everywhere. What the hell happened?”

But YU-JUN isn’t listening anymore. He’s drifting. The pain feels distant now, like it's happening to someone else.

“The geese...” he murmurs, a breath of absurdity in the middle of the chaos. 

“What have you gotten yourself into…?” Her voice breaks slightly, the edges lined with steel, but the middle soft with worry.

She hovers over him, her fingers trembling as they brush the side of his face before pressing gently to his neck. Pulse—faint, but there. Her eyes scan the gashes, the way his side rises and falls like it’s trying to give up.Then, more gently:

“I know you said no hospital but can I at least call DO-YUN?”

YU-JUN’s head moves—barely a shake. The motion is small, stubborn, and somehow still dramatic. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something meaningful and profound… but all that comes out is a choked breath that sounds more like a dying kazoo.

His body slumps.

A-RA doesn’t flinch.

She’s already moving, slipping his arm around her shoulders like it’s muscle memory. He’s heavier than he looks. Dead weight in every sense. But she grits her teeth and lifts, her legs trembling under the strain, her heart louder than the wind.

You’re going to owe me  for this,” she mutters, half to him, half to herself.

He groans in response—a weak, pitiful noise that could be pain, or just protest at the idea of debt.

She maneuvers him toward her bike, one careful step at a time. The engine still hums, waiting. She throws one leg over the seat and helps him onto the back, adjusting the helmet over his head like she’s cradling a bomb.

“Hold on,” she murmurs, threading his arms around her waist. “Pretend you like me.”

YU-JUN doesn’t respond—his head lolls against her shoulder, the weight of trust and unconsciousness both resting squarely between her shoulder blades.

She glances back once. His fingers twitch. His breathing is shallow. It’s enough.

The engine roars beneath them.

She guns it.

As they tear down the road, her silhouette slicing through moonlight and wind, the red-blue strobe of police sirens lights up the distance—headed the other way.

A-RA doesn’t look back.
Not at the cops.
Not at the warehouse.
Not at the blood on her gloves.

All that matters is staying ahead of it all.