[CTRL9 Trap Compound, South Busan – Pier 17 - 3:13 AM]
The alley reeked of sea salt and scorched rubber. Broken glass lined the edges of old container lots, shattered like someone had tried to make the ground bleed.
Samuel walked alone.
No crew. No camera. No myth. Just him, a cracked burner phone in one pocket, a steel pipe in the other, and Ji Yun's last known location marked with a red dot.
Pier 17 had once belonged to Drift. The warehouse ahead bore its scar — half-painted Drift tag burned into the metal wall, half-scrubbed off with acid.
CTRL9 wasn't trying to own the South.
They were trying to overwrite it.
A single CCTV eye turned with a click as he passed. He didn't look at it.
He just whispered, "I'm here."
The main door unlatched by itself.
He stepped inside.
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The air was dead inside the warehouse. Not silent—dead.
The walls were freshly painted. The lights were too clean. The echo didn't bounce.
There was a chair in the center. White. Empty. An IV bag hung from a metal pole like a threat not yet finished.
Samuel scanned once.
A sound from the rafters—bare feet sliding down a vertical support bar.
Lark landed on the concrete like he'd been born from it.
Eighteen. Impossibly still. In a black jacket that didn't crease.
He didn't blink as he walked forward.
"You bleed slower than I expected," Lark said."They said you might improvise. That's exciting."
Samuel answered by charging.
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Lark side-stepped Samuel's first strike and countered with a double-step inside cut—elbow to neck, thumb jab to the sternum.
Samuel reeled but stayed close. He used the pipe—distract, strike low.
Lark didn't block.
He let it graze his shin, closed the distance, and slammed Samuel's shoulder into the wall.
"Seventeen paces," Lark whispered. "That's how long it took you to commit."
Samuel used the wall as leverage. Elbow over Lark's arm, tried to trap him in a key lock.
Lark dislocated his own shoulder to escape.
Popped it back mid-roll.
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Samuel feinted a stumble. Lark moved in fast.
That was the opening.
Samuel turned with a wild backfist — caught Lark across the jaw. Then a knee to the gut. A headbutt for good measure.
Lark staggered, but his smile didn't break.
He pulled something from his jacket — not a knife.
A clipboard clip. Broken steel.
He stabbed it into Samuel's bicep.
"CTRL9 trains to use everything. You were the first who questioned the rulebook. That made you dangerous."
Blood ran down Samuel's arm.
He gritted his teeth. "Still am."
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Just as Samuel lunged forward again—four figures burst in from the south stairwell.
Local muscle. Paid punks.
They wore PGR tags, cheap boots, and false bravery. Each armed — pipes, batons, knives.
Lark stepped back.
"I'm here to test data. They're here to end noise."
The first swung wide.
Before it landed, a blur moved from the shadows.
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The first punk's body flew back—landed unconscious on a stack of crates.
The second looked up just in time to see Eli Nam step through the broken light.
No entrance line. Just a look.
The third guy ran. Eli let him. He wasn't worth the rhythm.
The second tried to talk tough.
Eli walked right past him—then turned and kicked his knee backward at the joint.
Snap.
The fourth screamed and charged. Eli grabbed him mid-run and drove him head-first into the floor.
Samuel didn't look.
He just muttered, "Took you long enough."
Eli:
"You know how much I hate bad lighting."
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Samuel pulled the clip from his arm. Dropped it. Blood stained the floor.
Lark watched Eli finish off the last goon.
"Two on one? Not like you, Ryu."
Samuel cracked his neck. "He's not here for you."
"I'm not," Eli added, pacing past the chaos. "I'm here for him. Because he doesn't ask for help. That's rude."
Samuel lunged again.
Lark met him with more urgency this time.
The rhythm was different now—Samuel's footwork was staggered, raw.
He wasn't playing to win.
He was playing to collapse the tempo.
One hard slam into Lark's gut. A shoulder into the crate.
A pipe swing. Missed.
Then — one solid elbow across the jaw.
Then again.
Again.
Lark finally dropped.
Coughing blood.
"That's why they don't let us feel," he said."We lose rhythm when we bleed."
Then he vanished into a flash-smoke exit.
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[Somewhere near Pier-17]
Taejin cracked his knuckles as Instructor Lee stepped out of the surveillance shed.
Lee fought like a book. Perfect form. Efficient.
Taejin wasn't efficient.
He was weight and instinct.
Every strike Lee landed was sharp. Every one Taejin returned was heavy.
Lee tried a triple-joint wrist lock.
Taejin bit down, twisted, and headbutted him out of the hold.
"You ever fight someone who failed every test?"
Lee gasped. "That's why you'll lose."
"No. That's why you won't see the end."
Taejin grabbed his collar and slammed him into the wall hard enough to shake the whole frame.
Lee collapsed.
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Inside the warehouse, Samuel leaned on the crate, bloodied, ribs cracked.
Eli offered him a cigarette.
Samuel slapped it away.
"You didn't need to come."
Eli lit his own.
"That's why I came late."
On the floor, Ji Yun's hairpin.
Next to it: a GPS chip. Cracked. Still pinging.
Samuel picked it up.
"They didn't move her to hide her."
He looked at Eli.
"They moved her to teach me what it feels like to chase."
Eli: "Then don't chase. Burn the road instead."