Seo Do-hyun was born swinging.
In the crumbling alleys of Daegu's east end, baseball wasn't a game. It was a survival skill. Kids played with broomsticks and soda cans, not because they dreamed of stadiums, but because they needed something to throw, something to hit, something to feel human with. Do-hyun grew up with dirt under his nails, broken shoes, and eyes that never blinked when someone got hit.
His first swing wasn't on a field. It was in a parking lot, age thirteen. Three older boys jumped his friend for a lunchbox. Do-hyun stepped in, said nothing, and grabbed a rusted metal rod from a junk pile. He broke a wrist with his first hit, shattered a kneecap with his second, and split open a lip with the third. That was the day he learned what fear looked like from the other side.
Someone filmed it. Not a cop. Not a teacher. A man in a suit.
Two weeks later, the Baekho Syndicate knocked on his door. They didn't ask questions. They offered cash, clothes, a bed, and one rule: swing when told to.
By fifteen, he was an enforcer. By seventeen, he was a ghost story. They called him "Slugger." No one knew his name, just the sound of steel hitting bone in the dark. He didn't use guns—said they were too loud, too clumsy. He liked bats. Blunt force. No guesswork. Clean contact. A man falls, and you know it's over.
Every job was precise. He knew angles. Knew how much pressure it took to snap a shin. How to turn a ribcage into pulp without killing. He studied bodies the way hitters study pitchers. Timing. Rhythm. Weak spots. He didn't smile. Didn't gloat. He just swung.
But the Gwanak Incident changed everything.
He was twenty then. A rival crew sent twelve men to a warehouse near the port. They planned to ambush him, make an example. What they didn't plan for was that Do-hyun brought a bat already splintered, and still walked out with every one of them unconscious or bleeding out. One tried to crawl. Do-hyun broke both hands so he couldn't.
A dockworker caught it on a security cam. It leaked.
That night, the video hit the black market. Underworld message boards went insane. "The Slugger" became a name people whispered before sleep. Syndicates offered him fortunes. Foreign mobs tried to buy him out. Even the cops turned a blind eye. He was no longer a hitter—he was a walking myth.
And then, he disappeared.
No farewell. No last job. Just a photo posted online one day: a broken wooden bat tied to a chain-link fence by the ocean. A note carved into the fence beneath it: STRIKE THREE.
Nine years passed.
Now he runs a rusted-out batting cage in the outskirts of Busan. He sells canned drinks and fixes pitching machines. People think he's just a washed-up uncle who used to play ball. Nobody asks questions. Nobody knows the basement is locked for a reason.
But the wind still shifts when he moves.
And his swing?
His swing's still perfect.