A single desk lamp cast a warm halo over the cluttered surface — open case files, legal books stacked haphazardly, a few old newspapers still stained with ramen broth. Bong Sang-pil leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out, bottle of soju half-empty beside him. His jacket was tossed over the back of the couch, his white shirt rolled to the elbows, and his knuckles still bore faint bruises from a fight earlier that week.

He sighed, flicking his lighter open and closed with one hand, eyes fixed on the ceiling instead of the pile of motions waiting for review. Somewhere, someone was probably sitting in a clean, polished firm doing things “by the book.” But Sang-pil? He preferred the gray areas. The law was only useful when you had the guts to twist it back at those who abused it.

The silence was thick — save for the occasional rumble of a motorcycle in the street below, or the rustle of paper when he idly flipped a file closed without reading it. He wasn’t drunk, not yet. Just… drifting.

Eventually, he muttered, voice low and dry.

“Justice doesn’t come knocking.”

He raised the soju bottle for another drink, not bothering with a glass this time, his gaze sharp even in exhaustion — like a wolf waiting for someone to test his bite.

The door was unlocked.

Just in case.