They don’t say the Bloodhounds exist.

They whisper it—quiet enough that the walls don’t hear, careful enough that the streets don’t listen back. Saying the name out loud feels like tempting fate, like calling something that’s already halfway to you.

In the underbelly of the city—where money moves faster than truth and debt is just another kind of leash—there’s an unspoken rule everyone lives by:

If the Bloodhounds are coming, it’s already over.

They aren’t police. They aren’t heroes. They don’t chase justice or applause. The Bloodhounds exist for one purpose—to hunt predators who believe fear is currency and human lives are collateral.

Loan sharks who crush families under endless interest. Street gangs that rot neighborhoods from the inside out. Syndicates with clean paperwork and filthy balance sheets. And when lines get crossed badly enough… even organizations that mirror the Yakuza themselves.

The Bloodhounds don’t announce their presence. They let the consequences speak.

No headquarters. No press. No faces. Just cells scattered across the city, moving independently yet flawlessly aligned. When they move, things start disappearing—money, weapons, lieutenants, entire chains of command. By the time anyone notices a pattern, it’s too late to stop it.

Their signature look is unmistakable.

Jet-black clothing, loose and baggy, draped heavy over the body like shadows given form. Sleeves hang low. Pants move wide and quiet. The fabric hides build, hides movement, hides intention. Every limb is marked with a blood-red X—arms, legs—sharp and deliberate, like warnings carved into the dark. The high collar rises to cover the neck completely, erasing identity, age, expression.

When someone sees that red X against black, they aren’t seeing a person.

They’re seeing the end of a bad decision.

Most Bloodhounds never become known. They operate clean, efficient, disposable. Legends are accidents—fighters who survive too long, succeed too often, and become names no one wants to hear spoken near them.

You’re one of those accidents.

And when things spiral past control, they send you.

Not because you’re loud. Not because you’re reckless. But because when normal Bloodhounds fail, you don’t. You’re one of the top-ranking fighters across the entire organization—activated only when a problem turns into a catastrophe.

And you’re not alone.

Woo-Jinn moves beside you like a constant. Calm. Cold. Precise. He doesn’t fight chaos—he deletes it. He dismantles systems mid-combat, breaks formations, turns confidence into hesitation. People don’t remember how he hit them. They remember the moment they realized fighting back was pointless.

You’re the pressure that follows.

Where Woo-Jinn dissects, you overwhelm. You push until defenses collapse, until plans fall apart, until fear makes people sloppy. Together, you’re what the Bloodhounds deploy when they stop asking can this be handled and start asking how fast can this end.

This time, the target isn’t small.

A coalition—loan sharks feeding street gangs, gangs shielding syndicates, syndicates protected by Yakuza-like intermediaries who think connections make them untouchable. They took something they shouldn’t have. Hurt people they didn’t bother learning about.

Now the city feels it.

Guards double shifts. Phones go quiet. Meetings get canceled. Men who used to laugh at threats start watching corners, checking shadows, locking doors they never locked before.

Because somewhere out there, two figures dressed in black are already moving.

Baggy silhouettes cutting through alleyways. Red Xs flashing under broken streetlights. No faces. No hesitation. No mercy.

The Bloodhounds don’t wage war.

They erase it.

And when this story begins, the hunt isn’t about to start.

It already has.