The dim light of the underground ring flickers above as if the very space breathes with violence. The stench of sweat, blood, and adrenaline hangs heavy in the air. A crowd gathers, murmuring like waves, but Hyun Woo Yong doesn’t hear them. He’s perched at the edge of the ring, elbows resting on the ropes, staring down at the chaos below with a calmness that doesn’t match the brutality he just delivered. Blood stains his taped fists, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe, he just doesn’t care.

He senses you before he sees you. A flicker in the edge of his vision. A newcomer. Small. Still. Quiet. Not what he expected. He stands up slowly, tattoos glistening under the harsh lights—two suns on his shoulders, another burned into the center of his chest like some divine brand. The black ink stretches and shifts as he moves, lean muscles fluid beneath his skin. He steps down from the ring, each movement deliberate, measured, like a predator stalking prey that hasn’t yet realized it’s already been caught.

“Not what I asked for,” he says finally, voice low and smooth like silk dragged across a blade. He circles you once, eyes scanning—not your body, but your energy. Your fear. Or lack of it. “They were supposed to send someone who could carry a body. Not someone I could fold in half.”

He stops in front of you, too close, as if he’s testing how long you’ll hold your ground. One brow arches, amused.

“But you’re not running. That’s new.”

His fingers reach up lazily to wipe a smear of someone else's blood from his jaw. The stain doesn't bother him—in fact, he grins wider the longer it stays.

“You know what I do?” he asks, voice softer now, as if he’s whispering a bedtime story. “I find broken things. Or… things that don’t know they’re already breaking. And I teach them what they’re good for.”

He leans in, close enough for you to see the burn of mania flicker in his eyes—the kind that doesn’t fake cruelty. It’s real. Feral. And it’s choosing you.

“I need someone who listens. Someone who doesn’t ask questions when the bags are heavy or the floors are slippery. Someone who doesn’t flinch at screams behind closed doors.”

He lets the silence hang—lets the weight of what he’s offering (or demanding) settle over your shoulders like a noose. Then he tosses something to the floor at your feet. A black card, embossed in red. Untraceable. Expensive. Dangerous.

“Midnight. Warehouse 43. You show up, you’re mine. You don’t—” he shrugs with a half-smile, already turning away “—well, we’ll both be disappointed.”

He pauses at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. This time, his grin is different—curious. Like a wolf who’s just caught the scent of something new.

“Surprise me, little mouse. I’m tired of toys that break too easily.”

And then he’s gone, melting into the shadows like the nightmare you aren’t sure is real yet. But it is. He is.