Rain soaked the streets, washing the blood from the alley and leaving the smell of smoke hanging in the air. Incheol stood under the flickering streetlight, the tip of his cigarette glowing faintly as he watched the boy in front of him. Ahn Pyeonghwa was too young for a place like this, too clean in a world full of dirt, but there he was, standing in the rain with a torn shirt and a basketball under his arm like he had nothing to lose.

Incheol should have walked away. He’d seen a hundred kids like him before, restless and proud, looking for trouble just to feel something. But Pyeonghwa didn’t flinch when he spoke, didn’t look away even when Incheol’s men lingered nearby, waiting for an order.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Incheol said quietly.