[South Busan, Gupo District – 10:02 AM]
The air smelled like humidity and exhaust.
Gupo was in a strange silence today. Not the silence of peace — the kind that comes when a storm passes, and people aren't sure if it's really over.
South Busan wasn't celebrating.
They were watching.
Every crew that had laid low during the Drift Bloodline fights now waited to see if Eli Nam would walk the streets again… or vanish like a one-week devil.
And then he showed up.
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A broken basketball court near the docks. Rusted hoops. Chain-link fences wrapped in black tape and drifted trash.
Eli walked in with Daegun and Seojun behind him.
The wind moved plastic bags like ghosts across the pavement. Onlookers were already waiting — lower-tier crews in twos and threes, whispering. Some were from the old Dogsung fringe. Others from Gupo's courier clans. One or two Drift dropouts blended in.
At the center stood Tae-min, self-appointed mouthpiece of the Bunker Dogs. Wore a utility vest with no gear, like a child playing soldier.
"Didn't think you'd show up," he said, smiling with one tooth missing. "No crew colors. No flag. You here to talk or bleed?"
Eli didn't respond.
He walked forward, step by step. Deliberate. Head tilted.
"You talk like a man who's seen war," he said.
Tae-min sneered. "We held down Gupo while you were—"
Daegun's punch was fast.
Too fast.
Tae-min hit the ground and didn't move. His legs twitched once.
Seojun picked up the steel pipe he'd been hiding behind his foot and lobbed it over the fence.
Eli didn't stop walking.
He stepped over Tae-min like he was part of the floor.
Then turned to the others watching.
His voice didn't rise, but everyone heard it.
"There's no army here. Just a question."
"Do you kneel because you're weak — or because you know who stands above you?"
No one answered.
That was enough.
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[1:25 PM – South Busan, Old Billiards Club]
It was hot inside. The fans spun but didn't cool. A single long table sat under a flickering ceiling light, surrounded by folding chairs.
Three mid-tier crew representatives waited — restless, sweating, trying not to show it. Their territories barely mattered: market alleys, scooter runs, side routes.
Yeji sat calmly. White shirt, sharp braid, clean cut. She looked more like a prosecutor than a gangster. Jace stood behind her, leaning casually against the doorframe, sunglasses on indoors.
One of the crew leaders finally broke the tension.
"We're not enemies," he said, voice cracking slightly. "We've held South Busan together for years. You can't just take—"
"You're not enemies," Yeji interrupted, tone even. "You're unaligned debris."
Another tried.
"We can negotiate a cut. We have infrastructure—"
"You had fear," Jace cut in. "Fear of Drift. That's gone."
Yeji stood slowly.
"Power doesn't negotiate this early," she said. "It sorts."
A pause.
"You kneel. Or you vanish quietly."
That was when the third rep, silent until now, slowly pushed back his chair and bowed from the waist.
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[2:37 PM – North Busan, Off-Grid Terminal]
Samuel sat alone in a disused observation post — a storage room rigged with monitors, cables, and analog buffers to avoid digital trace.
He watched a familiar feed: Eli's slow re-ascension into public territory. Already, social media chatter picked up. An image of the Gupo court standoff, blurred but brutal. Drift lieutenants still silent. Power was consolidating.
Then something caught his eye.
A separate feed. School administrator. Southside vocational network. Talking to a janitor — or someone dressed like one.
"Profile confirmed. Passive surveillance deployed. Expect asset destabilization within 72."
Samuel froze.
CTRL9 language.
They weren't going after Eli's body.
They were going after his narrative.
He opened a folder marked E.N Profile Risk Matrix.
The name Namgang Blade was still deleted. But now he added a line:
"CTRL9 step one: erode public myth before tactical sweep."
He closed the file. Didn't call Eli.
"Not yet."
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[3:05 PM – Drift HQ, Inner Corridor]
Two fighters leaned against the wall, half-whispering.
"You saw him leave the pit untouched. You saw Gilwoo watch it."
"He let Eli live. He let him speak."
"What does that mean for us?"
One nodded toward the closed office door. Gilwoo hadn't come out in hours. Hadn't said a word since.
Then the janitor found a note pinned to the locker room wall.
Burned edges.
Black ink:
"Watch who doubts. Watch who waits."
No name.
No blood.
Just pressure.
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[5:15 PM – Subway Exit, South Busan]
The crowd shifted with the coming night.
Vendors pulled down metal covers. Students loitered on phones. Two cops patrolled, pretending not to notice.
And then a man stepped off the train.
Not tall. Not short. Brown student bag. Clean jacket.
He looked like no one.
But his gait was clean.
His eyes scanned patterns, not people.
He adjusted his collar as he walked. His school ID was forged. His gloves were tight.
In his earpiece, a voice whispered:
"Step 1: Isolate the variable.""Step 2: Remove public sympathy.""Subject: Eli Nam."
The man kept walking.
Toward the district where power was rising too fast.