[Lot 7 – Dockside Market, South Busan – 4:02 PM]
The ocean was quiet. But the city was not.
Buzzes, chirps, whispers, feet on cracked pavement. A crowd was forming.
Lot 7 was a slab of urban ruin near the docks, once a freight zone, now an open wound in Busan's body—tagged walls, rusted cargo crates, and uneven concrete painted with the dried blood of past disputes.
Today, it belonged to the narrative.
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Lee Sangjun had been rehearsing this moment for two days.
He wore a spotless white tank top under a bomber jacket with DRIFT stitched across the back. His hands were wrapped in black tape, forearms tense.
Behind him, a local news crew he'd paid off set up their camera at a "safe distance." Half the lower-tier South Busan crews stood in little knots, pretending they just "happened to be passing by."
He stepped into the center of the lot, arms raised.
"Where's the king?" he shouted. "Or does he only swing at shadows now?"
"I'm right here," came the voice. Clear. Measured.
Heads turned.
And Eli walked in.
No entourage. No fanfare. Cunning smile like he was hiding something sharp.
Eli stepped into the ring of silence like it owed him.
Someone in the crowd muttered, "He came alone?"
Another whispered, "He's not even stretching."
Lee Sangjun grinned.
"You're either stupid, suicidal, or ready to hand this city over."
Eli tilted his head.
"And you're either desperate, disposable, or in denial."
"Let's find out."
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No countdown. No bow. Just violence.
Sangjun exploded forward—spinning hook into elbow feint, then a tight left jab aimed at Eli's throat.
Eli leaned back.
Not panicked. Not evasive.
Calculating.
He parried the jab and stepped sideways, guiding Sangjun past him with nothing more than a breath and a glance.
The crowd gasped. The motion was too clean.
Sangjun stumbled forward, caught his footing, turned red.
"Think you're slick, huh?"
"No," Eli said, rolling his neck, "I think I'm clean. You're just trying to make a mess."
The next exchange was faster.
Sangjun came low—two quick jabs, uppercut follow. Eli blocked the first, took the second to the ribs on purpose, and let the third graze his chin.
Blood hit the pavement.
Eli smiled.
"That's it," he said. "They need blood to believe in you."
"Let's give them enough to drown."
This time, Eli attacked.
Three steps forward.
Palm to jaw. Shoulder smash. Foot sweep.
Sangjun crashed into a crate.
The crowd murmured—split between awe and confusion.
This wasn't a win-or-lose fight.
It was a performance.
Sangjun got up, spitting, wiping blood from his mouth.
"You think this is still your story?"
Eli walked forward like he was late for a meeting.
"You picked this lot because it's public."
"You brought a camera because you need an audience."
"But you forgot—"
He closed the space instantly—grabbing Sangjun's jacket, yanking him forward.
"—I don't need a story."
"I am the f***ing rumor."
He slammed Sangjun down, not hard—but deliberately.
Loud enough for everyone to hear.
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Sangjun tried to scramble up.
Eli let him.
Sangjun swung wide. Missed.
Swung again.
Missed.
The crowd saw it.
The rhythm was broken. Sangjun was punching through fog. His body moved like a man underwater.
Eli just stepped around it.
No counters. No flurry.
Just presence.
Until Sangjun tripped on his own momentum and landed flat again.
Eli looked at the camera.
"He asked for a fight."
"I gave him a mirror."
He turned and walked out.
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The silence was deeper now.
Not from shock.
From recalibration.
Sangjun's own lieutenants didn't move to help him.
A middle-tier rep posted the first clip: Eli dodging four strikes in a row, unbothered.
A student watching from a rooftop posted:
"You don't beat that. You study it."
By sundown, three more crews distanced from Drift on backchannels.
No loyalty was pledged to Eli.
But silence had become his banner.
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[Yeji – 6:31 PM, Rooftop Café]
She watched the stream rewind again and again.
"He still doesn't have a crew," she said aloud.
Across the city, Samuel leaned over a monitor.
"No," he whispered.
"He doesn't need one."
"He just made the city his audience."
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[9:11 PM – South Node Control Room]
Instructor Lee reviewed the data.
Click.
Replay.
Pause: Eli smiling with blood on his lip.
He didn't even finish Sangjun. Didn't need to.
"He's reframing power," Lee muttered.
He opened a file: "Target Update: Ryu, Samuel."
Voiceover logged:
"If we can't discredit the king…"
"…cut off the strategist."