Jinjahan burned like it had waited centuries for this day. Streets boiled over with bodies—some screaming, some dead, some in between. The JPD couldn't hold the lines. Their batons broke, their shields shattered. And when they opened fire, the crowd didn't run. They charged.
Civilians stormed precincts. Prisoners were freed—mutants, politicals, even the broken. Chaos birthed chaos. And then... A cold wind swept through the carnage.
The deafening sounds dimmed, like the city itself paused to draw breath in dread. Out of a convoy of armored trucks marked with JPD crests, he stepped out. Deputy Commissioner Choi Jisung.
Long gray coat, black gloves still dripping with someone's blood, eyes like razors behind polished sunglasses. His stride slow, deliberate, like a beast that knew nothing could touch it.
A woman screamed—he spun, two taps. Chest. Head. He wasn't restoring order. He was cleansing the streets with bullets.
"Kill 'em all," he barked to his unit. "If they're breathing and brown, shoot twice."
Kim watched from a ruined scaffold, gripping the railing till it groaned. Beside him, Aisha's lips trembled, fingers bruised from clutching her press tablet. Their breath was smoke. Their eyes—embers. That face. That damn smirk.
Choi Jisung. The man who climbed over Kim's broken back into power. Once, they bled together. Once, they called each other brother. Now… that bastard rained death on the innocent. Kim didn't wait.
Kim walked toward him like a ghost with unfinished business. Choi turned, unimpressed. He chuckled as he pulled his sunglasses down, eyes glinting like knives.
"Well, well, look who crawled out the gutter," he sneered. "Kim Taehyung. Thought you'd be dead by now."
Kim said nothing. His fists did the talking—tightened, shaking.
"You know," Choi continued, walking around him, circling like a shark, "when I told the commissioner you were dirty—sympathizing with freaks, screwing mutants, leaking precinct routes—I thought they'd throw you in the gutter."
He stopped in front of Aisha. "Guess they did."
He turned back to Kim, smirking wider. "And this is who you're hiding behind right?" he laughed, gesturing lazily. "A street rat with a mic? What's she cost you—half a stale sandwich and a pat on the ass?"
Kim stepped forward. Choi didn't flinch. "She moan in mutant tongue, Taehyung? Or just bark like the dog she is?"
Aisha's jaw dropped. Her eyes watered—but she stood tall. Kim's breath grew ragged.
"Oh, don't glare at me like a hero," Choi taunted. "You had a badge. A chance to wear this—" he tapped his rank "—but you pissed it all away for mutant trash and cheap love. Tell me—how many rounds you got out of her before she cried resistance?"
He raised a hand and slowly turned in a circle, gesturing to the massacre around them.
"This… this is the truth of Jinjahan," he said, voice low and calm like a teacher giving a final lesson. "No good cops. No bad cops. Just the system."
He faced Kim again, spitting blood to the side. "I told you that, didn't I? Back when you still had a badge. You were so pure. Wanted to save people. Wanted to be the light in the dark. But this city doesn't want light, Kim. It wants chains."
Behind them, the giant LED billboards flickered—Masked Man's broadcast, glitchy and unstable, still shouting revolution through static and fire.
Choi glanced up, then pointed at the screen. "That him? The masked freak who whispered poison into your ear?" he scoffed. "Is that the messiah who turned you into a wet dog hiding in tunnels and chewing on guilt?"
He turned to Aisha, slow and deliberate, his next words sharpened to kill. "Or maybe it was her, huh?"
Aisha stiffened. Choi grinned like the devil himself. "Tell me, Kim… did the Masked Man throw her into your arms on purpose? A little welcome gift for a gullible ex-cop?"
Kim clenched his jaw. Choi stepped closer, voice dropping into a venomous hiss. "Maybe she bored him. You ever think of that? Maybe her body wasn't so tasty anymore, so he passed her off to the next idiot who'd protect her. Like tossing yesterday's trash into another man's bed."
Aisha's lip quivered, but she held her ground. Kim growled low. "Oh come on," Choi chuckled darkly, "don't tell me you actually fell for her. She's not a martyr, Taehyung. She's a mouthpiece with mascara. You think she cried for Dante because she loved him? Nah—she cried because the revolution's poster boy didn't take her with him before he died."
He glanced between them, sick amusement twinkling in his eyes. "Hell, maybe he died just to get away from her."
Police sirens screamed like dying animals. Explosions boomed across the skyline. The ground shook as civilians and mutants clashed with batons, bricks, and bottles in the streets. Every district—from high-rise luxury blocks to the rotgut alleys—bled together into a war zone. And then… the screen froze.
The Masked Man's feed, glitching and hazy, suddenly stabilized. The entire city halted—just for a breath. His voice returned, calm and razor-sharp. "You all know me as a whisper. As a shadow. As the man behind the blackouts. But today… I'll give you a name."
The man on screen reached up slowly. Metal fingers brushed the side of his mask. And he removed it. Gasps echoed across rooftops, alleys, shattered plazas. The city knew that face. Adrian Locke.
A former Commander of the Capitol Patrol Guard. The man once called "the Iron Spine of Jinjahan."
Clean-cut jawline. Silvering hair slicked back. Eyes like cold steel. But now—he looked worn. Hardened. Changed. "My name is Adrian Locke," he said, staring straight into the camera. "I was once the fist of this broken system. I executed orders. I hunted mutants. I protected 'peace.' Until one day, I asked a question."
He leaned closer to the lens, voice burning low. "Are Albens truly superior? Or are they just the ones who write history?"
Silence. "I planned this for years. The tension. The riots. The whispers of resistance. I didn't cause them—I just gave them a match. And now, Jinjahan burns in the truth it tried to bury."
He looked tired now. But resolved. "Let it burn. Let them all see."
And with that, the screen cut to black. The moment it did, Jinjahan snapped. Like a switch had been flipped. The streets exploded into war.
Gunfire rattled from rooftops. Mutants ripped through armored vehicles. Medean civilians torched a federal bank while a group of Zwarten teenagers hurled molotovs at a police drone. An Alben militia opened fire into a crowd of protesters, and all hell followed. A media building was pulled down brick by brick. Fires painted the skyline in molten orange.
Back at the heart of it all, Choi Jisung gave a low whistle and clapped mockingly. "Well, well, well," he sneered. "So the grand messiah is Locke himself. The same bastard who trained half the Jinjahan CPG and now wants to tear it down with poetry and paranoia. Touching."
Kim said nothing, still seething, fists clenched. Choi turned back to him, calm, smug. "You see it now, Taehyung? You were never meant to save this place. You're not a hero. You're just roadkill under someone else's revolution."
Then he flicked his chin toward Aisha with that same smug curl of the lip. "And you? Trash in nice eyeliner. You really think any of this matters? You're not a symbol, sweetheart. You're a warm body men toss between bunkers."
Aisha didn't flinch—but her eyes flared. Choi stepped closer to Kim, voice dropping. "Final offer, partner. Leave Jinjahan. Now. Or die here like a stray dog with your cheap journalist."
Choi Jisung barely finished his smirk before Kim launched. A flash of movement—boots pounding the broken pavement. Fists clenched like iron, Kim roared and slammed into Choi's chest, knocking him back. The Deputy Commissioner staggered but recovered fast. A snarl curled on his lips as he tossed his pistol aside, letting it clatter against the rubble.
"No gun?" Choi asked, circling. "How noble of you, Taehyung."
Kim didn't answer. He charged. They collided like meteors. Kim went low, slammed his shoulder into Choi's gut and drove him against a rusted-out cop car. Glass shattered as Choi's back cracked the windshield. Kim reeled back a fist and unleashed—a left hook that rattled Choi's jaw.
But Choi didn't go down. He grinned, blood trickling from his lip. Then struck back. A sharp elbow snapped into Kim's ribs, followed by a knee to the gut. Kim gasped but twisted, catching Choi's leg mid-strike and flinging him overhead. Choi slammed into the ground, rolling with the impact like a trained beast. He popped up fast. Too fast.
"Still got some moves, old friend," Choi panted, cracking his knuckles.
Kim spat blood. "I should've broken your neck months ago."
Then they clashed again. Choi jabbed—fast, brutal military strikes meant to end fights quick. Kim blocked with forearms, slipped a right, and slammed his palm into Choi's throat. Choi stumbled—Kim didn't wait. He spun behind and locked an arm around his neck.
Choi slammed his head back—crack!—skull to nose. Kim reeled, blinded by pain. Choi followed with a savage roundhouse kick to the chest that launched Kim across the pavement. Kim skidded, rolling to his knees, coughing hard.
Around them, sirens wailed. Explosions boomed. But they were in a world of their own. Two wolves. No more words. Just war.
Kim roared and charged again, his body a blur of muscle and fury. Choi met him halfway—bare fists, cracked knuckles, blood flying from every hit.
They grappled. Traded headbutts. Threw elbows that split flesh. Kim ducked low, swept Choi's legs—and slammed him face-first into the concrete. Choi grunted. Blood painted the ground. But he laughed.
"You think this'll change anything?" he spat. "You'll die as a traitor. Just like Dante."
That name made Kim snap. He mounted him—punched, again and again—bone crunching, skin splitting. Rage boiled over, the face of every fallen comrade flashing in Kim's mind. His fists became hammers. One after another. Until—A voice.
"Kim—stop!"
Aisha's voice, shaken. Scared. Kim froze. Choi was barely conscious, face battered and bloodied beneath him. The city still burned. But Kim was panting like an animal, knuckles raw, eyes wide with rage.
He stood slowly. Turned to Aisha. Then he looked down at Choi one last time. "This time, I'm not following your orders."