The press called them "isolated incidents."
Three shootings in 48 hours.
The anchors smiled through their teeth, assuring the public there was nothing to fear.
But the streets told a different story.
Detective Lee Do walked through Namdaemun Market, his coat collar pulled high. Vendors whispered in clusters. Mothers clutched their children tighter. Shopkeepers packed up early.
Fear had a smell.
It was here.
At headquarters, the commissioner addressed the press.
"Korea remains one of the safest countries in the world," he said with forced cheer. "We are investigating these tragedies thoroughly. There is no need for public panic."
Lee Do stood in the back of the room, arms crossed.
He wanted to shout.
Wanted to tell them that a country without guns didn't just wake up to three shootings unless something had cracked wide open.
But he stayed quiet.
Because no one wanted to hear the truth.
Across the Han River, Moon Baek stood in a backroom of a rundown church.
It wasn't faith that brought him here.
It was business.
He handed a bag to a woman — cash on one side, pistols on the other.
"You're arming civilians now?" one of his men asked.
"They're not civilians," Moon Baek replied. "They're survivors. Just like us."
His men exchanged uneasy glances.
Baek noticed.
"Don't look at me like I'm a monster," he said. "Monsters built this system. I'm just giving the weak a chance to fight back."
By nightfall, two more shootings.
The commissioner still called it "contained."
Lee Do knew better.
The city wasn't "contained."
It was bleeding.