Rain again. Classic Seoul. Classic me—wrong day, wrong alley, wrong face and in the end, all the right trouble.
"You dead or just lazy?"
Steel-toed boot, ribs. I groan, roll onto my back.
Three shadows outlined in neon and piss—one shouting, one laughing, one chewing gum like he's the lead in some high school drama.
I squint up. "If I had a nickel for every time I woke up like this, I'd—never mind. Long story."
"He's got jokes," Toothpick-For-Brains says, spitting into the puddle by my face. "Give us your name. Unless you got a death wish."
Best to play along, for now. "Han Gyeol. Or 'hey, you' if you're shy."
They circle. It's a dance—step in, posture, throw a line. I see it all in slow motion.
Gum Guy, who actually thinks he sets the tempo, "Did no one teach you manners at your last dump school?"
"Didn't stick," I admit. "Bad teacher. Paid by the hour, afraid of the kids."
Flash.
Someone else's memory—it's always someone else's, these days—Mom flicking the TV remote, old movie booming around the apartment: "You talkin' to me?" De Niro, heavy-lidded and invincible in his own little world.
I almost smile. "Yeah. I'm talking to you."
Wrong answer. Someone swings. Sharp pain, not new, not interesting.
I roll and take the hit, grab his elbow, use his weight. He's surprised—I count breaths, scan exits, recite the opening lines from Fight Club in my head. "I am Jack's raised eyebrow."
Street rule one: If you can't win, confuse. If you can't confuse, amuse.
I get him on the ground, not pretty but enough to shock the audience.
Crowd gasps. Alley's always got one. Bandaid Girl, backlit in lamplight, chewing her thumb and watching like she's got bets on the round.
Tall Boss helps his mate up. "Who taught you to fight like that?"
I shrug. "Jackie Chan. Online."
He's less amused now. They close the circle.
I touch my lips. Here's blood—yeah, that tracks.
"Let's go, tough guy," Tall says.
"Sure."
I mimic a boxer's stance, humming Rocky's theme under my breath. "Yo, Adrian."
He scowls. Swings. Misses by a rumor and an ego.
I backstep, hands up. "Look, you want me out? Just ask. No need for drama. Unless you're collecting likes."
Toothpick: "You think you're the MC?"
I flash a lazy grin. "Main characters are overdone. The supporting cast always has more fun."
There's a ripple near the wall. Jay—in the shadows, copying my smirk, maybe taking notes.
It goes on. Back and forth. A dance of near-misses and insults. Sneakers slapping puddles, adrenaline flickering static between us. At one point, someone yells, "He's dodging like Neo!" and I roll with it.
"Dodge this," Boss tries.
I yawn. "Wrong movie."
The fight ends not with a knockout, but a truce. Unspoken, grudging. My nose is bleeding a little, and my shirt's what my mother would call "ruined," but I'm upright.
Bandaid Girl sidles up with a water bottle. "You're not what they expected."
I take it, wipe my face. "Nobody ever is."
Locker room. My lock sticks, so I kick it. "Open sesame," I mutter.
Kid at the sink stares. "You're crazy."
I wink. "Complaints, questions, or fanmail—leave them in my inbox."
The day blurs by in snapshots.
Teachers lazy, students lazier. Some sizing me up for trouble, some for something else. My name spreads faster than the cafeteria paste.
By last period, even the teacher is wary. She calls my name—Han Gyeol, new kid.
I answer, "Present and questionable."
Someone laughs. Score one.
After class, Bandaid Girl waits by the gates. "You made enemies fast."
"Allies are overrated."
She grins. Offers a piece of hard candy. "For the champ."
I take it. "You expect me to eat something from a stranger?"
"A wise man once said, 'Do or do not. There is no try.' But you? You do, right?"
Can't help it—I grin wider. "Quoting Yoda? In this economy?"
She shrugs, nonchalant. "World's weird."
"You don't know the half of it."
Jay finally steps out of the twilight, sliding along the fence, quiet as thought.
"You're trouble," he repeats from earlier.
"Not yet. Give me a week."
He shakes his head. "This world was fine before you."
I quote an old anime—Gojo's trademark: "I'm sorry I'm just too strong."
He gets the joke. Walks away.
Rain tapers. I sit on the rooftop, watching traffic stutter through the evening.
Lights glow. Schoolyard fights replay in echoes, memories overlapping fiction.
Old Bruce Wayne in my ear: "It's not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me."
Good line. I keep it.
Suppose I'm not the hero. Suppose I don't care.
Suppose all I want is to leave tomorrow a little less predictable.
The world blinks. I swear, for half a second, the city glitches and rearranges.
If you blink, you'd miss it.
But I never do.