The men spread wider, boots scraping on broken cement.
Jin-woo watched their feet more than their faces. One on the left dragged his right leg, weight on the heel. Knife most likely tucked on that side. The skinny one on the right bounced on his toes, nervous, hands open, looking for a chance to grab. The two in the center carried their shoulders like men who had broken noses before and kept fighting.
The leader hung back on the crutch, mouth twisted. Not joining. Just watching.
Good. Four first, then.
The closest rushed in, knife flashing from his waistband. Straight thrust toward Jin-woo's ribs, same mistake as half the city.
Jin-woo stepped into him instead of away. Pipe smashed downward, metal on bone. The knife-hand dropped. His knee came up, crushed the man's groin. The thug folded with a strangled wheeze.
Another came from the right, arm swinging wild. Jin-woo pivoted, heel snapped into the man's thigh, right above the knee. The joint buckled. The man crashed into the one behind him, two bodies tangling.
Space opened for a breath.
Behind him, the apartment entrance sat in his peripheral vision. Mrs. Park somewhere upstairs, pressed to the door, listening if they got past him and reached the stairs.
No.
The skinny one lunged low, arms reaching for Jin-woo's legs. Classic tackle. Street brawler's move.
Jin-woo hopped back, planted, and drove his boot across the kid's face. Teeth clicked loud. The kid dropped on his side, hands clutching his mouth.
"Grab him, you useless shits!" the leader spat from behind.
The last uninjured one came in with more caution, hands up, circling, trying to herd Jin-woo away from the center.
Jin-woo let him.
He shifted step by step, drawing them toward the street, pipe loose at his side. To them, it looked like retreat. To him, angles and distance, counting heartbeats, counting feet to the alley mouth he'd passed a hundred times.
The man feinted high. Jin-woo didn't bite. He slammed the pipe into the man's forearm, then shoved hard with his shoulder. The thug staggered back into the others, bodies bunching again.
That was the gap.
Jin-woo burst through the narrow opening, boots pounding the cracked sidewalk. He didn't sprint flat out. Just fast enough to drag them, not lose them. He wanted them close, wanted their anger louder than their caution.
"Run, freak! Run!" the leader barked behind him.
Jin-woo cut left into a side alley that split off from the main street, a narrow cut between two dead buildings. No windows low enough for bystanders. No line of sight to Mrs. Park's place. Only overflowing trash cans, damp concrete, and walls high enough to trap sound.
Perfect.
He slowed near the middle and turned, pipe resting on his shoulder. Breath steady. Ribs burning, hand wet with his own blood around the grip.
The first of them spilled into the alley mouth, then the others, panting, eyes bright with the thrill of an easy hunt they thought they'd cornered.
"Come on," Jin-woo called.
No old woman behind him now. No home at his back.
Just five men in a narrow throat of concrete, and The Wolf waiting.
The largest of the thugs stepped forward, a man with hands like meat hooks and a neck that stretched his shirt. The kind who crushed beer cans against his forehead to impress girls in bars.
"Nowhere to run now, freak."
Jin-woo balanced his weight on the balls of his feet. "I wasn't running from you."
"The fuck does that mean?"
Jin-woo let his orange-gold eyes speak for him. The narrow walls would funnel them, force them to come one or two at a time.
"Grab him," the leader ordered from the alley entrance, leaning on his crutch.
They spread out in a loose half-circle. Five men, varying degrees of desperation and anger. Jin-woo measured distances, angles, the slight narrowing of the alley's throat. Timing would matter. Five was too many for head-on. He needed to make each movement count.
The big one rushed first, predictably. A bulldozer approach, all weight and momentum. Jin-woo waited until the last second, then pivoted sideways. His pipe connected with the back of the man's knee, a practiced strike at the joint. Bone cracked. The big man's momentum carried him face-first into the wall.
One down.
The knife-wielder came next, blade flashing in the dim light. This one moved with purpose, short, precise slashes aimed at Jin-woo's midsection. Not a street fighter. Someone with training. Jin-woo backed up three steps, pipe raised defensively.
"You should've minded your own business," the man hissed, feinting left, then right.
"A mistake we both made," Jin-woo replied, keeping his breaths even.
The knife darted forward. Jin-woo deflected with the pipe, steel scraping against steel with a metallic shriek. The man pressed forward, forcing Jin-woo back another step. The pipe caught another slash, but the force numbed Jin-woo's fingers.
Behind them, the others circled, waiting for an opening.
The knife-man lunged again. This time Jin-woo stepped into it, a calculated risk. The blade sliced across his forearm as he brought the pipe down on the man's wrist. Bones crunched. The knife clattered to the ground.
Jin-woo kicked it away and shoved the howling man into the path of the others.
Two down. Blood ran warm down his arm.
"Rush him together!" the leader shouted from safety.
The remaining three came at once. Jin-woo swung the pipe in a wide arc, forcing them to hesitate. His back was nearly to the wall now. Limited options.
The skinny one ducked under his swing and tackled him at the waist. Jin-woo's back slammed against brick, knocking the wind from his lungs. The pipe clattered away.
Hands grabbed at his throat, his arms. Jin-woo drove his knee up, connected with something soft. Someone cursed. He broke one grip, then another, twisting away from the wall.
A fist caught him in the ribs, right where they were already bruised. Pain exploded through his side. Jin-woo gritted his teeth, caught a wrist, and twisted until something popped. A scream, then another body dropping.
Three down.
The fourth landed a punch to his jaw that sent stars across Jin-woo's vision. He staggered back, tasting blood. The wall pressed against his shoulders again. No more room.
The man grinned, blood staining his teeth. "Not so tough now, are you, wolf-eyes?"
Jin-woo spat blood and reset his stance. Even cornered, he wouldn't show weakness. "Still standing. You're not."
The man pulled a knife, longer than the first, serrated edge catching what little light filtered into the alley. "Let's fix that."
He lunged forward, blade aimed at Jin-woo's stomach. Jin-woo twisted, but the confined space limited his movement. The knife slashed across his arm, opening a line of fire from elbow to wrist.
Jin-woo hissed through clenched teeth. Blood spilled down his fingers, making his grip slippery. The man pressed his advantage, slashing again. Jin-woo caught his wrist but felt his strength wavering.
Too many fights. Too little food. Too many sleepless nights. The limits of his body were betraying him.
The knife edged closer to his throat.
"I'm going to carve those freak eyes out," the man whispered, his breath hot and rancid. "Keep them in a jar."
Jin-woo's back was flush against the wall now, nowhere left to retreat. The knife trembled inches from his face as he strained against the man's weight. Blood dripped steadily from his arm, forming a dark pool at his feet.
This wasn't how it ended. Not here. Not to these men.
He gathered his remaining strength for one desperate push.
Then a voice echoed through the alley, cold as winter steel.
"That's enough."
The word dropped like a stone in still water. The knife-wielder froze, head turning toward the sound.
Jin-woo didn't look away from the blade at his throat. A distraction could be a trick. But something in that voice carried absolute authority, the tone of a man used to being obeyed.
The next sound was unmistakable: the mechanical click of rifles being readied, multiplied a dozen times over.
The knife-wielder's eyes widened. His grip loosened fractionally.
Jin-woo finally risked a glance toward the alley entrance.
Men in tactical gear had materialized like ghosts, weapons trained on the thugs. Not police, something else. Military precision. Black uniforms with no insignia. Professional killers.
Above them, the rhythmic thump of helicopter blades beat the air. Shadows slid across the walls as spotlights swept the narrow space.
The knife-wielder stumbled back, hands raising slowly.
"On the ground! Weapons down! NOW!" The orders came from all directions.
Jin-woo remained against the wall, breathing hard, blood running down his arm. He kept his eyes on the men who'd attacked him. They were dropping to their knees, faces pale with shock and fear.
One of them, the one who'd held the knife to Jin-woo's throat, made a desperate calculation. His eyes darted to Jin-woo, to the soldiers, to the knife still in his hand.
*CHK-CHK*
*BANG!*
A sharp crack tore through the air. The man screamed and collapsed, clutching his knee as blood burst between his fingers.
"The next one goes through your head," a calm voice called out.
Jin-woo snapped his gaze upward. On the rooftop edge, just past the corner, a sniper stood half-silhouetted against the sky, rifle angled down, barrel already tracking its next target.
The alley erupted into controlled chaos as the tactical team swarmed in, securing the wounded attackers. Jin-woo stayed perfectly still, hands visible, awaiting whatever came next. Friend or foe, these weren't people to provoke.
The crowd of soldiers parted, and a single figure walked forward.
He moved with purpose, each step measured and confident. A tall man, perhaps in his early sixties, with short gray hair and the rigid posture that spoke of military bearing. Despite civilian clothes, an expensive dark suit and polished shoes, everything about him screamed authority.
The man stopped a few paces from Jin-woo, studying him with sharp, assessing eyes. They lingered on Jin-woo's orange-gold irises, showing the first flash of something beyond professional detachment.
"Kang Jin-woo," he said. Not a question.
Jin-woo said nothing, pressing his hand against the wound on his arm to slow the bleeding.
"My name is Shin Hyeon-woo. Colonel, retired." The man's voice was measured, formal. "I apologize for not arriving sooner."
"Who are you?" Jin-woo asked, voice rougher than he intended. Blood loss and exertion were taking their toll.
"A question with a complicated answer." The colonel nodded to one of his men, who immediately approached with a medical kit. "Allow us to tend to your wounds first."
Jin-woo shifted away from the medic. "Answer the question."
A ghost of approval flickered across the colonel's face. "Direct. Good. I've been sent by Chairman Cheonha."
"Who?"
"Your grandfather."
The words hung in the air between them, nonsensical. Jin-woo shook his head. "I don't have a grandfather."
"Everyone has a grandfather, Mr. Kang. Yours has been looking for you for twenty-six years." The colonel's eyes flicked to the orange-gold irises again. "Those eyes. The family trait. Unmistakable."
Jin-woo felt the world tilt slightly. The alley walls seemed to press closer.
"This is a mistake," he said, even as doubt crept in. The document with his name, the only link to whoever he might have been. Could it be possible?
"No mistake." The colonel gestured to the tactical team, now hauling away the subdued attackers. "Your grandfather is the Chairman of Cheonha Group. One of the most powerful men in DAEHAN. And you, Kang Jin-woo, are his only living heir."
Jin-woo stared at him, blood still dripping between his fingers, the pain in his arm suddenly distant.
"Will you come with us?" the colonel asked. "Or would you prefer to keep fighting in alleys until your luck runs out?"
Jin-woo looked at the blood pooling at his feet, then at the efficient soldiers around him, then back to the colonel's steady gaze.
"Why should I believe you?"
The colonel's expression remained impassive. "Because I could have let them kill you if I wanted you dead."
Hard logic. Jin-woo couldn't argue with that.
"And Mrs. Park?" Jin-woo asked, thinking of the old woman who'd shown him kindness.
"Will be taken care of, if that's your concern." The colonel nodded slightly, as though making a mental note. "Your grandfather would expect nothing less."
Jin-woo took a breath, felt the pain in his ribs, the blood cooling on his skin.
Twenty-six years of nothing. Of no one. Of fighting just to exist.
And now this.
"Lead the way, Colonel," he said finally.
The colonel turned, and the sea of black-clad soldiers parted before him.