The "Midnight Fury" circuit was held in a decommissioned shipyard, a maze of rusted shipping containers and slick, oil-stained asphalt. The air was thick with the smell of salt and burnt rubber, illuminated only by the harsh, flickering glare of industrial floodlights.
Lian sat in the cockpit of his car, his "Sovereign" mask firmly in place. Tonight, he wasn't just here to race; he was here to finalize a deal with a deep-sea shipping mogul. His pulse was a steady, rhythmic thrum—until a familiar, cream-colored sports car pulled up into the staging area beside him.
The window rolled down, revealing Jin-Ho. He was wearing a leather racing jacket and a pair of aviators, looking entirely too relaxed for an illegal street race.
"Fancy meeting you here, Little Phoenix," Jin-Ho's voice crackled over the short-range radio frequency Lian used for racing. "Is this where you come to pretend you don't have a heartbeat?"
Lian gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white beneath his gloves. "I told you to stay out of my way, Jin-Ho. This isn't a boardroom. People die here."
"Oh, I know," Jin-Ho replied, his voice dropping its playful edge for a fraction of a second. "That's why I brought a front-row seat."
The race began with a scream of tires. Lian pushed his car to the limit, his mind calculating trajectories and friction coefficients with robotic precision. But his focus was fractured. In his rearview mirror, Jin-Ho was keeping pace, driving with a reckless, "cunning fox" style that defied logic.
Halfway through the course, as they rounded a blind corner flanked by towering containers, Lian's "God-level" senses flared. He noticed a flash of light from a gantry crane high above—the glint of a telescopic lens.
A sniper.
The target wasn't him. The red laser dot was dancing across the headrest of the cream-colored car beside him.
"Jin-Ho! Break left! Now!" Lian roared into the radio.
Jin-Ho didn't hesitate. He jerked the wheel, his car skidding sideways just as a high-caliber round shattered his passenger-side window.
"Assassins?" Jin-Ho's voice came through, sounding remarkably calm despite the glass shards in his hair. "I really must be getting popular."
Lian didn't answer. He slammed his brakes, his car spinning in a perfect 180-degree turn to shield Jin-Ho's vulnerable driver-side door. He reached into his glove compartment, pulling out a compact, silenced handgun.
"Stay in the car," Lian commanded.
He stepped out into the shadows. The Haphephobia was screaming, the open space making him feel exposed and vulnerable, but the "Sovereign" took control. He moved like a shadow, his footsteps silent on the metal gratings. He looked up at the crane, his eyes tracking the heat signature of the shooter.
One. Two. Three.
Lian fired three shots in rapid succession. The sniper fell from the gantry, hitting the concrete with a dull thud. But there were more. A black van screeched to a halt nearby, and four armed men in tactical gear spilled out.
Lian didn't retreat. He moved toward them with a cold, terrifying fluidity. His fighting style was a blend of brutal underworld efficiency and anatomical precision. He didn't just hit; he dismantled. He struck nerve clusters, shattered joints, and paralyzed limbs with the same ease he used to brew medicinal tea.
In less than a minute, the four men were on the ground, groaning in agony but alive—Lian had hit every non-lethal pressure point with surgical accuracy.
He walked back to Jin-Ho's car, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts.
Jin-Ho was standing outside his vehicle now, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. He looked at the carnage, then back at Lian. "You're a doctor who knows exactly where to hit so it hurts the most. You're terrifying, you know that?"
Lian stopped a few feet away, his chest heaving. The adrenaline was fading, and the panic was starting to claw at the back of his throat. He looked at Jin-Ho—really looked at him—and saw a small cut on the man's temple where a shard of glass had grazed him.
Without thinking, Lian reached into his tactical vest and pulled out a small vial of clear liquid and a sterile swab. He stepped toward Jin-Ho.
"Don't move," Lian said.
Jin-Ho stood perfectly still as Lian reached out. Lian's hand was shaking, his brain screaming at the proximity, but he forced himself to dab the antiseptic onto Jin-Ho's forehead. It was the first time he had initiated "touch" with someone since his rebirth.
The contact was electric. Lian felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror, but beneath it, there was something else—a warmth that didn't burn.
Jin-Ho watched him, his eyes softening. He didn't pull away. He didn't mock him. He simply breathed in sync with Lian, helping him ground himself.
"You saved me," Jin-Ho whispered.
Lian pulled his hand back as if he had been burned, his face pale. He tucked the vial away, his voice returning to its icy shell. "You're my business partner. Your death would be a logistical nightmare."
"Is that the only reason?" Jin-Ho asked, taking a small step forward.
"The only one that matters," Lian replied, turning toward his car. "The race is over. Get your car fixed. And Jin-Ho?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time, stay in the boardroom. The shadows are mine."
As Lian drove away, he looked in his mirror. Jin-Ho was still standing there, a small smile on his face, touching the spot where Lian had cleaned his wound.
Lian's heart was still racing, but for the first time in two lives, it wasn't from fear. He was a King, a CEO, and a Ghost—but as the city lights blurred past, he felt a strange, terrifying hope that maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to be a ghost forever.