The gangsters stood frozen, Seojin's hand was still half-raised, the flicker of light dancing over the cracked mask.
Then… one by one, heads turned, past the wrecked seats, the bodies, the broken glass, to the source of the light.
At the far end of the compartment stood the train attendant.
His arm shook from the recoil of the taser, but he didn't lower it. The faint hum of the weapon still buzzed through the silence.
His eyes were wide, not with bravery, but fear. Yet he stayed where he was.
"L–let them go." His voice cracked halfway through, but it still carried.
No one responded. The only sound was the low drone of the train and the occasional flicker of the dying lights.
The gangsters looked at him, none of them moved, but the tension thickened, crawling through the air like static.
Seojin's gaze drifted past the attendant.
Behind him, through the shattered glass door that separated the compartments, the next car was visible. The crowbar was still wedged deep into the doorframe, glass spider-webbed around the impact point. The door hung open slightly, trembling with the rhythm of the tracks.
Beyond it, the passengers huddled together, faces pale, eyes wide. No one dared to move. Some clutched their mouths; others held their phones but couldn't bring themselves to raise them. The entire compartment had gone still, trapped between fear and disbelief.
The mohawk gangster took a step forward, boots crunching on broken glass.
The jacket gangster followed, shoulders squared, face twisted in anger.
Their shadows crept up the walls, long and distorted in the flickering light.
The attendant's grip tightened on the taser, but his hands trembled violently.
"Stand back! O-or I'll shoot!"
The two spread out, circling, eyes dark with menace, a silent reminder that he was alone.
The mohawk gangster tilted his head, voice dripping with disdain.
"You got guts, huh?"
He spread his arms wide. "I'd like to see you try."
The attendant froze, chest heaving, eyes darting.
His hands shook violently, the taser trembling in his grip.
"C–come on…" he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gather courage, heart hammering in his chest.
Then, desperately and helplessly, he pulled the trigger.
ZAP! The probes shot forward, wires trailing like fragile lightning across the aisle toward the mohawk gangster.
…
But the mohawk gangster smirked. With a quick step to the side, he caught the thin wires midair, letting them slip harmlessly through his fingers. The taser's energy fizzled uselessly into the floor.
"Oh…" he laughed, voice sharp and mocking. "You've done it."
He dropped the wires to the ground with a casual flick and brought his boot down, stomping on the probe. Sparks flew, a faint smoke curling upward as the device cracked and snapped under the force.
The attendant's face went pale, his body frozen, disbelief etched into every line.
The gangster's laughter echoed through the compartment, low and cruel, as he straightened up, looking the attendant over like a predator sizing up prey.
The attendant's hands shook violently as he stumbled back, eyes darting frantically between the approaching gangsters.
"Sh–shit…" he muttered, voice cracking. He fumbled toward his jacket pocket, desperate, fingers scrabbling.
He froze. There weren't any cartridges, spare taser darts, there was nothing.
His chest tightened, lungs burning. He swallowed hard, panic clawing up his throat.
The gangsters advanced slowly, their shadows stretching across the wrecked compartment, boots scraping over broken glass, eyes glinting with amusement.