(from "battery zero")
Rain hammered against the asphalt, relentless and cold.
Red and blue lights bled across the soaked street as paramedics moved between twisted metal and shattered glass.
A black Mercedes pulled up beside the wreck. From it stepped Detective Rian Seo, tall, coat flapping with an unreadable expression.
A uniformed officer jogged up, holding an umbrella over him.
"Detective Seo," the officer said, shouting over the rain. "You made it fast."
Rian didn't answer at first. He let his eyes move slowly over the wrecks: the taxi's grill folded inward like a broken jaw, the other car's hood a crumpled hat. He smelled fuel. He smelled old gum and a man's cologne—an ordinary, human mix that made the scene feel unbearably close.
"I was nearby," Dectective Rian Seo replied finally, eyes fixed on the wreckage. "What do we have?"
The officer swallowed. "Two cars, head-on." the officer tarted as the both walked towards the wreckage.
"Both drivers—breathalyzers show positive. Same for the other guy. Don't know how—two drunk drivers, same collision course. Only one passeger survived. He's been taken to the hospital. The other passenger... didn't make it."
Rian's hand sank into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the small, folded photograph taped to his wallet. He kept his face neutral. He crouched, close enough to the taxi to feel the heat of the metal through the rain. The driver's side was shredded back like an opened chest.
"Look here," he said, pointing, more to himself than the officer. He pushed a bead of water off the hood with a gloved hand and let his light sweep across the torn paint.
The officer leaned closer.
At first it could have been anything—scratches, a smear where someone had dragged something across the panel—but then the silver caught. Someone had painted a symbol on the metal, and despite the rain, it hadn't washed away. The lines were bold and wrong and proud, painted thick with an oily silver that sat on the crushed paint like bone stitched to skin.
It was a ring—almost complete—but a single break at the top where the paint splintered into a jagged notch. Through that notch a short, crooked oar had been painted, black as a coal vein. Around the ring, someone had scored tiny hash marks—so many they looked like teeth. On the surface the paint webbed, small ridges catching the light like scars. It smelled faintly of oil and turpentine, the kind of smell you get when something is painted in a hurry, outdoors, under pressure.
Rian brushed the rain from his eyes and felt the catch in his chest.
"What's that?" the officer said, voice small almost in a whisper. "Could it be—"
Rian stood up so fast the umbrella nearly tipped. Motioning toward the second car, he said to the officer "Check the other one."
As he watched the officer hand over the umbrella to him and quickly rush towards the second wrecked vehicle, each step hissed through the downpour, swallowed by the storm, Rian's mind scribbled through memory—recent case files, last night's briefings, photographs— all have been connected to that same symbol blurred in the corner.
"someone's leaving a mark?" he thought as He moved to the other car and crouched again. The rain drowned everything for a long, heavy moment.
"Found it!" the officer said pointing.
"Two marks," the officer whispered. "That means it wasn't random, was it?"
Rian didn't answer. His silence was answer enough.
Right There—near a bent wheel, partially hidden under jawed glass—the paint blinked back: the small, frantic loop of the ring, the jagged notch, the black oar. Someone had taken time to hide it in scrap so only a careful eye would find it. Someone wanted a detective who cared enough to find it. Or not.
"This cannot be a coincidence." Rian finally said. He turned toward the paramedics. "Any survivors?"
The officer avoided his gaze.
"One," the officer said. "A teenager—Jiru. He's been moved to Seoul Central Medical. The other passenger was your partner, Dectective Minho… he didn't make it. He protected the kid, wrapped his body around him before impact."
Rian froze mid-step.
The officer continued quietly. "He took the brunt. The EMTs said it—said the kid was—" He swallowed and continued.
"From what they said, he died a hero." he said finally.
Rain pattered harder against the umbrella.
Rian's voice came out hoarse. "…Minho?"
The officer gave him a comforting look and a pat on the shoulder. "I'm sorry"
A long pause.
For a moment Rian was only the man leaning on his knees, hands pressed into his coat, rain soaking through the fabric. He tasted salt and oil and regret.
"Seal it," he said finally standing up. "No pictures, no media. Tie it off. Call Captain Oh. Nobody leaves the perimeter without me signing it off. Tidy the scene, but don't touch the marks. Photograph them, catalog everything. And call me if anything changes."
"Yes, Detective," the officer said, voice steadying into official routine. He drew his notebook. "I'll get it done."
Rian straightened. He should have been methodical—take reports, set interviews, make the rounds—but something heavy had closed over his chest. He didn't know how to be methodical when the shape of his own life was a photograph away.
"Minho's gone?"
He tried to march through the motions. He walked to his car, ducked under the umbrella, and slid into the driver's seat. For a moment the world was a pattern of windshield wipers and blurred lights.
Inside the car, he slammed the door. The rain clapping the roof like someone hitting a drum. He gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles whitened. slammed the car door shut. The rain outside swallowed every sound, but inside—inside it was too quiet.
He sat there, drenched, shoulders trembling, eyes burning holes into the fogged windshield. The wipers squeaked once, slow, like a sigh.
His hands clenched around the steering wheel. Knuckles white. Jaw locked. A single drop of rain slid down his temple — or was it a tear? He didn't know anymore.
Then it hit him.
The words. The cop's voice.
"your partner, Dectective Minho… he didn't make it."
Rian's breath cracked as he exhaled.
He slammed his fist into the wheel — once, twice — then again, harder, until the horn blared and drowned in the thunder.
"Dammit, Minho!" he yelled, voice shaking. "You stupid— you stupid brave bastard!"
He shoved a stack of wet files off the passenger seat, papers scattering like broken feathers. Some slid under the pedals; he didn't care. He leaned back, head falling against the headrest, eyes closed, breath uneven.
For a second, he saw it all again,
Minho laughing that morning, tossing him a cup of burnt coffee.
"You drive today," Minho had said, grin crooked. "Your turn to ruin the tires."
"Yeah, right," Rian had shot back. "You'll just complain about my music."
"Exactly. Balance."
And then the call — that damn call.
Just before lunch.
"Quick one," Minho had said, slipping his coat on.
"You owe me ribs after," Rian had replied.
He never came back.
Now, in the silence of his car, Dectective Rian hit the steering again, not in anger this time, but in surrender. His forehead dropped onto the wheel. His shoulders trembled.
A choked sound escaped him — a laugh, or maybe a sob before he wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, smearing rain and tears together.
He reached for the GPS, voice barely steady.
"Set destination…"
He hesitated, throat tightening.
"…Seoul Central Medical."
As the automated voice confirmed the route, He gripped the wheel again, staring out into the storm.
"Hang in there, kid," he muttered under his breath. "If you're the reason he died, you better be worth it."
He pressed the pedal down. The sedan roared into the storm, its taillights fading into the dark.
---
EXT. CITY ROOFTOP, few meters away.
A man lay flat on his stomach atop a high-rise roof, his black leather coat soaked but unmoving. His breath came out slow and steady.
In his gloved hands, a binoculars scanning the wreckage under the lightning. Through it, he watched the street below — paramedics, flashing lights, yellow tape.
He adjusted the lens slightly.
Focus.
There — Detective Seo Rian, standing near the wreck, rain dripping off his coat.
The watcher smirked.
He lowered the binoculars, reaching for his walkie-talkie. Rain crackled against the device as he pressed the button.
"Boss," he said quietly, voice low and raspy. "They found out."
A few seconds of static.
Then — a voice came through. Calm but Confident.
"Varen…"
The man's grin widened at the sound of his name.
"This is just the beginning," the voice continued.
Varen chuckled, tucking the binoculars back into his pockets standing up against the wind.
The thunder roared behind him as he watches from the rooftop as Dectective Rian zoom off in his Black Mercedes.
"Now the real game begin!"
→ End of Chapter 3: A Rainy Friday