The punch landed with a sound like wet laundry hitting stone.
The boy went down hard, cheek scraping against the cracked pavement, skin peeling away in a thin red line. He didn't scream. He'd learned—quickly—that screaming only made it worse.
Kang Woo-bin stood over him, shoulders loose, breathing steady. No adrenaline shake. No hesitation. Just a quiet assessment, like he was checking a broken object to see if it still worked.
It didn't.
Around them, the alley behind the convenience store held its breath. Two other students lingered near the dumpsters, pretending to scroll through their phones, pretending they weren't watching. They were good at pretending. Survival skill.
Woo-bin nudged the fallen boy's ribs with the toe of his sneaker.
"Get up."
The boy tried. His arms trembled. His legs didn't listen. He collapsed again, this time face-first.
Woo-bin sighed. Not annoyed—disappointed. He crouched, grabbed a fistful of the boy's hair, and lifted his head just enough to make eye contact.
"Don't make me repeat myself," he said.
His voice wasn't loud. It never was. Loud voices were for people who needed attention. Woo-bin didn't. The alley already belonged to him.
The boy's eyes were glassy, unfocused. Blood pooled at the corner of his mouth.
"I—I don't have it," he whispered.
Woo-bin tilted his head. Considered that.
"Yes," he said calmly, "you do."
He released the boy's hair and stood. Then he kicked him. Once. Clean. Controlled. Right in the stomach. The boy folded inward with a dry gasp, all the air ripped out of him like a bad habit.
One of the onlookers flinched.
Woo-bin turned his head slightly. Didn't look directly at them, but they felt it anyway—the invisible pressure of his attention.
"Did I ask for an audience?" he said.
They shook their heads in unison.
"Then leave."
They left.
The alley returned to silence, broken only by the boy's choking breaths and the distant hum of traffic. Woo-bin reached into the boy's jacket pocket and pulled out a thin wallet. He opened it. Counted quickly.
₩43,000.
Not bad. Not good either.
He slid the cash into his own pocket, then tossed the wallet onto the boy's chest.
"Next time," Woo-bin said, "don't lie to me."
There was no next time. They both knew that. But lies were part of the ritual. It helped people pretend they still had choices.
Woo-bin walked out of the alley without looking back.
—————————————————
At school, the air felt thinner.
Not literally. Just… socially. People made space for him in the hallways, a subtle widening of gaps, like a current parting around a rock. Teachers paused when he entered rooms, recalibrating their tone, their posture. Authority bent instinctively toward violence, even when it wore a uniform and a tie.
Woo-bin took his seat by the window. Last row. Corner. Optimal.
He rested his chin on his knuckles and watched the schoolyard below. A group of first-years laughed too loudly near the benches. Someone shoved someone else. Harmless. For now.
He felt nothing.
The teacher droned on about ethics. About rules. About how society functioned when everyone played their part.
Woo-bin almost smiled.
Rules were suggestions made by people without leverage.
A folded note slid onto his desk.
Meet after school. Same place.
No name. It didn't need one.
Woo-bin crumpled the paper and dropped it into his bag. He didn't look around. Whoever sent it already knew the answer.
Yes.
Always yes.
—————————————————
By evening, the sky over Icheon had turned the color of old bruises—purple, gray, yellow bleeding together. The streets glowed under flickering lamps, neon signs buzzing like tired insects.
Woo-bin walked alone. He preferred it that way.
The orphanage loomed a few blocks away, a squat concrete building pretending to be warm. He didn't look at it. He never did. The past was a dead weight. Carrying it only slowed you down.
Behind the convenience store, the alley waited.
Different faces this time. Three boys. Older. Not smart enough to bring weapons. Confident enough to think numbers mattered.
They talked first. That was their mistake.
Woo-bin listened, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded. When they finished, he nodded once.
Then he moved.
The fight was ugly. Fast. Elbows. Knees. A head slammed into brick. Someone's tooth skittered across the ground like cheap dice. Woo-bin took a punch to the shoulder—felt it, ignored it. Pain was background noise.
When it was over, two of them ran. One stayed down.
Woo-bin stood over the body, chest rising and falling a little faster now. He wiped blood from his lip with the back of his hand. It wasn't his.
That was when the night shifted.
At first, he thought he was dizzy. The air in front of him rippled, like heat off asphalt. Then it split—clean, geometric, wrong.
A screen appeared.
Black. Matte. Floating at eye level.
Text burned into it in stark white letters.
[INITIALIZING…]
Woo-bin didn't step back.
He stared.
The screen finished loading.
[BLACK MARKET SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Below it, a single line pulsed softly.
Balance: ₩1
Woo-bin's breathing slowed.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't panic. Panic was for people who still believed the world was fair.
He reached out.
His fingers passed through the screen—and the interface reacted.
A menu unfolded. Categories. Items. Prices.
₩1.
Every single one.
Woo-bin laughed. Quietly. The sound surprised even him.
Not because it was funny.
Because, finally, the world was being honest.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.
Woo-bin ignored them.
The screen hovered patiently, like it knew he would choose.
And he did.