The moon hung low over the river, a pale silver coin resting on ripples of dark blue. Its light shimmered along the water, flickering with the motion of the current. On both sides of the riverbank, buildings stood shoulder to shoulder—some glassy and modern, others worn and dull from time. But none of them were particularly beautiful. They were just there, like quiet sentinels lining the sleeping city.
On the third floor of one such building—concrete, modest, practical—Si Mok Hwang leaned on the balcony railing, watching the reflection of the moon stretch and bend with the waves.
The city wasn't loud tonight. The occasional horn in the distance, the murmur of traffic beyond the hills, and the soft creaking of boats at the nearby dock gave the night a muted rhythm. It was peaceful—almost.
Si Mok pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket, tapping the end against his fingers before slipping it between his lips. As he reached into the same pocket for his lighter, his gaze wandered to the building directly across the river. There, standing behind a narrow window, a man was watching him.
He didn't flinch or turn away. He simply stared, his face half-shadowed by a curtain. It wasn't threatening, not exactly. Just… peculiar.
Si Mok raised an eyebrow but said nothing. A flick of his thumb brought flame to life. The lighter's warm glow briefly lit his face—sharp jawline, short black hair pushed back in a way that looked casual but wasn't. He lit the cigarette, the ember flaring as he drew in a breath.
A soft breeze carried the first trail of smoke into the night air. He leaned back slightly, glancing over the balcony again—not toward the watcher this time, but toward the open stretch of water beyond.
A small fishing boat drifted by near the far bank. On its deck stood two men in thick jackets. They weren't casting nets or handling gear. They were just standing. Watching.
Strange.
He exhaled slowly. Maybe it was just coincidence. But something in his gut—it didn't sit quite right.
A scuff of movement below caught his attention. Down at the front entrance of the building, three men were walking up the sidewalk. They weren't in a rush, but their steps had purpose. One of them pointed toward the building's main door while the others nodded and adjusted their coats.
Si Mok's cigarette hung loose between his lips as he took one last puff and flicked it over the edge of the railing. It tumbled end-over-end, a spark in the darkness, before vanishing from sight.
Inside, he moved calmly through the modest apartment. It was clean, sparsely furnished—couch, small table, a jacket hanging by the door. No personal touches. Nothing that made it home. Just a place to stay.
He left the lights off and exited the apartment, descending the stairwell with steady, soundless steps. The overhead fluorescents flickered slightly, their hum faint but constant. On the landing between floors, he met one of the men from below—middle-aged, stocky, a scar over his right brow. The man looked surprised to see someone coming down.
"Excuse me, do you—"
Si Mok didn't wait. In one swift move, he stepped into the man's space, grabbed him by the collar, and drove his knee up—not with deadly force, but enough to shock the man's system. The man let out a grunt as his body folded slightly. Si Mok pivoted, using the momentum to redirect him against the wall. His head hit the surface with a dull thump, not enough to knock him out, but enough to leave him dazed.
The man slid down into a seated heap, blinking up in confusion.
Si Mok didn't look back.
He reached the ground floor and exited through the rear door, bypassing the lobby entirely. The parking lot behind the building was dimly lit but orderly. He spotted his black sedan parked near the gate, walked over, unlocked it with a chirp, and slid into the driver's seat.
As the engine came to life, headlights spilled out across the pavement—and immediately caught five figures stepping into his path.
They stood like a wall, spread across the exit lane. One of them raised a hand. It wasn't a wave. It was the kind of gesture that said: stop. We need a word.
Si Mok sighed and glanced in the rearview. Empty behind him. Nowhere to go but through.
He gently pressed the accelerator. The sedan crept forward.
The men didn't move.
Then, with a sudden burst, he gunned it. The car lunged forward. The five scrambled, some leaping to the side, others backing up fast. No one got hit, but he made his point.
Two of them ran after him on foot, shouting. In the side mirror, he saw the others sprinting toward two dark SUVs parked near the curb. Doors opened. Engines ignited. The chase began.
Si Mok calmly shifted gears and accelerated onto the main road, weaving through light evening traffic. His hands were steady on the wheel, eyes sharp as the SUVs closed in behind him.
Amateurs, he thought. Too noisy. Too obvious.
He took a hard right, then a left, leading them onto a quiet coastal road where the sea stretched beside him like an endless sheet of polished obsidian. The moon had slipped behind a curtain of clouds now, cloaking everything in soft gray shadows.
Then, up ahead, a car skidded to a halt—blocking the road sideways.
He braked, tires screeching slightly, but he had no time to reverse.
A second car pulled in behind, trapping him in place.
He exhaled slowly.
"Alright," he muttered, cracking his neck.
He stepped out of the car.
The doors of the two vehicles flung open in near-unison. A dozen men emerged, forming a rough semi-circle around him. Leather jackets, sneakers, some with gloves. A few held batons or short pipes, but most came empty-handed. Their leader, a lanky man with slicked-back hair, stepped forward first.
"You're Si Mok, right?" he said, trying to sound casual. "We just want to talk."
"People who say that never actually want to talk," Si Mok replied.
Without waiting for the inevitable first punch, he moved.
The closest man lunged toward him. Si Mok shifted his weight, stepped in, and brought a clean front kick into the man's chest. He flew backward, landing with a grunt.
The second one came from the left with a wide hook. Si Mok ducked under, grabbed the man's arm, twisted, and swept his legs. The man hit the pavement with a painful smack.
Three more came together. Si Mok sidestepped one, using the man's momentum to hurl him into the second. The third managed to grab him around the waist.
Si Mok braced his legs, dropped his weight, and delivered a sharp elbow backward into the man's ribs. When the grip loosened, he spun and landed a quick knee to the torso.
The others tried to swarm. Someone managed to punch him across the shoulder. He grunted but turned with the blow, grabbed the man's coat, and used it to sling him to the ground.
Soon, the rest joined in—six men pressing from all angles.
It became a blur. He wasn't trying to hurt anyone badly—just disarm, disable, and escape. Each movement was efficient, practiced. Elbow, pivot, knee, dodge, palm strike, sweep.
He used one man's fall to trip another. Dodged a pipe swing, countered with a low kick to the thigh. Someone tried a takedown, but Si Mok sprawled, shifted, rolled free.
Ten minutes later, he stood alone again—sweat on his brow, breath coming heavier now, but still in control.
Around him, the others groaned, sat up slowly, holding bruises and backs, rubbing their faces. No one was unconscious. No one was broken. But they weren't getting up for a second round.
Si Mok wiped his hands on his coat, turned, and got back into the car.
As he started the engine, he gave one last glance at the scene behind him. Just a pile of poor choices, catching their breath on a quiet coastal road.
He shook his head.
"Still not a great way to start the evening."
Then he drove off.