Jiyoung leaned in closer, so close Baeksan could see his reflection warped in the man's pupils. The air smelled faintly of sweat and smoke, though neither belonged to this train. His grin stretched wider, showing teeth, and without another word his shoulder rolled forward.
Baeksan's vision filled with movement. The swing wasn't wild. It was precise, practiced, and heavy. That kind of weight didn't aim to scare—it aimed to break.
But Baeksan's eyes weren't on Jiyoung's face. They weren't on his size or the heat radiating off his body. They were locked on the shifting knuckles, the quick tightening of tendons that announced what was coming before the crowd even realized it.
A sharp gust brushed his cheek. He hadn't thought about moving—his body tilted before the thought even reached him. The punch tore through the space he'd been sitting in, close enough to whisper past his ear.
Gasps spilled from the passengers. Someone shouted. The girl clutched the metal bar with both hands, her red eyes wide, staring at Baeksan as though he'd just performed something impossible.
Baeksan didn't blink. His gaze followed the fist that now hung frozen in the air, hovering where his head should have been. His chest rose and fell once, shallow.
Jiyoung's eyes narrowed. He looked at his own hand, as though unwilling to believe it had missed.
Then his attention snapped back to Baeksan. The smirk returned, though there was an edge now, sharper than before.
"You saw it, didn't you?" His voice dropped low, carrying only for Baeksan. "You're not fast. You just… saw it. You see through my fist."
He pulled his hand back slowly, cracking his knuckles in a show of disdain. His teeth showed again, this time less a smile than a warning.
"Cute trick you have. But tricks don't save you twice. I'll break your pride for eternity."
Baeksan said nothing. He sat exactly as he had before, unmoved except for the smallest turn of his head, his eyes still fixed on Jiyoung's hands, as if cataloguing every twitch, every tremor.
From the floor, the old man's gaze rested on them both. Not sharp, not cruel this time—but heavy, almost searching. He looked at Baeksan as though something had shifted, though his lips stayed pressed shut.
The train rattled beneath them, the sound of its wheels drowned by the rush of blood in Baeksan's ears. But on his face, there was nothing. No fear, no pride, no anger. Only the blank stillness of someone who hadn't yet decided if this moment belonged to him or to the man looming above him.
Jiyoung's jaw flexed. He straightened his back, rolling his shoulders as if to remind Baeksan—and everyone else watching—just how much larger he was. The crowd had been pressed back against the seats and windows, a circle of fearful faces forming around them. The hiss of the train brakes, the rattle of steel—it all seemed distant now.
Without warning, his fist lashed out again. This time harder, faster, with the kind of force that carried no hesitation. His knuckles cut through the air like a hammer aimed to split stone.
Baeksan's eyes tracked it—left shoulder twitch, forearm tightening, the smallest shift in weight. His body dipped aside almost without thought. The fist missed him again, passing so close he felt the heat of the man's skin brush his cheek.
The impact cracked into the metal pole behind him with a ringing clang. Sparks of pain flashed across Jiyoung's face, though he didn't let it show for more than a second. Instead, he barked out a laugh.
"Twice?" he said, voice booming over the tense silence. His eyes bored down into Baeksan's, smile cutting wide across his face. "You think that means anything, kid? You think dodging makes you special? That was luck. Pure luck. A fluke, nothing more."
He jabbed a finger into Baeksan's chest, hard enough that the smaller man's body rocked slightly with the pressure.
"You hear me? You don't have skill. You don't have strength. You just flinched at the right time."
Baeksan's head shifted back into place. He didn't swat the hand away, didn't even glance at the finger digging into him. His gaze stayed fixed, unblinking, on Jiyoung's face.
Jiyoung's nostrils flared. He leaned closer, so close his breath fanned hot across Baeksan's skin.
"You think those blank eyes scare me?" His voice dropped low, but loud enough for those nearest to hear. "I've broken men with fire in their hearts, with rage in their eyes. And you just sit there like a corpse. Don't confuse emptiness for strength, kid."
Behind him, the black-haired woman clutched the pole tighter, her knuckles white, glancing between Baeksan and Jiyoung as though caught between shouting and silence. The crowd was whispering now, restless, anxious, yet too terrified to step forward.
On the floor, the old man was still watching. His expression hadn't hardened, hadn't twisted into anger. It stayed strangely soft, like he was studying something only he could see. His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to speak, but no sound came out.
And Baeksan—he only sat, staring up at the man towering above him, hearing every word, every curse, every arrogant laugh… yet not moving, not replying, his face as unreadable as ever.
Which made Jiyoung's teeth grit harder.
Jiyoung's lip curled into something between a grin and a snarl. His shoulders hunched forward, and his fists clenched until the veins in his arms swelled like ropes.
"This time," he muttered, low and guttural, "you're not dodging my hit."
The carriage seemed to shrink. Every eye clung to his massive frame as he pulled his arm back, muscles bunching with terrifying force. His knuckles trembled in the air, hungry to carve through flesh and bone.
The woman gasped, her hand half-extended toward Baeksan as though to stop the inevitable. The old man tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes still on Baeksan with that strange, inexplicable calm.
Then—It happened in a blink.
Before Jiyoung's punch could even complete its path, his head snapped backward violently, jaw rattling from an invisible force. His body jerked, knees buckling, as though some unseen hammer had struck him dead on the chin.
The crowd cried out. Some flinched back. Others covered their mouths.
Jiyoung's towering frame staggered, his arms flailing for balance—but his legs gave out under him. He collapsed with a heavy thud onto the metal floor, his breath spilling raggedly from his chest. The arrogant grin was gone, replaced by a slack, stunned expression, as if his own body had betrayed him.
And there, standing just a step away, was Baeksan.