The night air in Busan tasted of salt and gasoline.
Lee Do walked through the harbor, his badge tucked away, his hand brushing the inside of his coat where his pistol rested.
This wasn't an official investigation anymore.
It was personal.
His lead had come from an informant — a dock worker who claimed crates were being unloaded at night, unmarked, guarded by men who didn't belong to any crew he knew.
Lee Do waited in the shadows as the first truck rolled in.
Six men.
No uniforms.
The kind of men who didn't ask questions.
He stepped out before he could second‑guess himself.
"Police," he called, his voice carrying through the empty pier. "Step away from the truck."
The men froze.
Then one laughed.
"Police? Out here? You must be lost."
Lee Do's hand hovered over his weapon.
"Last warning."
One of the men pulled a gun.
Lee Do didn't hesitate.
He dropped behind a steel container as the first shot rang out, splintering the wood beside his head.
Bullets cut through the night.
Lee Do fired back, grazing one of the men in the leg, sending him sprawling.
The rest scrambled into the truck.
By the time Lee Do reached them, the vehicle roared off into the night, tires screaming against the asphalt.
He stood there, chest heaving, the silence deafening after the gunfire.
He hadn't gotten the truck.
But he had something better.
The wounded man.
And he wasn't going to waste the opportunity.
Across the city, Moon Baek received the call.
"Boss, one of ours got caught."
Baek's jaw tightened.
"Then make sure he doesn't talk."