The night Seoul finally stopped raining, Dae-Sung woke before dawn.His phone screen glowed 4:03 a.m. The city outside still slept, except for the hum of a passing delivery truck and the distant bark of a stray dog.
He sat up on the thin mattress, rubbing his temples.Another night without rest. Another night of ghosts.
On the small table lay the same things that defined his life—bandages, a cold cup of coffee, and his black notebook. The edges were frayed from years of use, the pages filled with handwriting sharp as scars. He opened it slowly.
Crimson Fang – last known activity: Incheon Port.Possible revival. Possible infiltration in Seoul.
The handwriting beneath that note was new, written only a few hours ago:
Yoon Ha-Rin — who are you?
He didn't trust coincidences.He'd learned that in the worst possible ways.
When the bell rang that morning, sunlight had already broken through the clouds, scattering gold over the schoolyard. Students laughed, complained about tests, threw water bottles across the corridor.
Dae-Sung walked through them like a ghost in a crowd. He had the look of someone always calculating distances—between walls, between people, between exits.
At the shoe locker, Min-Jae waved."Dude! You look like you didn't sleep again. Don't tell me you were training all night?"
Dae-Sung gave a small shrug. "Something like that."
Min-Jae grinned. "You need a hobby that's not punching people."
He almost smiled at that, almost.Then the classroom door opened, and she walked in.
Yoon Ha-Rin.
Same neat uniform. Same quiet steps. The sunlight caught in her hair, and for a moment she looked less like a transfer student and more like a shadow pretending to be human.
She glanced at him—just once, precise and unreadable.Then she sat two rows ahead, opened her notebook, and began to write.
He told himself to look away. But he didn't.
After classes ended, Min-Jae rushed off for basketball practice.Ha-Rin stayed behind, gathering her books.
When the last student left, she turned toward Dae-Sung."You were followed last night."
He froze. "What?"
"I saw the car," she said. "Same one that's been parked near the east gate for three days."
Her tone wasn't alarmed. It was matter-of-fact, like she was discussing the weather.
Dae-Sung narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that?"
She hesitated for a fraction of a second before replying, "Because I've been followed before too."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either.
He studied her face, searching for cracks. There were none.For the first time, he realized she wasn't just another student.
There was a shadow behind her eyes, the same kind he saw in mirrors.
They began to talk—carefully, like people testing the water before wading in.
Lunch breaks. Short walks home. Silences that felt heavy but not uncomfortable.
She asked about his parents once.He didn't answer.
He asked about her transfer.She said, "It's complicated."
They never pushed further. Somehow that was enough.
One evening after cram school, the rain returned. They shared an umbrella. The streets were filled with neon reflections, the smell of tteokbokki and car exhaust mixing with wet asphalt.
"Do you ever wish," Ha-Rin said suddenly, "that you could forget everything and start over?"
Dae-Sung looked at the puddles instead of her face. "If I forget, I lose the reason I wake up."
She nodded, expression unreadable. "Then I hope you never forget."
He caught the faintest tremor in her voice—something almost personal, almost painful.
They stopped at the intersection. Across the street, a black sedan idled, headlights low. The driver wore sunglasses even though it was night.
The car's plate number began with the same three digits he'd written in his notebook.His pulse quickened.
"Ha-Rin," he said quietly, "keep walking. Don't look back."
But she already had.
The sedan's lights flickered once. Then it drove off into traffic.
Neither spoke for the rest of the walk home.
That night, Dae-Sung spread his notes across the floor.Connections, maps, faces—all pieces of a puzzle that had begun twelve years ago.
The Crimson Fang hadn't vanished. It had changed.They were now The Crimson Network—a web of old money, digital weapons, and politicians who wore clean suits to hide dirty hands.
And now they were watching him.
He stared at the notebook until the words blurred.When he finally stood, he noticed a small envelope slipped under his door. No name. Just a symbol—a crimson serpent biting its tail.
Inside: a single photo.Yoon Ha-Rin.
Standing outside a government building.Talking to a man whose face Dae-Sung recognized from his files.
Director Oh.
His heart pounded.
The next day he confronted her.
"Who is Director Oh to you?"
Her pencil froze above her notebook. "Why are you asking that?"
"Because I saw the picture."
She exhaled slowly. "He was my father's superior."
It could've been a lie. It could've been true.He didn't know which would be worse.
She looked at him then—not scared, not defensive.Just tired.
"You think I'm your enemy?" she asked.
"I think you're hiding something."
Her voice softened. "Everyone hides something, Dae-Sung."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, tight as wire.
Then she closed her book, stood up, and said, "If you really want the truth… meet me tonight. Rooftop. After midnight."
He almost didn't go.But curiosity was a dangerous weapon, and he had always been armed.
The air was cold. The city below flickered like a dying circuit.She was already there, hair whipping in the wind, wearing a black jacket instead of her uniform.
"I'll tell you the truth," she said without turning. "But once you hear it, you can't go back."
"Try me."
She looked up at the moon."The Crimson Network didn't just kill your parents. They killed mine too."
The words cut through the night.
She turned, eyes sharp but trembling at the edges."My father was a weapons engineer. My mother handled encryption systems. The Network wanted them to create biological weapon interfaces. When they refused…" She swallowed hard. "They made it look like an accident."
Dae-Sung's chest tightened.
"I was supposed to die too," she said. "But someone took me out before the explosion. I've been living under a different name ever since. The only thing I have left is this."
She held up a pendant—small, metallic, shaped like a dragon coiled around a crimson gem.
"I infiltrated their channels two years ago. They don't know I survived. When I saw your name on one of their surveillance lists, I came here."
"Why?"
"Because I thought maybe we could destroy them together."
He stared at her, trying to find deceit, manipulation, performance.But there was only exhaustion—and fire.
The same fire that burned inside him.
They didn't speak for a long time after that. The wind filled the silence.
Then, quietly, he said, "If this is a lie, I'll kill you first."
Her lips curved slightly. "Then make sure you do it after we finish them."
A strange calm settled between them—a mutual recognition of shared pain. Not love yet, but the raw material of it.
Below, the city pulsed with life and death, unaware that two broken children had just made a pact strong enough to shatter empires.
The following days blurred into motion.
They met secretly after school, comparing notes, building timelines, tracing financial routes through shell companies. Ha-Rin's hacking skills were frightening—codes cracked like glass under her fingers. Dae-Sung's street knowledge filled the gaps in her data.
He showed her the gym; she showed him the darknet.
They became partners in vengeance, each fueling the other's darkness.
But in between those nights of planning, something gentler began to form.
She started bringing extra food, pretending it was "too much lunch."He started walking her home, pretending it was "on his way."
Their eyes lingered longer, their silences softer.Both too scarred to name it, but both already feeling it.
One evening, as they reviewed data in the empty gym, she reached for a file at the same time he did. Their hands brushed.
For a moment, the world stopped.
Then she looked away quickly, hiding a faint blush. "Focus," she said.
But he could hear the tremor beneath the word.
Outside, unseen by either of them, a camera blinked red from the shadows.
In a control room somewhere in Gangnam, Director Oh leaned back in his chair, watching the grainy feed.
"So," he murmured, a smile curling his lips. "The son and the survivor finally meet."
A voice over the speaker asked, "Should we intervene?"
"Not yet," Oh said. "Let them think they're winning. It's more fun when they realize they've been playing our game."
He reached for the tablet beside him and tapped the image of Ha-Rin.
"Welcome back, little ghost."
That night, on the rooftop, Dae-Sung stood with Ha-Rin again, both staring at the endless sprawl of Seoul.
The rain had stopped, but thunder still whispered beyond the horizon.
She glanced at him. "When this is over, what will you do?"
He didn't answer immediately. Then—quietly—"I don't know how to live for anything else."
She smiled sadly. "Then maybe I'll have to teach you."
Lightning flared in the distance, illuminating their faces—the boy shaped by vengeance, the girl forged by loss.
Neither realized the storm wasn't over.It was only gathering strength.