The gym didn't have a name.
If it ever had one, it had been scraped off the brick wall years ago, along with whatever permits or pride the place used to carry. What remained was a narrow concrete building wedged between a shuttered fish market and a liquor warehouse that smelled like rusted barrels and old rain. Neon from the main street bled faintly into the alley, flickering pink and blue across damp pavement—but inside, there was only bare light.
Harsh fluorescents. No shadows to hide in.
The ring was nothing more than a taped square on cracked concrete. No ropes. No padding. Just four corners where people learned very quickly how much space they were allowed to take up before someone else took it from them.
Tae-Yang stood at the center of it, shoulders loose, breathing steady.
Across from him, his opponent staggered back a half step, boots scraping. Blood ran from his nose, dripping dark onto the floor. One eye was already swelling shut. "Still standing." Someone muttered from the crowd lining the walls. "That's a mistake." Another muttered.
The bell—an old metal pipe struck with a wrench—rang again. The man lunged.
He was bigger than Tae-Yang. He had weight, reach, and desperation. His punches came wide and heavy, the kind meant to end things fast. Most people panicked when something like that came at them in a confined space. Tae-Yang didn't.
He watched.
The first swing tore through empty air as Tae-Yang shifted just enough to the left, pivoting on the ball of his foot. Close. Intimate. He could smell cheap protein powder and fear-sweat. Too much commitment, Tae-Yang noted calmly. The right shoulder drops before the punch—bad habit. The second punch came faster.
Tae-Yang stepped into it.
A short, clean strike snapped up—elbow to ribs. Not full force. Just enough. He felt the give under his arm, heard the sharp, involuntary wheeze as air was punched out of his lungs.
The man recoiled, instinctively lowering his guard. That was the opening. Tae-Yang's fist came up in a tight arc, knuckles cracking clean against the jaw. Not a wild swing. Controlled. Efficient. The impact echoed off the concrete walls. The man collapsed like his strings had been cut, hitting the ground hard and staying there.
For a heartbeat, the gym was silent.
Then noise rushed back in—low whistles, curses, the scrape of boots as people leaned forward to get a better look. "Shit…" An onlooker muttered. "That's it?" Another asked. "No follow-up?" A spectator complained.
Tae-Yang stepped back, hands already lowering. He didn't gloat. Didn't posture. He waited, eyes on the downed fighter, making sure he stayed down.
No cheap shots. No need.
The owner pushed through the crowd, jaw tight, towel slung over one shoulder. He crouched beside the fallen man, checked his breathing, then shot Tae-Yang a sharp look. "You're done here." He said.
Tae-Yang tilted his head slightly. "He tapped?"
"You know what I mean." The owner stood, wiping his hands on the towel. "I warned you last time. This isn't a clinic. People come here to feel like they're strong. You keep making it look…easy."
A ripple of uneasy laughter ran through the spectators.
Tae-Yang rolled his shoulders, loose and relaxed, as if the fight hadn't even warmed him up. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Then stop matching me with amateurs." The owner's eyes hardened. "You're fifteen."
"And?"
"And you hit like you've got nothing to lose." That landed closer than the man probably intended. For just a second, something cold flickered behind Tae-Yang's eyes. Then it was gone, buried under that same lazy confidence.
"I don't fight dirty." Tae-Yang said. "I don't cripple people. I walk away when it's over."
He glanced down at the unconscious fighter. Alive. Breathing. No shattered joints. "Sounds like a you problem." The owner exhaled sharply through his nose. "Get your money and don't come back."
Tae-Yang didn't argue.
He stepped out of the taped square, someone pressing folded bills into his palm. Not much—but enough. Enough to eat. Sufficient to keep moving. As he headed for the exit, the crowd parted instinctively. Not fear. Not respect.
Something in between.
Outside, the Byunha night hit him all at once—salt air from the harbor, oil and rain and neon heat. The alley was narrow, trash piled against the walls, puddles reflecting broken signage in warped colors.
Tae-Yang cracked his neck and started walking.
His body felt…good. Loose. Warm. Alive. The fight replayed itself in his head, not as adrenaline, but as data. The timing. The angle of impact. The way the man's stance collapsed after the rib strike.
He liked that part the most—not winning.
Understanding.
Knowing exactly where someone would break before they did. Behind him, inside the gym, the owner's voice rose again, sharp and irritated. Tae-Yang didn't slow. He thrived where he wasn't wanted.
Halfway down the alley, he paused to light a cigarette he didn't really want, just to have something to do with his hands. The flame flickered as a train passed somewhere underground, the vibration humming faintly through the city.
As Tae-Yang stepped forward again, his boot hit the concrete—and the ground shuddered.
Just a little.
So small it could have been dismissed as the train. So subtle no one would ever think twice about it. The puddle beside his foot rippled once, then stilled. Tae-Yang didn't notice. He exhaled smoke into the neon-stained air, eyes forward, already thinking about where he'd go next. Pressure followed him like a shadow.
He didn't feel it yet. But the city did.