Chapter 7: Ripples That Don't Ask for Permission
Change rarely announced itself.
It arrived sideways—through tone, through absence, through the way people stopped doing things they used to do without thinking. By the time anyone realized something was different, the shape of the city had already adjusted.
That week, I noticed fewer fights near the school zones.
Not none. Never none. Violence didn't disappear; it redistributed. It slid into quieter streets, deeper alleys, places where consequences were easier to bury. But around certain routes—paths my sister walked, corners Daniel Park passed without knowing why they suddenly felt safer—things softened.
Not out of kindness.
Out of caution.
I walked those streets at night sometimes, hands in my pockets, posture relaxed, breathing even. I didn't hide my presence, but I didn't announce it either. Anyone with real experience could feel me coming, the way seasoned fighters sensed pressure before a punch was thrown.
Most chose to leave before I arrived.
Once, I didn't let them.
Three men were cornering a kid near a convenience store, voices sharp with that specific cruelty born from boredom rather than necessity. The kid was shaking, holding a phone with a cracked screen like it might protect him.
I stepped between them without raising my voice.
"Go home," I said.
One of them laughed. Another opened his mouth to insult me.
None of them finished their sentences.
I didn't strike. I didn't need to. The restraint loosened just enough for intent to leak through—just enough for them to understand, instinctively, that taking another step forward would end something they could never recover.
They backed away.
The kid stared at me like I was unreal.
"Run," I told him gently.
He did.
I stayed until the street returned to its normal noise, then left without looking back. No witnesses worth remembering. No stories dramatic enough to spread.
That was important.
Power that became spectacle invited challenge. Power that became background rewrote behavior.
At school, Daniel Park struggled.
Not in the loud, dramatic way people expected from stories like his, but in the quiet accumulation of small humiliations. Looks that lingered too long. Laughter that stopped just a little too late. Violence that hovered on the edge of happening and didn't, leaving confusion behind.
Something was interfering.
He didn't know what. He only knew the pressure was still there, but the blows were… off. Misaligned. Like the world couldn't quite commit to hurting him the way it wanted to.
I watched from a distance, once or twice, making sure not to intersect paths. Heroes needed friction. Remove too much, and they broke in different ways.
That night, one of my allies finally came to see me in person.
Min Jae-hyun didn't knock. He never had. He stood outside the apartment door and waited until I opened it, posture straight, expression neutral in a way that fooled no one who knew him.
"You're sloppy," he said by way of greeting.
"You're early," I replied.
He stepped inside, eyes scanning the room out of habit. Not paranoia—training. Former First Gen runner, logistics specialist, the kind of man who never threw the strongest punch but always knew where it would land.
"You let too many people feel you," he continued.
"I let them feel enough," I said. "Not the same thing."
He sat, exhaled, and rubbed his face. "Gun's been asking questions."
"He always does."
"Not like this." Jae-hyun looked at me sharply. "He's not hunting. He's mapping absence. That's worse."
I considered that. Gun wasn't reckless. He adapted. If he started treating the city like an incomplete equation, he'd eventually try to solve it.
"Let him," I said.
Jae-hyun frowned. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. Trust, earned over blood and years, not words.
"There's something else," he added. "Charles Choi rerouted funding from two feeder crews. Quietly. He's consolidating."
"Fear does that," I replied.
"Fear also sharpens," Jae-hyun said. "And James Lee—"
"He's staying away," I finished.
Jae-hyun blinked. "You already know?"
"I can feel when a predator chooses distance," I said calmly. "It's a survival instinct."
Silence stretched between us.
"You're really not planning to move," he said finally.
"I am," I corrected. "Just not forward."
He let out a humorless laugh. "Only you would call this standing still."
After he left, the restraint tightened again—not aggressively, but with intent. The world was becoming aware of its own imbalance. That awareness always came with correction attempts.
I welcomed them.
Elsewhere, Gun stood on a rooftop, staring down at the city lights. Goo leaned against a railing nearby, twirling something sharp between his fingers.
"You ever get the feeling you're being watched by something that isn't interested in you?" Goo asked lightly.
Gun didn't look away. "Yes."
"And?"
"And that's what bothers me," Gun replied. "Anything that strong should care."
Goo smiled thinly. "Or it already decided we weren't worth the effort."
Gun's eyes narrowed.
In another part of the city, Daniel Park lay awake, staring at the ceiling, body aching, mind louder than his bruises. He didn't know why things felt different. He only knew that when he clenched his fists, the world seemed to pause, like it was waiting to see what he'd do next.
I sat at my window, watching the same sky from a different angle, tea cooling in my hands.
Ripples had started.
They wouldn't stop now.
And when the first real wave came—when restraint finally gave way to necessity—the city would remember why it once learned to be quiet around me.