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Rain had fallen on Seoul for hours without mercy, turning the narrow Yeouido alleys into shallow black rivers that reflected bleeding neon from pojangmacha signs and distant streetlights. Ji-Hoon sat against the brick wall in one of those alleys, legs stretched out in the puddle that had formed around him, knuckles raw and bleeding steadily while the pain throbbed up his arms in slow waves that matched the rhythm of his heartbeat — the same heartbeat that had raced when Tae-Min and his crew left him curled there like discarded trash after beating him down for daring to tax their turf. He knew the fight had been coming. Whispers had spread through the schools and backstreets for weeks that the Yeouido bully king was expanding too far, taking money from kids who weren't his to take, but he had ignored the warnings the way he ignored everything else that threatened to make him feel small, because feeling small was worse than feeling pain, worse than the cracked ribs that ground together with every shallow breath he took now, worse than the blood that mixed with rainwater and dripped from his split lip into the puddle where his reflection stared back swollen-eyed and unrecognizable.
'This isn't over,' he thought, the words forming slow and bitter in his mind while he stared at that reflection, watching how the water distorted his face until it looked more like the scared twelve-year-old boy who had watched his father pack a single bag and leave for Busan with promises of money that never came — the same boy who had decided that day that being feared was better than being forgotten, the same boy who had started shaking down classmates for lunch money just to feel like he mattered, just to send bills home so Eomma wouldn't have to work doubles at the stall with hands already cracked from hot oil and endless shifts. The guilt had always been there, buried under layers of snarls and threats and easy wins, but tonight it rose like bile in his throat because the beating hadn't just broken his body; it had cracked something deeper, something that let the voice in.
The voice didn't arrive with fanfare or blue light or floating panels. It simply was there, carving itself into his thoughts cold and unyielding and personal, a voice that knew every name he had ever made cry, every wrist he had bruised, every tear he had laughed at.
[User: Kang Ji-Hoon]
[Echo Debt: 187]
[Fist Value: 4]
[Resonance: Fractured]
[Predator Scent: Extreme]
[Current Echo: Bully's Hollow Roar – fading fast]
He laughed once, a wet choking sound that tasted like blood. 'Concussion. Or I'm finally losing it.' But the voice answered without pause, flat and merciless.
Negative. The echo is what remains when you break someone enough times. You broke enough. Now it breaks you. No escape. No mercy. Only debt.
He felt it then, the weight settling in his chest like a scar that wouldn't show on skin but would ache forever — the same way the guilt would ache every time he saw a kid flinch in the hall or heard Eomma ask if he ate or saw his own reflection in a puddle swollen-eyed split-lipped colder than before. The directive came next, slow and deliberate, burning behind his eyes.
[Directive: Ji-Hoon. Prove the echo isn't just noise.]
[Task: Strike the wall one hundred times. Before each strike speak the victim's full name. Loud enough for the rain to hear. No whisper. No skip.]
[Reward: Fist Value +3. Iron Will +2. Echo Debt -40. Dominance Echo +25 (temporary).]
[Failure: Echo Debt +50. Phantom Speed -2 permanent. Blackout twenty-four hours.]
[Time: Twelve minutes.]
[Echo note: You loved hearing them beg. The brick won't beg. You will.]
He stared at the words in his head while rain dripped from his hair into his eyes, stinging the cuts on his face, and for the first time in years he felt something close to shame that didn't vanish when he clenched his fists or snarled at someone smaller. He pushed himself up slowly, knees trembling, ribs grinding, palms sliding down the brick leaving red streaks, and he began.
The first punch was weak, skin splitting wider. "Kim Min-jae." The name came out hoarse, barely louder than the drip from the eaves, but he remembered the kid's round cheeks flushed red when he cornered him in the bathroom, the way he handed over bills without looking up, the way he whispered "hyung" like it was a plea instead of a title. The second punch, harder, knuckles scraped raw. "Park Soo-jin." She had cried in the girls' bathroom for a week after he took her allowance and spread rumors just to see if he could make her flinch harder than the others. The tenth punch, blood slicked his fist, the system cut in.
[Twenty strikes. Debt unchanged. Louder. They heard your threats in empty hallways. Let them hear this.]
He snarled through gritted teeth and kept going, each name heavier than the last, each punch pulling at cracked ribs, each memory rising like smoke from the wreckage of his own life. The sixtieth punch, legs shaking, vision blurring. "Han Ji-sung." The kid who fought back once, weak swing, ended on the ground with Ji-Hoon's foot on his hand, the crack still echoing in his head some nights when he couldn't sleep. The ninetieth, body screaming quit. "Jung Woo-bin." The quiet math genius who did his homework until he refused once, ended puking behind the gym after Ji-Hoon punched his stomach until he couldn't stand. The ninety-ninth, he paused, breath ragged, the echo whispered.
[Last one. Name the mirror. Name the twelve-year-old who decided weakness was death. Hit like you wish someone had hit him before he became this.]
"Kang Ji-Hoon."
The final punch landed. Deep crack spidered through the brick. Dust puffed out. He slid down the wall, sat, gasped.
[Directive cleared.]
[Fist Value: 7]
[Iron Will: 7]
[Echo Debt: 147]
[Dominance Echo: -87]
[Echo note: You named yourself. That hurt more than the wall. Debt still heavy. Predators smell it. Dawn brings the next. Sleep if the mirror lets you.]
The voice faded. Rain eased completely. City hummed on. Ji-Hoon sat there a long time, staring at bloody hands, feeling the weight in his chest settle permanent like a scar that would ache every time he closed his eyes, every time he saw a kid flinch, every time Eomma smiled tiredly and never asked questions. He stood slowly. Pain constant. Good. Let it stay. Dawn was coming, the sky turning that sickly gray that always made Seoul look like it was ashamed of itself, while he walked out of the alley one step after another — bruised, bloody, tainted by his own choices, by the monster he built one shake-down at a time, but moving. Hell, he was moving forward into the gray dawn, into whatever directive waited, into whatever pain waited, into whatever version of himself waited on the other side, and if Eomma saw the hands he'd hide them, if she saw the eyes he'd look away, if she asked if he was okay he'd lie, say yes, because the truth was too heavy for her cracked hands and tired smile, but he was done pretending the truth was too heavy for him too, so he'd carry it, carry the echo, carry the debt, carry the hunger until it either made him something worth fearing for real or killed him trying.
End of Chapter 1