Jinjahan became a city on the edge of a knife. The tension had been simmering for years—Albens supremacists clinging to power, Medean rebels refusing to kneel. But now, the streets weren't just filled with anger. They were filled with blood. And Kim Taehyung caught in the middle of it.
The precinct was a furnace of noise and urgency, officers scrambling between calls as reports poured in—riots breaking out in the Dock District, an arson attack in South Quarter, a Medean boy found beaten to death in an alley behind an Alben-owned club.
Taehyung sat at his desk, half-listening to the chaos around him, his bruised ribs reminding him of yesterday's "lesson." He kept his head down, fingers tightening around the case file of Jonas Ngoni's murder.
Something about the way it was handled—it felt too clean, too convenient. And now, another body had dropped. Not just any body. A mutant.
They were calling it gang violence, but Taehyung knew better. The moment he heard about it, he felt the weight of something bigger pressing down on the city. And then Aisha called.
They met in a hidden café deep in Little Medea, the kind of place untouched by the city's laws, where no uniform dared to step. The dim lanterns flickered against the cracked walls, the scent of strong coffee and burned cigarettes thick in the air.
Aisha sat across from him, hood pulled low over her face, her eyes sharp under the shadow. "I told you to stop digging," she said, voice low, urgent.
"And I told you I don't take orders,"Taehyung shot back, sipping his bitter coffee. It tasted like rust.
Aisha exhaled sharply. "Listen to me. You're chasing a ghost. Jonas Ngoni's death wasn't a random act of violence. Neither was the one last night."
Taehyung leaned in. "Then what was it?"
Her fingers drummed against the table, hesitant. Then, she spoke. "There's a faction. One that doesn't officially exist. They don't just want war between Albens, Zwartens and Medeans. They need it." She glanced around, as if expecting someone to be listening. "The riots, the killings, even the policies—they're all being pushed by someone in the shadows."
Taehyung's stomach turned. He had felt it—this conflict wasn't just natural decay. It was being fed, inflamed. "Who?" he asked.
Aisha shook her head. "If I say it, I'm dead. You're already on their radar. You think Daeyang Sohn is the worst of them?" She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. "He's just a pawn."
The words sent ice through Taehyung's veins. Jonas Ngoni's murder. The mutant's staged killing. The riots. It wasn't just corruption. It was design.
Aisha slid something across the table—a flash drive. "This is all I can give you. If I disappear, you'll know why."
Taehyung pocketed it. Then, the windows shattered. Gunfire ripped through the café. Aisha moved first, flipping the table for cover as bullets sprayed through the air. People screamed, ducking as glass and wood exploded around them.
Taehyung drew his pistol, scanning through the chaos. Shadows moved outside, figures blending into the night—trained, efficient, not gangsters. Not random.
"Move!" Aisha grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the back exit.
They burst into the alley, the cold night air thick with the scent of gunpowder and burnt coffee. Taehyung didn't stop—he sprinted after Aisha as heavy boots thundered behind them. More gunfire. A bullet grazed his arm. He gritted his teeth, pushing forward.
Aisha yanked him into a side passage, slamming the door behind them. They were in a warehouse now—dimly lit, filled with rusted metal and the echoes of distant sirens.
Taehyung pressed against the wall, breathing hard. "Still think I should stop digging?"
Aisha pressed her back against the cold metal wall, catching her breath. The dim light flickered above them, casting jagged shadows on the rusted warehouse floor. The silence between them was thick, heavy with the weight of what just happened. What always happened in Jinjahan.
Taehyung looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in a tired, bitter smile. A dry chuckle slipped out, though there was no humor in it.
"This," he gestured vaguely at the bullet-ridden café behind them, the distant echoes of sirens wailing like funeral bells, "this is exactly why I can't stop, Aisha."
She scoffed, shaking her head. "You're a damn fool, Kim."
"Yeah?" His smile widened, sharp like broken glass. "Then what does that make you? A journalist chasing ghosts in a city that doesn't even acknowledge your existence unless it's to put a bullet in your back?"
Aisha's jaw clenched, her eyes flashing. She didn't argue—because they both knew he was right. Jinjahan didn't care about people like them.
Justice wasn't written for men who couldn't pay for it. Safety wasn't built for women with the wrong skin color. Rights were just words on old paper, locked away in a place only the powerful had the keys to.
The rest? They were statistics. Headlines. Bullet-ridden corpses dumped in alleyways, with case files that never made it past the first page.
"You know it better than anyone," Taehyung continued, his voice quieter now, the anger curdling into something softer—something that ached. "Because you're a Zwarten woman in Jinjahan. You've seen how this city treats your people. How it pushes you to the edge until you either jump or become something they fear."
Aisha exhaled slowly. She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that it wasn't that simple—but she couldn't. Because it was that simple. It always had been.
Jinjahan's safety wasn't for them. It was for the men who dictated who deserved to be safe. For those who could afford to buy their justice, build their walls, and throw the rest of the city into the fire just to keep their own hands clean. Aisha looked down, then back at Taehyung. "So, what now?"
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. His body ached, his ribs still sore from yesterday's beating. He could still feel the weight of Daeyang's warning, the way his fellow officers sneered at him, waiting for him to break. He grinned, teeth stained with defiance. "Now, we do what rats like us do best."
Aisha raised an eyebrow. "We keep running. We keep biting. And one day," his voice dipped, quiet and sharp, "we take a chunk so big they finally start to bleed."
Aisha pulled out her phone with shaky fingers, pressing a number she knew by heart. The call barely rang twice before someone picked up. "Come get us," she said, voice tight. "We need to move. Now."
A low voice on the other end cursed, then asked for their location. Aisha rattled it off, then ended the call without another word.
Taehyung raised an eyebrow. "Who was that?"
"Someone who knows how to disappear," she muttered, stuffing her phone back into her jacket. "If we stay here, we're dead."
The distant sirens were fading, but that didn't mean they were safe. If anything, it meant the real threat was just beginning.
Taehyung leaned against the rusted wall, glancing at her. "You think this was just another gang hit?"
Aisha let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Hell no. This isn't gang work."
She rubbed at her arms, the memory creeping back in, slow and cold. "I know how gangs kill. They make noise. They spill blood in the streets, in broad daylight, in front of everyone. They want people to know, to fear them. But this?" She gestured at the wreckage behind them. "This is different. Precise. Quiet. And clean—if you ignore the bodies."
Taehyung studied her, catching the way her fingers twitched, like she was remembering something she wished she could forget. "What happened?" he asked, softer now.
Aisha swallowed, looking away. Then, she exhaled, as if deciding she had nothing left to lose. "Two months ago, I got a story lead. An anonymous tip, saying someone high up was pulling the strings behind the riots. I thought it was just another rich bastard funding supremacists, or some politician keeping Medeans and Albens at each other's throats so no one looked up."
She paused, shaking her head. "I was wrong. It wasn't just politics. It wasn't just business. It was mafia—real, old-world shit. The kind that doesn't just kill you, but makes sure no one even remembers you were alive."
Taehyung's jaw tightened. "What did they do?"
Aisha let out a slow breath, her hands curling into fists. "First, they sent a warning—a package on my doorstep. Small, neatly wrapped, no return address." She scoffed bitterly. "I was stupid. I opened it."
She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "Ever see your own obituary, Kim?"
His stomach turned. "...What?"
"A printed article, formatted exactly how my newspaper runs their death notices. Aisha Malik, 29, found dead in a tragic accident. They even included a quote from my editor. A promising journalist lost too soon."
Taehyung felt a chill crawl up his spine. "Then, the calls started," she continued. "Every night, my phone would ring at exactly 3:17 AM. I never answered. It didn't matter. Whoever it was never spoke, never breathed. Just waited. Listening."
She crossed her arms. "Then the black car started showing up. Parked outside my apartment. Engine running, lights off. Never moving. Never leaving. Justthere."
She laughed, but it was hollow. "I moved three times. Changed my number. Stopped writing. Didn't matter. They always found me. And when I finally dropped the story?"
She turned to face him fully, eyes dark with something cold and angry. "The car disappeared. The calls stopped. And that obituary? It vanished from my apartment like it was never there."
Taehyung exhaled, feeling the weight of her words settle over him. This wasn't just corruption. This wasn't just gangs. This was something worse. He straightened. "And now?"
Aisha stared back at him. "Now they're back. And I don't think it's just me they're watching anymore."