Three years ago, the streets went quiet.
Not because of a peace treaty.
Not because the government cracked down.
Not because the people rose up.
But because of one man.
Every gang—dismantled.
Every syndicate—collapsed.
Entire criminal organizations—erased from the map.
He didn't leave behind a flag. No name. No identity.
Only wreckage.
He moved like a ghost. Hit like a god.
And when the smoke cleared—The Crimson Generation was over.
That was the era of chaos.
An age when the underworld ruled from the shadows.
Drug rings, weapon trades, human trafficking—Power belonged to the Creeds.
Each Creed was a different beast.
Cartels. Mafias. Street lords. Mercenary collectives.
Some called them gangs.
Others knew better—they were empires in disguise.
And then, without warning...they fell. All of them.
No war.
No announcement.
Just a series of vanishings, deaths, and silenced territories.
Whispers say it was one man.
A nameless figure who swept across the country like a storm.
Some called him a myth.
Others called him the executioner of an era.
But whether he was real or not, one thing's certain—
He broke the cycle.
Now, the world lives in the aftermath.
The Creeds scattered.
But power doesn't die.
And the shadows… are shifting again.
But that was three years ago.
January 2025 — Jung-Hwa Vocational High School
There are different kinds of violence. Not all of them leave bruises.
Some hide behind silence. Behind forced laughter .Behind looks that glance past pain and pretend it isn't there.
The second-floor hallway of Building C was always half-empty during the last period. A dead zone between gym and shop class. And that made it perfect.
Perfect for boys who didn't need reasons—just opportunities.
Five of them stood around a mess .One was filming. One was kicking. The others just laughed like it was Friday night and the world existed for their entertainment.
In the center of their circle: Aryl. On his knees. One shoe missing. Bag dumped across the floor like roadkill.
A bruise bloomed on the side of his face—faded, yellowing .A souvenir from last week. Today's would be fresher.
"Say it , trash," said one of them, grabbing Aryl's collar and jerking him upright.
Another shoved him back down.
"Say you're our little mascot."
He didn't move. Didn't talk .Didn't even blink.
Many boys hit puberty in their thirteens. Voices deepen. Muscles grow. Backs straighten. They become men. Or try to. But Aryl? At sixteen, he looked like someone who still got asked if his parents were home. His voice? Soft. Almost too soft. His frame? Thin. Bones like bamboo sticks under a loose uniform. Facial hair? A fantasy. Testosterone? Probably still in shipping.
And because of that, the world saw him a certain way. A joke. A target. A weak, easy, disposable plaything.
They waited.
Aryl just stared at the dirty floor like it held all the answers. Like if he looked long enough, he'd disappear into it.
"You deaf or just dumb?" one laughed. "Maybe we hit him too hard last time."
The phone camera kept rolling. Later, it'd be clipped into a short, edited for cheap laughs and shared in private group chats with stupid names. The kind of video no one publicly admits to watching. But everyone does.
Aryl didn't care. Not because he was brave. Not because he was numb. But because in his head, he wasn't even here.
He was somewhere else. A place with no shouting. No footsteps echoing down tile floors. Somewhere soft. Somewhere quiet.
In that place, he was just a boy with a book and a future. He was invisible by choice—not punishment.
But reality doesn't care about fantasy.
A sudden kick to the ribs brought him back. Not enough to make him scream. Just enough to knock the wind from his lungs.
Still, he stayed on his knees. Still silent. Still still.
"He's so boring now," one said. "Yeah. No fun anymore."
"Let's go. Before Coach comes."
And just like that, they were gone. Still laughing. Still filming. Still monsters.
Aryl stayed there a while longer. His breathing was uneven. His face expressionless. His thoughts—scattered and distant.
He reached for his bag slowly, fingers trembling, and started collecting the spilled notebooks and pens. One pencil snapped in half .His math notes were wet from a juice box someone had stomped.
He wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. Saw blood. Didn't flinch.
Didn't curse. Didn't cry.
Just packed up, stood quietly, and limped toward the stairwell like nothing happened.
No one helped. No one stopped him. No one even asked if he was okay.
But that was normal. That was just a Tuesday.
He was background noise. And in Jung-Hwa, being invisible wasn't safe.
It was blood in the water.
He didn't expect kindness. He'd stopped expecting a lot of things.
That wasn't the day he became strong. Wasn't the day he fought back. It wasn't a movie moment.
There was no power-up. No spark. No epic music.
Just silence. Pain. And a quiet feeling growing inside him like a crack in concrete.
Not rage. Not revenge.
Just… awareness.
That this couldn't go on forever. That something had to change. Even if it wasn't today.
Even if it wasn't him.
But maybe… someday.
And maybe it wouldn't start with strength. But with endurance. A boy who kept showing up even when he didn't have a reason to.
Because sometimes, stories don't start with heroes.
They start with survivors.
He wasn't strong. Not yet. But there was something in his silence—Something they couldn't quite laugh away.