The sound came first — a faint metallic clink, like loose brass casing rolling on concrete. Then came the rhythm of boots, steady and deliberate, echoing through the hollow space of the old Busan warehouse. The walls, streaked with decades of rust and salt-stained grime, seemed to breathe with the incoming danger.

Lin crouched behind a stack of wooden crates, his breathing slow and controlled, eyes tracking the shadows dancing across the cracked glass windows high above. Whoever was coming wasn't rushing. They moved with the measured confidence of professionals — trained operators, not street punks.

Min-joon was beside him, one knee in the dust, fingers still on the worn leather cover of the ledger they'd risked so much to get. The book vanished into a crate with a practiced motion. "They're not here for the cargo," Min-joon murmured in Korean, his voice low and tight. "They're here for you."

Lin's gaze didn't waver. "Then you've been talking."

Min-joon's expression was unreadable in the half-light. "If I was talking, you'd already be dead before we walked in."

The first silhouette appeared in the main doorway — lean frame, waterproof jacket zipped to the chin, a suppressed pistol held low. Behind him, two heavier men entered in perfect sync, their compact submachine guns angled just below shoulder height. Their black gear was unmarked, their boots clean despite the rain outside. These weren't gang enforcers.

Keller's voice hissed into Lin's earpiece, the faint crackle of static wrapping around his words. "Two in the main door, four more circling north. You're boxed in tight."

Lin's eyes darted to the catwalk above — a perfect firing position, but twenty meters away with no cover. The crates in the center of the warehouse formed a choke point; if he could bait them into it, their numbers wouldn't matter.

He leaned toward Min-joon. "Stay behind me."

"I'm not dead weight," Min-joon replied sharply. His hand slipped inside his jacket and came out with a snub-nosed revolver, its grip worn smooth from years of use.

The lead gunman spotted Lin and hesitated for a fraction of a second — long enough. Lin's sidearm was already up, his shot sharp and controlled. The man collapsed without a sound. The SMG operators surged forward, muzzles flashing with suppressed bursts.

Bullets tore into the crates, splinters exploding in the air. The acrid tang of gunpowder filled Lin's nostrils. He ducked low, dragging Min-joon into the narrow shadow of a rusting forklift.

"Three seconds to your left flank," Keller's voice snapped through the comm.

Lin yanked Min-joon sideways just as another hail of fire chewed into the floor where they'd been crouched. Over the forklift's battered frame, he caught a glimpse of their attackers — matte armor plates, disciplined trigger control. They were closing the gap.

Min-joon fired two quick shots around the forklift's mast. The sharp, un-suppressed cracks echoed across the empty warehouse. One operator staggered and fell; the other ducked behind a steel barrel.

"Keller," Lin said, calm but urgent. "I need a hole on the north side."

"Working it," Keller replied. "But you've got thirty seconds before the others press in."

Lin scanned the high rafters — a chain hoist hung directly over a stack of heavy barrels. The rust on its links flaked like dried blood. He holstered his pistol and grabbed the chain with both hands, yanking hard. The pulley screamed in protest, then the barrels tipped, crashing to the ground with a roar that shook the building.

The stack collapsed into the main approach, sealing it in a mess of metal and splintered wood. Shouts from the attackers confirmed the disruption.

"Move!" Lin barked.

They darted through the narrow channel between containers, boots slipping on damp concrete. Bullets chased them, sharp pings ringing off steel. Min-joon stumbled on a slick oil patch, but Lin's hand shot out, hauling him upright without breaking stride.

The north door was a rusted panel half-torn from its hinges. Keller's voice crackled again: "Two down outside, but more inbound. You've got one minute before this whole block swarms."

Lin slammed his shoulder into the door, forcing it open. The night air hit him — cold, sharp, laced with salt and diesel fumes. The wide sprawl of the docks stretched ahead, stacks of containers rising like silent walls.

Keller crouched behind a pile of shipping pallets, his compact SMG braced on a crate, a duffel of spare magazines at his feet. "Truck's two blocks east," he said, firing a short, controlled burst back toward the warehouse. "Go!"

They sprinted, the slap of their boots swallowed by the distant rumble of cranes and cargo loaders. Overhead, a gull screamed and vanished into the mist.

Then came the sound of an engine — low at first, then rising fast. At the intersection, a black SUV burst into view, headlights glaring. The passenger leaned out, rifle braced.

"Down!" Lin shouted, shoving Min-joon behind a steel bollard. His pistol came up in one smooth motion. Two shots rang out, precise and lethal. The rifleman pitched sideways, body rolling across the asphalt. The SUV skidded, fishtailed, and slammed into a parked truck.

"Move!" Keller yelled, charging past with his SMG spitting fire at the warehouse's mouth.

They piled into Keller's truck — an old Hyundai Porter with dents in every panel — and the engine roared to life. Tires squealed as they tore through the maze of dockside streets, neon signs and shadowy alleys blurring past.

No one spoke for the first two minutes. Lin watched the reflection of the port lights shrink in the side mirror, each passing second pulling them farther from the firefight but not from the danger.

Finally, Lin broke the silence. "You said Jin's not the biggest problem. Talk."

Min-joon's breathing was still uneven, but his voice was steady. "The man who pulled me out that night — he's the one above Jin. He moves politicians, controls supply routes, has friends in the military. He's the one who ordered your name erased."

Lin's jaw tightened. "Name?"

Min-joon hesitated. Outside, the streets narrowed, lined with shuttered shops and the glow of flickering streetlamps.

Keller's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "We've got tails again. Two sedans."

"Lose them," Lin ordered, never taking his eyes off Min-joon.

The words came out quiet but heavy. "His name is Sang-ho. You know him. You trusted him once."

The name landed like a cold blade sliding between Lin's ribs. Memories flashed — a night in Seoul years ago, rain hammering down, Sang-ho's voice promising they'd watch each other's backs.

And now, he was hunting him.

Keller threw the truck into a sharp turn, headlights vanishing behind a row of dark buildings. The chase sounds faded, but Lin knew they'd be back. Sang-ho's reach didn't end at the docks.

This wasn't just survival anymore. It was a war.