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He’s stepped onto the train car and gripped the metal railing up above. He’s wearing a fitted heather-gray t-shirt that shows off a chest and pair of arms sculpted by hours in the gym. His hair is short and prickly, his features thick and square. He has a gash on his brow, and his knuckles are bruised as if from punishment he’s meted out.

But it’s the tattoo on his forearm that sticks out to me.

I recognize the Baekho symbol that’s eerily similar to the one I bear. Then my gaze scales up and spots the ferocious white tiger tatted on his bicep.

This man was in the alleyway that night. The more I stare at him, I become convinced of who he is. He’s one of Jin’s men.

And he’s clearly following me.

At the next stop, I rush off, shouldering through the crowds.

He gets off too, strolling as if casual and unassuming, yet I know better.

I break out into a jog once I make it to the street upstairs, throwing panicked glances over my shoulder. It’s not until I’m diving inside my apartment, sliding the locks into place that I stop.

That man was following me. He was probably observing me.

If he’s doing all this, then that can only mean one thing.

Jin can’t be far behind. This is far from over.

11.Jin

“I sawyour cute little rabbit. She’s still alive and well.”

Seung-min sounds smug as he waltzes into the Baekho’s gym at the Claw Lounge. It’s on the second floor, as worn and old as the rest of the lounge.

Nothing about it is flashy.

The mats for Tae Kwon Do and other sparring are permanently stained with blood, along with other fluids like sweat and spit. The walls are an ugly nicotine yellow from years of faded paint and humidity. Punching bags hang like meat carcasses at a slaughterhouse, their chains rusted over. Some are patched with duct tape. Others leak stuffing.

There’s a decent selection of weights and a wall of mirrors for guys to watch their form. No state of the art equipment you’d find at other, fancier gyms in South Korea.

But it’s enough to get the job done. It has the bare bones of what is needed for members of the syndicate to take out their frustrations when required.

That’s what I’m doing this afternoon.

The bag creaks on its chain with every blow I land.

Jab. Cross. Hook. Rear kick.

My fists are taped but still raw, the sweat rolling down my back. I’m in the middle of another hard jab when Seung-min interrupts with his little taunt.

I’m out of breath, shirtless and soaked in sweat while he’s strut inside the gym clean and fresh like he’s here for social hour, not to work out.

In the past, Seung-min reminded me of myself. He was hungry and determined, but lately, I’m seeing more of Jae-hyun from him.

His hunger isn’t rooted in discipline and achievement. It’s rooted in greed and excess. He wants the glory of rising up the ranks; he doesn’t appreciate the hard work it takes to get there. It’s no wonder Jae-hyun seems to have taken a liking to him.

I let the bag sway to a halt, lowering my fists. I turn around to face him, observing the glint in his eye and the smug twist of his mouth.

He knows that Monroe is still alive because he’s been watching her.

A direct show of disrespect to me, his captain.

The next breath I take burns from more than the physical exertion I’ve been engaged in. It burns from the fury that rises up inside me like a ferocious flame.

Normally, I am disciplined and restrained enough to resist its draw. I can control my emotions and keep myself in check. But as I stand across from Seung-min and that cocky grin on his squashed face, I choose to let the fire consume me.