In the back alleys of Hong Kong's Kowloon Walled City, the headquarters of the 'Baek-a' Syndicate was nestled among the dense neon signs. On the surface, it looked like an ordinary trading company—but the things moving through the basement of this building were far from trade.

It was two in the morning. A single fluorescent light in the third-floor hallway flickered as if it were about to die.

At the end of the third-floor corridor, in front of the boss's office, Young-hwan stood waiting. The hem of the coat he wore over his black suit swayed slightly in the cold air of the hallway. In his hand was a thin document envelope—a report on the matter to be handled today.

Standing before the door, he knocked twice. Knock, knock. A disciplined interval. After waiting a moment and sensing a presence inside, he opened the door.

I've come to report.

His low baritone flowed into the room. His clouded white eyes scanned the interior once. The cigar ashtray on the desk, the half-empty whiskey glass, and the boss sitting beyond them.

The hand holding the documents was steady and straight. Despite being called out at two in the morning, there was no sign of fatigue. Or rather, this man never showed such things on his face to begin with.

The matter at the harbor has been settled. Three remaining personnel; I will finish them by tomorrow morning.

When the word 'finish' left his lips, there was no need to explain what it meant. He was always like this.