Ten years later.
The neon lights of the city flickered against the rain-slicked streets, casting eerie shadows over the dark alleyways. Muro, now 20 years old, leaned against his motorcycle, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His once innocent eyes were now hardened by years of surviving in a world that had turned its back on him.
After his father was imprisoned, Muro had no one. He drifted from one slum to another, scraping by through underground fights, small-time hustles, and street racing. His childhood innocence had been replaced by rage, mistrust, and a thirst for revenge.
But it wasn't until he met Zidane that his life took a sharp turn.
Zidane was the leader of The Black Fangs, a secretive and highly feared underground syndicate that operated in the shadows—dealing in illegal arms, smuggling, and most importantly, taking down corrupt officials who thought they were untouchable. He was ruthless, brutal, and above all, a man who saw potential in Muro.
"You want power, kid?" Zidane had asked one night, tossing Muro a bloodstained knife after a brawl. "Then stop surviving and start taking control."
That night, Muro made his choice.
He immersed himself in the underworld, learning how to fight, how to negotiate in the black market, and most importantly, how to take down enemies without leaving a trace. His name became whispered among the streets—a reckless but cunning young man with nothing to lose.
One night, inside a hidden bar known only to the syndicate, Zidane slid a folder across the table toward Muro.
"Your father's still rotting in that hellhole, isn't he?" Zidane smirked, lighting a cigar. "What if I told you we could change that?"
Muro's fingers tightened around his glass. "How?"
Zidane leaned forward. "The prison where he's locked up—Level One Facility. The worst of the worst are in there. We've got someone on the inside. If you want your father out, you're coming with me."
Muro exhaled slowly, staring at the folder. Inside were blueprints of the prison, the schedule of the guards, and most importantly, a list of high-ranking corrupt officials who had set up his father all those years ago.
His hands curled into fists.
This wasn't just a rescue mission.
This was war.
And Muro was ready.
Muro closed the file slowly, leaning back against the cold wooden chair. His eyes locked onto Zidane, his mind weighing the gravity of the situation.
"This… is too much." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Zidane exhaled a cloud of smoke, his sharp gaze never leaving Muro. "Do you still believe in the law? Do you still think justice exists?"
Muro remained silent.
Zidane let out a dry chuckle, but there was bitterness in his tone. "Listen carefully, kid. In this country, the law isn't for people like you. It isn't for your father. The law belongs to those with money and power."
Muro clenched his jaw. He knew Zidane was right. Since childhood, he had seen firsthand how the world worked. No one had listened when he tried to testify that his father was innocent. The police had laughed at him. The media had spun the story however they were told. The rich controlled everything.
Zidane took a slow sip from his glass before slamming it down onto the table.
"I used to believe in justice, just like you." He smirked bitterly. "But reality crushed that belief. I had a brother... His name was Raka."
Muro listened intently. This was the first time Zidane had ever mentioned his family.
"He wasn't a criminal. He worked as a driver for a wealthy businessman. One day, he was accused of embezzling company funds." Zidane's fists clenched, his eyes burning with rage. "It was a setup. I had proof. But who cared? The police? The judges? Not a single person would listen."
Zidane took a deep breath, his voice trembling with suppressed fury.
"They threw him in prison. For years, they tortured him. They gave him rotten food, treated him like an animal. And do you know what happened?"
Muro swallowed hard, his chest tightening.
"He got sick. His lungs failed because of the damp, filthy prison cell. They refused him medical care. They let him die—slowly and painfully." Zidane stared blankly at the table. "When he finally passed, there was nothing I could do. All I could do was look at his frail, scarred body. The police called it a 'closed case'."
Zidane let out another chuckle, but it was void of any humor—just pain.
"That was the moment I stopped believing in the law." His piercing gaze locked onto Muro. "I didn't build Black Fangs for money, nor for power. I built it to destroy those who think they can buy justice."
Muro sat still, his heart pounding. He could feel Zidane's anger—the same anger that had been burning inside him for years.
"Your father won't get out with words, Muro." Zidane leaned back, his expression serious. "You can keep believing in this rotten system... or you can fight it."
Silence filled the room, the only sound coming from the raindrops outside.
Muro took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
He already knew his answer.
Zidane's phone suddenly rang, breaking the silence. His expression remained unreadable, but there was tension in his eyes. He picked up the call, listening intently for a few seconds before responding briefly.
"I understand. I'll handle it later."
He ended the call and turned to Muro, who was still sitting there, lost in thought.
"Go home, Muro. You need to rest." Zidane's voice was firm.
Muro sighed, running a hand over his tired face. "I can't just sit at home and do nothing."
Zidane shook his head. "That doesn't mean you should destroy yourself. Leave, get some rest, and don't do anything stupid."
Muro knew Zidane wouldn't take no for an answer. Without another word, he stood up and left the Black Fangs' hideout.
The city streets were damp from the light drizzle as Muro walked aimlessly. Instead of going back to his empty home, he made his way to the apartment of his closest friend—Thomas.
Thomas had been one of the few people Muro could truly trust outside the gang. He wasn't part of Black Fangs, but he knew enough about Muro's dangerous life.
When Muro knocked on the apartment door, it didn't take long before Thomas answered.
"Muro?" Thomas frowned, clearly surprised to see his friend standing there, looking exhausted.
"I'm crashing here tonight." Muro stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.
Thomas sighed, shutting the door behind him before following Muro into the living room. "Don't tell me Zidane chewed you out."
Muro dropped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. "No, he told me to rest. But I don't want to go home."
Thomas shrugged, grabbing two cans of beer from the fridge and tossing one to Muro. "Then just chill for a bit. You need a clear head."
Muro stared at the beer can for a moment before setting it down on the table, unopened. His thoughts were still a mess—about his father, the murder that never happened, the corrupt system that protected only the powerful.
"I can't just sit around, Tom." His voice was heavy with frustration.
Thomas looked at him seriously. "I know, Muro. But if you burn out now, you won't be able to help your father. So be smart. And for that, you need to rest first."
Muro exhaled slowly. For the first time that night, he tried closing his eyes, even though his mind was still filled with anger and the beginnings of a plan forming in his head.
Muro sat on the floor in front of the TV, gripping the PS controller tightly. His fingers moved rapidly, pressing the buttons aggressively as if he were venting all the anger boiling inside him.
On the screen, his character ruthlessly eliminated enemies. Every attack he unleashed felt like an outlet for his frustration—rage against the corrupt system, against the police who framed his father, and against the injustice that had plagued his life.
Thomas, lounging on the sofa while scrolling through his phone, occasionally glanced at him. He knew Muro was trying to distract himself, but it was obvious that his mind was still in turmoil.
Suddenly, Muro's hands froze mid-air, his eyes staring blankly at the intense battle still playing out on the screen.
Silence.
Without a word, he reached for the remote and turned off the TV. The room instantly dimmed, illuminated only by the faint glow of a small table lamp in the corner.
Without paying attention to Thomas, Muro collapsed onto the couch, shut his eyes, and tried to sleep.
Thomas let out a quiet sigh, watching his friend finally surrender to exhaustion. Without disturbing him, he returned to his phone, allowing Muro to find whatever peace he could, even if only for a while.