Ansan Intermission - Interludes

The scent of frying chicken filled the air, thick with oil and spice. 

The heat from the kitchen pressed against Lim Sanghoon's back, the fryer bubbling steadily in front of him. The rhythmic sizzle of batter meeting oil blended with the low murmur of conversation from outside.

A steady night. Busy, but nothing they couldn't handle.

"You're still on that batch?" his wife called from the front. "We've got three more orders waiting."

Sanghoon exhaled through his nose, flipping the chicken with practiced ease. "I'm not slowing us down."

His wife scoffed. "You're slowing yourself down."

She walked over, wiping her hands on her apron, then took a quick glance at his station.

Perfectly even batches. No wasted movements. Every piece cooked to the exact second.

She knew better than to comment. He had always been like this. 

Didn't matter if it was cooking. Didn't matter if it was anything else

She shook her head and grabbed the finished tray.

Outside, the shop was packed. Plastic trays covered in fried chicken and half-empty bottles of soju filled the tables, neon light from the streets outside casting a warm glow through the windows. 

The air buzzed with laughter, drunken conversations, the occasional clatter of chopsticks against plates.

It hadn't always been like this.

Years ago, it was just the three of them, working in a tiny hole-in-the-wall with second hand equipment, hoping they'd sell enough to keep the lights on for another month.

Now, they had this.

A real shop. A real home. A real life.

Sanghoon thought about that sometimes.

How different things were now.

How simple. How quiet.

"You're zoning out again," his wife muttered. "At least pretend you're paying attention."

Sanghoon said nothing, tossing the next batch into the fryer.

His wife sighed, but there was no real frustration in it. Just something softer.

"You're thinking about Taeyang."

Sanghoon didn't react, but she knew him too well.

"He's fine," she continued, moving back to the counter. "Probably still up studying."

That was the reason Taeyang gave when he left home. Better schools in Anyang. More opportunities.

Sanghoon hadn't argued.

Hadn't questioned it.

But he'd watched his son before he left.

The way his jaw stayed tight. The way he avoided talking about certain things. The way he needed to go… like staying was never really an option.

Sanghoon had known a lot of people who left home like that.

Not chasing something.

He never asked. Not because he didn't care.

But because if Taeyang was anything like him… he wouldn't have answered anyway.

His wife frowned suddenly, flipping through her phone. "He hasn't called today."

Sanghoon didn't look up.

"He's busy."

She huffed. "Too busy for his own parents?"

Sanghoon didn't let his expression change, but his grip on the tongs tightened. Just slightly.

"Let him be," he said.

His wife shook her head and turned back to the front as Sanghoon exhaled slowly.

He checked the time and without a word, he pulled out his phone.

His fingers hovered over the call button.

For a second.

Just a second.

Then, he slipped it back into his pocket.

The oil crackled in front of him. His hands moved automatically. Cooking. Cleaning. Preparing the next batch.

Routine.

Simple.

But somewhere, deep in the back of his mind—

Something didn't sit right.

As he turned, his foot bumped against a box tucked near the back of the kitchen.

His wife clicked her tongue. "I told you to put those away."

Sanghoon glanced down.

The box was old, the edges worn from years of neglect. The lid had shifted slightly, revealing the gleam of metal inside.

Medals.

Official ones. Unofficial ones. Ones that weren't supposed to exist.

"I will, I will."

He crouched down, sliding the lid fully closed, tucking the memories back into the dark.

"You said that months ago," his wife muttered, stacking plates. "Just throw them away already."

Sanghoon didn't answer.

She sighed, softer this time. "You don't have to keep them, you know."

He stood up. "They're just old junk."

His wife looked at him for a long moment but didn't push. Just turned back to her work.

Sanghoon reached for his phone again.

Then stopped.

It had been years since he left. Years since he walked away. Since he cut ties.

Almost all of them.

His fingers hovered for half a second. Then, moving on their own, they opened his messages.

One unread text.

Sanghoon stared at it.

The fryer crackled. The voices outside blurred into background noise.

Then, slowly, he shut off the screen.

And went back to work.

***

Jinhwan's body screamed with every step.

The pain was everywhere, his ribs, his arms, his legs. His face throbbed with every heartbeat, skin torn, swollen. Blood crusted at the corner of his mouth, staining his shirt, drying against his skin.

His men, what was left of them… walked in silence behind him. No one spoke. No one asked if he was okay. Because they already knew the answer.

He wasn't.

Not even close.

The base wasn't much. Just an old, abandoned billiard hall in a part of Ansan no one gave a shit about. A single flickering lightbulb buzzed weakly as they stepped inside, casting long shadows against cracked walls and a floor littered with cigarette burns.

Jinhwan dropped into one of the chairs near the center. His body didn't just ache… it felt ruined. 

He leaned forward, pressing his elbows against his knees, letting out a slow, ragged breath.

It was quiet for a long time.

Then someone spoke.

"…The fuck do we do now?"

Jinhwan lifted his head.

One of his guys, Sangjin. He looked rough too, a cut across his brow still fresh, lip split from the earlier fight.

Jinhwan scoffed, rolling his tongue against his cheek. The inside of his mouth was raw. Everything tasted like iron.

"What do you think?"

Sangjin frowned. "Daehyun—"

"I know." Jinhwan's voice came sharp, cutting him off. "I fucking know."

That fight.

Daehyun.

That monster.

Jinhwan had fought strong people before. He'd taken his share of beatings. But this? This wasn't just a loss. It was humiliation.

Daehyun hadn't just beaten him. He'd broken him.

Jinhwan had thrown everything he had at him. Every trick, every ounce of strength. And Daehyun had cut through all of it like it was nothing. Like he hadn't even been trying.

The worst part? It wasn't even a surprise.

That was the difference between them. 

That was why the old man had chosen Daehyun and only Daehyun. 

Why he alone had been taught the techniques that made his fists unstoppable. 

Why he was strong enough to tear down everything they had been building.

Jinhwan's fingers curled into fists. His knuckles were raw, skin split from the fight, but he barely felt it.

That fucking traitor.

He had left them. He had destroyed them.

And now, years later, he had come back, walking through his streets, acting like he was untouchable, looking down on him like he was nothing more than another nameless thug in his way.

No. That wasn't happening. Not again.

Jinhwan let out a slow breath, pushing himself upright despite the screaming protests of his body. He glanced around the room, taking in the battered faces of the men who were still standing. 

They were waiting for him. Even now, after everything, they were still looking to him for what came next.

Good. That meant there was still something left to fight for.

Choi Hyeok was busy holding off Hwaseong, he wasn't exactly someone Jinhwan could call right now but…

"There's someone else in Ansan," he said finally.

Sangjin frowned. "What?"

"The guy that only fights with his right fist."

That got a reaction. A flicker of unease, of recognition.

Sangjin's expression darkened. "You're serious?"

Jinhwan exhaled through his nose. "Dead serious."

The rumors had been circling for weeks now. 

A fighter no one could put down. A man who never used his left hand, who broke through gangs and crews like they were made of paper. Some people thought he was handicapped, that maybe his left arm was permanently injured. 

Others thought he was just showing off.

But the truth? No one fucking knew.

He came out of nowhere. No history. No reputation. Just destruction.

Jinhwan had heard stories. Whole crews wiped out in a single night. Fighters that had been kings of their neighborhoods, torn apart like they were nothing. He didn't use weapons. Didn't bring backup. Didn't say a word.

Just his right fist.

Just power.

Sangjin shifted. "You really think we can get him?"

Jinhwan tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, pained grin.

"I don't need to get him," he muttered. "I just need to make sure he meets Daehyun."

Sangjin narrowed his eyes. "That easy, huh?"

Jinhwan let out a dry chuckle, wincing as his ribs protested.

"Nothing's easy," he admitted. "But if I play this right…"

He tilted his head back down, meeting Sangjin's gaze.

If he couldn't take Daehyun down himself…

Then all he had to do was make sure someone else did.

.

.

.

.

.

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Ansan arc is like halfway done so consider this a break of sorts. 

Taeyang's parents man... this still think my guy's studying. Sad life.

And Jinhwan, cheeky little Jinhwan.

But Goatsoo Ma vs The Boy of Liberation? I need to cook this meal to fucking perfection.

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Thanks for reading! Ta-ta~