Clans of the Storm

The night rain hadn’t stopped for three hours. Water streamed down the cables, the pipes, the posters of flawless idol faces, smudging makeup, washing away smiles, turning the streets into blinking puddles. In a narrow alley, wedged between a bar and an abandoned laundromat, a single neon sign flickered: “차가운 피” — Cold Blood. That was where Ruò Dé Var arrived first. He sat against the far wall, back to the brick. Before him — an empty table, a fogged-up cup of tea, and an ashtray. He didn’t smoke, but it was always there. A symbol — like an old ritual no one dared to break. Soon, the door creaked open again. Arianna stepped inside silently, without a hood. Rain dripped from her hair, from her coat. She sat without a word. Her face was weary. Her gaze — sharp as a blade. “You’re one of those who worked in Busan before?” she asked. “Yeah. Before everything… went wrong.” Ruò took a sip of tea. “You fought that thing near Incheon, didn’t you?” “I did. It doesn’t breathe anymore. I still do. So I guess I won.” Awkward silence. Not hostility — caution. The third to arrive were Emilia and Cariss. The first — in a gray hoodie, plain, almost invisible. The second — black jacket, silver chain, fingerless gloves, eyes tired but cutting through the room. “This is the whole crew?” Cariss muttered, scanning everyone in the room...