The Prime Minister's Desperate Plea
"You watching the news right now?"
The team leader grumbled under his breath, letting out a small sigh as he kept his eyes glued to his notepad.
But Han Jaejeong didn't budge, his gaze fixed on the TV as if he hadn't heard a word.
"The hospital provided basic treatment before sending everyone except a few domestic patients who wanted to be admitted straight to the airport," the reporter said. "The problem is the Swiss man who attacked the passengers. He's been identified as a high-ranking WHO official. Police say that during the suppression, some riot squad officers were injured, forcing the arriving special forces unit to use live ammunition as a last resort."
Anchor: "They had no choice but to use live rounds. How should we interpret that?"
Reporter: "From the on-site forensics and passenger statements, the deceased foreigner killed two people on the plane. It's hard to believe, but he did it by savagely biting their throats with his teeth. Even after being dragged off, he kept attacking the riot squad, injuring several officers."
Anchor: "It's unbelievable. And there's a protest in front of police headquarters?"
Reporter: "Yes, it started this morning and wrapped up as the sun set. Three human rights groups participated, protesting excessive force and vowing to continue over the weekend. Online, opinions are split—'appropriate response' versus 'overkill.' There are even wild comments like 'was it a zombie?'"
Anchor: "Given the details, anyone might wonder. Hopefully, a swift investigation clarifies everything before it becomes a diplomatic issue..."
The team leader set down his notepad, and most of the violent crimes unit was now glued to the screen.
"What a clusterfuck. Biting people to death now? Ridiculous."
But Jaejeong just tilted his head, saying nothing.
"That's weird..."
"What is?"
"Riot squad's what, a dozen guys? They couldn't handle one dude and had to call in special forces for bullets? Those guys could take down a cow barehanded."
"Airline incidents are sensitive. Look at the US—they shoot if shit looks off in a plane. Can't even breathe easy."
"US does it for terror threats... Whatever, they'll handle it."
"Yeah, not your problem. Link those bastards the second they turn themselves in. Make it clean—no noise. The chief's pissed."
"Got it, boss. Don't worry."
"Hey, your—wait, where you going now?"
The team leader eyed Jaejeong as he stood up abruptly.
"Laundry. Gotta pick up my clothes before I do jack shit."
"They deliver. Not here today?"
"Auntie's been under the weather."
Jaejeong shrugged nonchalantly and headed out of the unit.
The laundry shop sat in an alley across the main road from the station—a longtime haunt for detectives.
With constant stakeouts and overnights, no one had time to go home and change.
The owner always delivered clean clothes on schedule, rain or shine.
Hearing she was sick, Jaejeong figured he'd at least show his face.
He parked at the convenience store, grabbed a case of drinks as a get-well gift, and trudged down the dim alley.
This path always took him back to his rookie days.
Back then, burning with justice, he'd vowed to change the world himself.
Even after all-nighters writing reports, as dawn broke, he'd drag his exhausted ass here for the seniors' laundry.
The owner didn't deliver back then, so it was always the newbies' job.
Memories of those grueling cases flashed by, and a long sigh escaped him.
Repetition.
Always the repetition.
Crime never ended, no matter how many you busted.
What the hell was he even doing this for?
Unable to answer that shook the once-passionate Jaejeong to his core.
He'd believed fixing small things alone would snowball into change.
But the world didn't bend easy—or maybe he was weaker than he thought. Nothing changed.
Time only revealed more darkness.
In a filthy world, holding onto principles wasn't easy.
Temptations, touches harder to shake off.
Did people know?
Walking the razor's edge between worlds, it stops being about right or wrong—it's about what's easier.
A headache hit as he snapped out of it. The laundry's bright sign lit the alley.
"She said she was sick and closed up..."
Jaejeong muttered, puzzled.
The shop glowed inside under the sign.
But no one was there.
"Auntie?"
He eased the door open—and froze.
There she was on the floor, pale as a ghost.
Heart condition, on meds—he remembered that.
Jaejeong reached for 119 but paused.
The university hospital ER was close.
One person's no big deal.
Strapping on heavy duffels like they were nothing, he hoisted her onto his back and bolted for the ER.
Not to brag, but pound-for-pound, he was the toughest detective in Seoul.
The medical staff rushed over as Jaejeong burst in, sweating buckets with her on his back.
"What's wrong with her?"
"Local laundry lady. Went to grab my clothes, found her collapsed. No clue why."
He wiped his brow, shaking his head.
"Any chronic issues? Meds?"
"Heart thing, takes pills. Don't know details."
"Family we can call?"
"Dunno. Try this."
He handed over the smartphone he'd grabbed from the shop.
As the nurse scrolled contacts, the team worked.
"She okay?"
"Too early, but meds are kicking in—BP's stabilizing, oxygen sats normal."
"Phew... Thank God."
Relieved, Jaejeong filled out visitor info with security, got his badge, and finally breathed.
That's when he noticed the ER buzz more than usual.
Scanning around, he spotted a clerk arguing with the on-duty doc in the corner.
"Transfers at this hour? Not even an emergency—patient was fine in Incheon. Who's approving this crap?"
"Doc, it's—"
"No buts. Call 'em—admit tomorrow proper."
"It's a VIP. Chairman's family. You know how it is—I'll take the heat."
Non-emergency midnight transfer via ER.
He zoned out in the waiting area, half-listening to the chatter.
Then, through the auto doors, a rush of people.
A guy carrying a limp patient, trailed by a familiar face.
Where do I know that?
Jaejeong's eyes narrowed. He sighed.
"...Lee Beom-sik."
Beom-sik froze, spotting him.
Clean-cut.
That was the word—crisp, no other fit.
Slicked-back hair, model legs, small sharp face.
Thick brows, big eyes—like a celeb.
Worlds apart from Jaejeong's hulking, muscled frame.
Beom-sik as actor, Jaejeong his bodyguard? Yeah, that tracked.
Beom-sik sat across from him.
Staring hard. Jaejeong leaned back, playing cocky.
His eyes screamed murder—definite history.
Lee Beom-sik.
Gangster.
Not your average thug.
He'd unified fracturing Seoul gangs in half a year after the old guard died or retired.
Not content seating his boss, he purged Gyeonggi too.
Tornado incarnate.
Specialty: hand-to-hand.
Knife? Bat? Didn't matter.
Solo-wrecking a 15-man crew? Old news.
Street bosses called him "President."
But he'd met his match.
First clash with Jaejeong, three years back.
Beom-sik's crew rooting in Seoul.
Jaejeong got CCTV from a bar owner buddy—perfect evidence.
While others watched hungrily but lacked cause, Jaejeong moved.
Riot squad inside herding goons; Jaejeong solo-blocked the back exit.
Beom-sik bolted out—and met him.
Dead end. No escape.
Swing without hesitation.
Result: brutal.
Undefeated Beom-sik dropped in one shot.
Then pummeled unconscious.
Jaejeong ate hits first—helpless till that counter.
Beom-sik's style: elegant, tricky flurries, feints, unpredictable kicks.
But Jaejeong stayed planted, weathering for the opening.
No victory joy, though.
Court ruled for Beom-sik.
Organization greased it—slapped him as mere enforcer, five years.
Three years later, nearly half served, he sat here.
Beom-sik smirked viciously, like he'd devour Jaejeong given half a chance.
"Out quick, huh? Word is you scrubbed floors spotless. Model prisoner? Or special pardon?"
"Quit yapping."
"Ungrateful prick... I'm asking nice."
Beom-sik snorted, eyes flicking to the wall TV.
Jaejeong followed.
"Emergency broadcast. Japan is preparing a global address—likely a call for aid. We'll provide live translation of the Prime Minister's speech. It's starting now."
The anchor's uneasy eyes dropped to her script as the feed cut.
The Japanese PM hustled onstage clutching a note.
His words overlaid the Korean interpreter's.
"Mid-June, we first detected an unknown pathogen in Fukushima Prefecture. We thought we could handle it internally—sealed the area, transferred patients, began research. But we failed to contain the virus. It spread simultaneously to Tokyo and other cities."
The PM swallowed dryly.
Voice shaking, slurring—grave.
Everyone in the ER hall tuned in, Beom-sik included.
He dabbed sweat with a handkerchief and pressed on.
"This virus, unnamed still—as some scholars feared, Fukushima radiation seeped into groundwater, mixing with animals who drank it, birthing a mutated rabies strain. Animals attacked residents, cross-species jump evolved it further, using human brains as hosts for rapid spread."
A suited man dashed up, handing new papers.
"Central cities collapsing chain-reaction. Government offices, public facilities—key infrastructure gone. Countless dead... Not sure how long this broadcast lasts, but here's what we know. Please—cooperation, rescue. Send armies! Deploy your militaries!"
Bowing, pleading, he straightened, face ashen.
"Infected get fever, muscle pain, lose consciousness, die. Then revive instantly, attacking all living things. Incubation was 48 hours; now adapted to 1-3 minutes via transmission—and shortening."
Words tumbling faster.
"They attack indiscriminately with teeth, fingers. No reason left. Feel no pain—inhuman strength, speed. Infection via blood, fluids. Bites farther from brain take longer."
Head up, staring ahead.
"Tokyo... not sure how long. Self-Defense Forces massacred. Only way to stop infected: the head. Attack the—"
Scream cut him off. Feed died.
Back in studio, anchor blinked speechless.
The hospital fell silent too.
Infected People