Kevin I

The vast junkyard sprawled out under the dimming evening sky, casting long shadows over the towering piles of twisted metal and abandoned machinery. The scent of rust and oil hung heavy in the air. Kevin, standing amidst the wreckage, cracked his knuckles and stared at the figure standing across from him.

Gun Park—legendary fighter, The Shiro Oni(White Ghost) rumored to be invincible, and the man Kevin had sought out in hopes of becoming stronger, So he can be useful to Toji, So he can feel worthy of Being No. 2 in Division. But now, face-to-face with him, Kevin couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and excitement. He clenched his fists, his blood pumping as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

"You said you'd make me stronger," Kevin said, his voice firm and filled with determination. "But after seeing you up close, I think you're weaker than me."

Gun Park smirked at Kevin's words, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. He wasn't offended; in fact, he was amused. He had seen many brash and overconfident young fighters before, and Kevin's cocky demeanor reminded him of his younger self. The fire in Kevin's eyes, that same reckless ambition, was something Gun could understand all too well.

"That's not a way to greet your teacher," Gun said, chuckling softly. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like a predator toying with its prey. "But I like your spirit. Show me what you've got."

Without wasting another second, Kevin lunged at Gun, fists flying. His muscles coiled like springs as he aimed a powerful right hook at Gun's jaw. He didn't hold back. He'd been training for this moment, and he was going to prove himself.

But Gun didn't move. His body didn't even flinch. Kevin's punch stopped dead in its tracks as Gun caught his fist with his hand, gripping it like it was nothing more than a child's swing. Kevin's eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react, Gun casually twisted his wrist, forcing Kevin to stagger forward.

"Is that all?" Gun asked, almost bored.

Kevin growled in frustration, wrenching his hand free and swinging again, this time with a left jab aimed at Gun's ribs. But Gun dodged effortlessly, leaning just slightly to the side, making Kevin's strike miss by mere centimeters.

"Come on," Gun said, his voice rising slightly, now taunting. "Fight more seriously!"

Kevin grit his teeth and threw a flurry of punches, his fists moving like blurs, but none of them landed. Gun weaved through the attacks with ease, his movements smooth and graceful, as if he were dancing. He didn't counter, didn't strike back. He was waiting for something.

Kevin, growing frustrated, planted his feet and swung a roundhouse kick at Gun's head. The kick was powerful, fast—but Gun was faster. He stepped back just enough to avoid the strike, and as Kevin's leg flew past him, Gun's hand shot out, gripping Kevin's ankle.

"You're strong," Gun remarked, almost thoughtfully, as he held Kevin's leg suspended in mid-air. "But strength isn't everything."

Before Kevin could react, Gun yanked his leg forward, pulling him off balance. Kevin stumbled, and Gun let go, allowing Kevin to fall to the ground in an ungraceful heap. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he gasped for air, his body aching from the sudden fall.

"Get up," Gun said, his tone still calm, but there was a hint of impatience now. "If you want to learn, you need to stop fighting like a brute."

Kevin pushed himself to his feet, glaring at Gun. His pride was wounded, but his determination hadn't faltered. He charged at Gun again, this time trying to keep his movements unpredictable. He aimed a punch at Gun's chest, followed by an elbow strike to his face.

Gun deflected both attacks with minimal effort, blocking Kevin's strikes as if they were nothing. "Your form is sloppy," Gun commented. "You're relying too much on brute strength. It's predictable."

Kevin growled in frustration, throwing another punch, but this time, Gun caught his arm mid-swing and twisted it behind Kevin's back. The pain shot through Kevin's shoulder, but Gun didn't apply enough pressure to dislocate it—just enough to remind him of who was in control.

"Use your legs more," Gun said, his voice firm but instructive. "Don't just throw your weight around. Balance is key."

Kevin struggled to free himself, but Gun held him in place effortlessly. After a few seconds, Gun released him, stepping back and letting Kevin recover.

"Again," Gun ordered.

Kevin panted, sweat dripping down his forehead as he clenched his fists. He charged again, this time trying to incorporate Gun's advice. He threw a low kick aimed at Gun's thigh, followed by a quick jab at his midsection. But once again, Gun blocked and dodged effortlessly, as if reading Kevin's every move before he made it.

"Better," Gun remarked, "but not enough."

This time, Gun retaliated. In an instant, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His fist shot out like a bullet, connecting with Kevin's solar plexus. The impact was so fast and precise that Kevin didn't even have time to brace himself. His breath was knocked out of him, and he doubled over in pain.

As Kevin gasped for air, Gun circled him, his voice calm but instructive. "The Yakuza family I come from… they taught me how to fight from a young age. It wasn't about brute strength. It was about precision, control. The Akuma, they called us, Fearing our strength. Our family had a peculiar trait…"

Kevin, still wheezing, looked up at Gun through blurry eyes. Gun stopped and, in a single motion, removed his glasses. Kevin's eyes widened in shock as he saw it—Gun's eyes, the same as his own. Black irises with a single white dot in the center.

"You see it now, don't you?" Gun said, his voice low and almost amused. "These eyes… they're a mark of our lineage. The other lunatics feared us for it. And now you have them too."

Kevin's mind raced as he processed what Gun was saying, but before he could react, Gun was on him again. This time, Gun's strikes came faster, harder. He threw Kevin to the ground with a brutal kick to the chest, then lifted him by the collar, delivering a savage knee to his ribs.

Kevin's vision blurred from the pain, but Gun's voice remained clear. "You need to stop thinking like a street brawler," Gun said as he tossed Kevin aside like a ragdoll. "You have potential, but it means nothing if you don't learn to control it."

Kevin struggled to stand, his entire body screaming in agony. He wiped the blood from his mouth and glared at Gun, determination still burning in his eyes despite the pain.

Gun sighed, walking toward him slowly. "I was like you once," he said, almost nostalgically. "Arrogant, strong, but reckless. It took me years to learn what I'm teaching you now."

Kevin launched himself at Gun one last time, throwing everything he had into a final desperate attack. He swung wildly, his fists blurring as he aimed at Gun's head, chest, anything he could hit. But Gun was ready.

With a fluid motion, Gun slipped past Kevin's punches, stepped inside his guard, and delivered a devastating elbow strike to Kevin's jaw. The impact rattled Kevin's skull, and he felt his legs give out beneath him.

Before Kevin could hit the ground, Gun caught him by the collar and pulled him close. "You're going to be a masterpiece of mine," Gun whispered, his voice almost affectionate. "But you have a long way to go."

And with that, Gun slammed his knee into Kevin's stomach, knocking the last bit of air from his lungs. Kevin's body went limp as consciousness faded, his mind finally giving in to the overwhelming pain and exhaustion.

As Kevin collapsed into unconsciousness, Gun caught him, slinging him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. The fight was over, and Kevin had been thoroughly defeated. But Gun wasn't disappointed. In fact, he was pleased.

"You've got potential, kid," Gun muttered to the unconscious Kevin as he began walking through the junkyard, carrying him effortlessly. "You just need to be shaped… molded. And I'm the one who's going to do it."

The rusted piles of metal loomed around them as Gun carried Kevin away, the sound of the junkyard creaking and groaning in the wind. In the distance, the faint glint of city lights could be seen on the horizon, but for now, they were alone in this wasteland.

Kevin's journey had only just begun, and under Gun Park's tutelage, he would learn what it truly meant to fight—not just with brute force, but with skill, precision, and the deadly control of the Black Eyes Clan.

And Gun, with a smirk on his face, looked forward to molding Kevin into his masterpiece.