005 Gone Boy

The office smells like old wood, polished to the point where it reflects the sunlight streaming through the narrow windows. Minimalistic, but it's been gathering up too much dust.

The grain pulled off the lines show wear and tear but I don't think the man before me does his work enough to leave that in.

The principal's desk is cluttered with papers, half-finished thoughts scribbled on margins. He's leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. He thinks he's higher, that I'm just another kid about to get chewed up and spit out. 

For a lot of the time, that just might be the case. For a lot of kids, he's the reason why their life sucks. That signature of his is what moves the gavel to cast the death sentence. No good morals certificate, third-rate university, third-rate qualifications and now their life isn't what it could have been had they just been given another chance. 

But he's wrong. Puppet king. Clipboard Caesar.

I slide a folder across the desk. The principal's smirk falters as he flips it open. Inside are documents—school records, financial statements, even a few personal emails that show him in compromising situations. 

Record of catcalling, slipping dms, the girls he's texted to over the last couple decades. Legal action might be taken.

Nothing illegal, not exactly, but enough to make him sweat.

"The kid did his homework," He says, trying to feign confidence.The spitting image of Frank Lucas interrogated.

The room feels smaller, the air heavier. The walls are lined with old class photos, memories of a time when everything seemed simpler. 

Outside, the faint sounds of students shuffling between classes can be heard, unaware of the storm brewing in this tiny office.

I don't want trouble, I say. But push me, and you lose your life. You lose your position, you lose the benefits, you lose the capability to get away with what you've done until now.

The principal looks up at me, his eyes narrowing. He's not used to being challenged, especially not by someone like me. But the subtlety is there, just beneath the surface, and I can almost taste it.

I've dealt with bullies before, I add, and you're just another one of them. I don't feel it but my smile just slightly reaches my cheek.

The principal's office isn't large, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room. Every word, every glance is a move on a chessboard, and I'm countering his Ponziani. 

The tension too thick, almost suffocating, but I'm not backing down. Not this time.

He finally speaks, his voice strained. "What do you want?"

Back off and leave me alone, old fuck.

The principal hesitates, then clicks his tongue. He knows he's trapped, and there's no way out without collateral damage. 

He's a man who's built his career on control, but today, he's lost it.

As I leave the office, I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. The hallways are crowded with students, faces blending into a sea of indifference. None of them know what just happened, and that's fine by me. It's better this way, quieter.

But this is just the beginning.

I make my way down the street, dodging bicycles and drifting through the marketplace, the open stalls brimming with life—vendors yelling out prices, the smell of grilled food mingling with the sharp scent of fresh vegetables.

I blend in, just another face in the crowd, but my mind is racing.

I slip into a tiny internet café tucked between a noodle shop and a pawn store. Inside, the hum of old computers and the faint clacking of keyboards create an ambience that betrays the depravity of the people here. 

The air is thick with the scent of cheap coffee and instant ramen. It's the kind of place where no one asks questions, where being no one is the fad. Anonymity is the currency round here.

I take a seat in the back, the furthest from the door. The monitor flickers to life, and I dive in, fingers dancing across the keyboard. 

The screen glows with the flow of information—data,resorts, patterns in uploading, secrets. The open-source intelligence skill that felt like a fluke, like a useless trivia trick, is now my weapon. It's more than just knowledge. It's power.

I sift through records, pulling threads that lead me to people, places, events. The nude raves, the time when they were once wannabe delinquents, their pictures with the skimpy pictures, the message board accounts, the risque pics. 

Any racial slur available to man, I'll make it look like they've said it at least once, but tried to cover it up.

The deeper I go, the clearer it becomes. I'm building something—a network of evidence, dirt that will ensure my survival.

But it's not just about surviving. It's about control. Shaping the narrative before it shapes me.

I tap into a few low-level databases, nothing too flashy, just enough to alter a few records—cleaning up my file, erasing that fight, copyright banning the low quality videos, tweaking the few decent grades that the bullies had here and there. It's meticulous work, but necessary. 

When I'm done, Lee Do-woon is as clean as a whistle.

I sit back, letting the screen dim as I sip my lukewarm coffee. Too late.

The café's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, turning the patrons into ghosts. They're here but not really—lost in their own worlds. Outside, the world moves on. It does easily.

Come on now, look pretty.

The sun is setting, casting long shadows over the streets. I walk back through the marketplace, past the vendors packing up their stalls, and into the narrow alleys that snake through the city. 

It's louder here, almost the simple kind of loud, but the tension never leaves me. 

I slip into the back alley and I climb another wall. I open the back door to an old print shop on the corner. The place is a relic, with dusty shelves lined with ink bottles and rolls of paper that haven't moved in years. 

The owner, a man in his sixties with ink-stained fingers and tired eyes, nods as I enter. He raises his eyebrows but he doesn't ask a question. He never does. At least that's what they said.

The back room is where the real work happens. I sit down at the ancient machine, the kind that still uses metal plates and real ink. 

I forge documents—IDs, birth certificates, school records. Everything I need to create a new identity. Every stroke of the press, every imprint of ink on paper feels like a step closer to freedom. It took a few hours but it's done.

The air is thick with the smell of ink and paper, a scent that clings to my clothes as I work. The dim light casts long shadows over the room, making the whole scene feel like something out of a noir film. 

The hum of the press, the rhythmic thud of the plates—it's almost hypnotic, a steady beat that drowns out everything else.

Hours pass, but I don't stop until it's done. When I finally step out into the night, the world feels different, sharper. 

The documents are tucked safely in my bag, but the weight of them feels like a key—a key to a door I'm about to open, a door that leads to a new life.

The street is quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes in the dead of night. The city sleeps, but I'm wide awake, every nerve on edge, every sense heightened. 

Everything feels like a flash, but it's been a week. I don't really know, time flies inside rooms with no windows pretty fast.

This is it. This is the moment when everything changes. When Lee Do-woon dies and someone else takes his place.

I walk away, leaving the print shop behind. The city stretches out before me, a maze of possibilities and dangers. But I'm ready. Ready to step into the shadows and emerge as something else.

Something free.

The rain feels like a blessing. People don't cry anymore, so it's good that someone is doing it for them.

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Get the reference? Power stones please.