The Ghost of Gangnam I

It had been five years since I first set foot in Gangnam. A lot had changed in that time, and surprisingly, so had I. Now standing at 190 cm, I towered over most people. My body had gone from lanky and awkward to lean and athletic—five years of pure grind will do that to you.

This transformation wasn't a coincidence. I'd worked my ass off, pushing my body through training that would make anyone else quit. I tried that One Punch Man training routine, but as it turns out, life isn't an anime. That 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and 10 km run every day? Yeah, I did that, and then I ramped it up by ten times just to see if it would get me anywhere faster. Spoiler alert: it didn't work like that.

I spent five years of my life working out, investing money, and staying away from wannabe gangsters. I wasn't out here smashing through buildings or taking down villains in one blow. All I got was sore muscles and a stronger body.

Not that I'm complaining. I wasn't aiming to be like that sperm eyed bastard; I just wanted to have control over something in my life for once. And getting stronger? That was within my control. I didn't give a fuck about that old guy's advice about not having potential.

I ran a hand through my black hair, tied back like Geto from Jujutsu Kaisen. It was a small victory, but damn, it felt good to finally have hair I didn't hate. Unlike my teenage days in my previous world when I was cursed with a head that looked like a coconut husk—seriously, the baldness gene in my family was a bitch—I finally had long, silky hair. It grew thick, the kind you only needed to wash with soap twice a week to keep it looking good. Who knew genetics could be so unpredictable? 

"Maybe it's late puberty," I muttered as I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. "Or maybe the real Doo lee wasting his potential." I gagged, remembering the shit he did in the original Lookism in Paprika tv arc. At least I look good.

It's funny how people treat you differently just based on your looks. I used to think it was bullshit, that personality and effort mattered more. Nope. Turns out, people really do treat you better when you've got something aesthetically pleasing going on. It's human nature, I guess. People will always go for the rose with thorns instead of all the leaves on a tree. Beautiful things draw attention, and we're all just wired to react to that.

You can be successful, strong, kind, brave—whatever—but the first thing people notice is how you look. The whole "true love" or "soulmate" shit only happens in the movies. In the real world? It's all surface-level, and I'd learned to accept that. Hell, I even prefer it. It's simpler. Saves you from all the messy, emotional nonsense that ugly people say to calm themselves—LOOKS MATTER.

But I'm getting off track. Enough with the depressing shit.

It wasn't just me that had changed over the years; the stories around me had, too. I became a living myth, a walking rumor mill. You'd be surprised at the kind of crap people come up with when they have nothing better to do. Some say I was a member of the Yakuza in Japan, that I killed all the gang members there and escaped to South Korea for a "peaceful life." Yeah, right. As if anything about my life was peaceful.

Another rumor? I supposedly killed every gang leader in Seoul. Apparently, I went on a revenge spree because some guy killed my girlfriend, and I wiped out entire gangs in one night. Dude, I'm fifteen. Fifteen. Do they even think before they spread this nonsense?

I didn't have a girlfriend, let alone someone to avenge. It's not that I don't get attention—hell, I've gotten confession letters before. I just don't feel that "thing" people talk about when it comes to love. I mean, sure, my dick gets hard sometimes, but that's infatuation, not love. And yeah, I'm underage, so let's not get into that.

I didn't give a damn about the rumors. If anything, they worked in my favor. People were too scared to mess with me, and that saved me from unnecessary drama. In the five years since I first came to Gangnam, I'd only been in about ten or twelve fights. It's not like I went looking for trouble, but sometimes it found me anyway.

They ended up giving me a nickname—"The Ghost of Gangnam." Not gonna lie, it sounds pretty badass.

I got the nickname "The Ghost of Gangnam" because I always disappeared after a fight. No sticking around for some ego trip or to let people congratulate me. I finished the job and vanished. Not because I wanted to fight more people—hell no. There's always some guy out there stronger, faster, meaner, and letting that guy kick my ass would be a disaster for my reputation. And that? That would bring a lot of new problems I definitely didn't need. So I preferred to avoid fighting when I could.

Fighting for me? It wasn't about proving a point or showing off. It was a means to an end. Once, this lunatic even brought a woodcutting axe to a street fight. Like, dude, what the hell? That's the kind of crap you see in manhwa, not in real life. I'm not the MC of some story, I'm not even an important side character, so yeah, I might actually die if someone swings an axe at me.

Fear, though? Fear is the real weapon. It's wired into us, down to our primal instincts. Human beings are programmed to survive at all costs. Fight or flight. And most of the time, people choose flight. When faced with the possibility of not seeing the next day, they'll do whatever they can to avoid it.

I didn't just target anyone in a fight. I had a strategy. I always went for the biggest guy, the leader, the one who thought he was invincible. They're the ones who keep everyone else in line. Take them out, and the whole group crumbles. And when I got to that guy, I didn't bother with trash talk or threats. I went in fast and brutal—broke bones, twisted ankles, smashed them hard enough that the ground cracked beneath them. I didn't hold back. The stronger they thought they were, the harder I hit.

That's how I fought. Swift, ruthless, and terrifying. 

The rest? They were like ants. They either scattered like cockroaches or stood there, too shocked or scared to move. A few tried to fight back, but it was pointless. Some of them were so terrified they pissed themselves. It's funny in a messed-up way.

The rest of them? They'd either fight or scatter like scared little ants. Most of the time, they just ran for it. A few tried to stand their ground, but even they pissed themselves. Literally. It was almost disappointing how predictable people were when they were afraid, that's what happens when they see their boss—someone they thought was invincible—get destroyed right in front of them.

It was effective, though. The fear did all the work for me. People would hear the stories, the rumors, about how I took out entire crews on my own, and they wouldn't want any part of me. The fewer fights, the better for me. But it wasn't like I was untouchable either. I knew the day might come when someone stronger would come looking for me. Some guy with something to prove.That's why I stayed sharp, trained nonstop—sick, cold, hot, rainy. I didn't give a fuck; I trained as hard as I could.

But it's not always enough; it sure keeps away those small fry, but some dipshits just want violence—bunch of teenage weirdos.

Lucky for me, that red-haired bastard hasn't shown up yet. I know he's out there somewhere, but it's still three years before the whole canon kicks off and the crews really start rising to power. Charles Choi is just beginning to take his baby steps right now, and things are quiet—for now.

But when things start to change, I won't need to worry about all this street-level nonsense. I've got my own plans, and fighting in back alleys isn't part of them. With the investments I've made, by the time I hit 18, I'll be one of the top 10 billionaires in all of Asia. Let the rest of them play their little turf wars and crew politics. I've got bigger things in mind.

Retirement at 18? Hell yeah, that's the dream. Girls, money, power—everything that makes life worth living. I'm not aiming for world domination or anything crazy like that. I just want a peaceful, stress-free life with all the perks. You know, the kind of life where you can wake up whenever you want, hit up the best restaurants, travel the world, and live in luxury without ever lifting a finger again.

People out here are always talking about "the grind," like it's something to be proud of. Nah, I'm not about that. I've done my time. I've spent years grinding, pushing myself beyond my limits, fighting battles, and dodging bullshit just to survive. Now, I'm setting things up so that, by 18, I won't have to deal with any of it anymore. I'll have all the power and none of the stress. I've played my cards right, and once everything falls into place, I'll be set for life.

I was lost in my thoughts, thinking about money again, when I suddenly felt a soft touch brushing against my back. It sent a slight chill down my spine—not from fear, but from the surprise of it. I hadn't even noticed Rachel slipping into the room; she always seemed to move quietly, like some kind of ninja.

Rachel had been around since day one, living next door in the same old building. We practically grew up together, though she'd probably claim I never grew up at all. She was always saying stuff like that, especially when I played around too much or gave her one of my famous deadpan replies. But despite all that, she was one of the few constants in my life and the best damn homework shuttle anyone could ask for. Honestly, half my grades in school were because of her. She didn't know it, but I owed her for all those times she covered for me.

"What are these scars, Doo?" Her voice was soft, almost whispery, like she wasn't sure she should be asking. Her hand moved over my back again, this time slower, tracing the marks she'd never asked about before. I glanced over my shoulder, realizing she was staring at my body—my shredded body, to be precise. Most of the marks were just stretch marks; I had worked my ass off to get to this point. Some were real injuries—one from a bike crash, and a few others were from a lunatic with an axe I fought a long time ago. But I couldn't tell her that; she'd probably think something weird up again.

"They're mostly stretch marks," I said casually, grabbing my shirt from the bed. It was technically true. I pushed my body beyond its limits, and I was proud of the work I put in.

"And these?" She pressed her fingers on a particularly gnarly one across my side, her voice a little more serious now. "This one looks... different."

"It's nothing," I said, buttoning up. "Just an old scar."

"Why do you always brush everything off like it's nothing?" Rachel asked, her voice trembling slightly, the weight of her concern evident in her tone. She stepped closer, her brow furrowing as her eyes searched mine for answers. "Why, Doo? Why are you always pushing everyone away?"

"Huh?" I didn't know how to respond at first. It felt like a scene out of one of those K-dramas she always watched. I was genuinely happy with where I was in life. Just recently, Pineapple had entered the trillion-dollar club, and I now owned twelve percent of Nile. I had plans, big ones, and fighting in the streets wasn't part of them.