"They're moving," a voice crackled in his earpiece. It was Ji-hoon, sharp and frantic.

"Let them," Kang replied, his voice a low gravel. "I don’t want the messengers. I want the source."

He stepped away from the window. In the dim light, his shadow looked longer, jagged, like the mythical Yaksha he was named after—a forest spirit that devoured souls to protect the dharma. He wasn't a hero. Heroes followed the law. Kang followed the blood.

A sudden flash of headlights illuminated the room for a heartbeat. Downstairs, the heavy thud of a door kicking open echoed through the stairwell. Kang didn't flinch. He reached for his gloves, pulling the leather tight over his knuckles.