[Objective: Destroy Hideout #3 — The Small Bar on East Street.]

The System's reminder hovered faintly in front of him. He exhaled slowly, brushing his hair back under his hood. "Yeah, yeah. I know."

He turned the corner, and there it was — the bar. Smaller than he expected, but crowded. The sound of laughter and loud music spilled into the street, along with the smell of alcohol and fried food.

Ryan pulled his hood a little lower and stepped inside.

The lights were dim and tinted red. The air was thick with smoke and perfume. Men sat around drinking, some playing cards, others watching a fight on a flickering screen near the corner. Waitresses walked around serving drinks, and the crowd was alive, chaotic, human.

Ryan made his way to the counter and sat down quietly. He didn't order anything fancy. "A Coke," he said to the bartender.

The bartender, a tall man in a dark vest and gloves, gave a small nod and went to prepare it.

Ryan watched him.

There was something off. The bartender's movements were clean — precise. Every pour, every twist of the wrist looked practiced, disciplined. Not the clumsy style of a guy who just learned on the job. Ryan's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the man's forearms — strong, with faint scars just above the gloves.

'That's not a normal bartender,' Ryan thought.

He turned his attention back to his drink when the Coke was placed in front of him. "Thanks," he muttered, then started taking slow sips, his eyes scanning the bar through the mirror behind the counter.

Nothing seemed out of place. People laughed, music played, bottles clinked. But the calm never lasted long.

A shadow moved near the side table — a boy, maybe nineteen, with sharp features, slicked-back hair, and a confidence that didn't match his age. He walked like he owned the place.

The boy stopped beside Ryan, leaning against the counter with a smirk. "So you're that hoodie guy who's been causing trouble for us lately, huh?"

Ryan froze. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He turned his head slightly, keeping his tone even. "What do you mean? I don't know what you're talking about."

The boy smiled wider and placed his hand on Ryan's shoulder — a friendly gesture that didn't feel friendly at all. "Don't worry," he said softly. "You'll get to know soon enough."

Then his hand tightened, and before Ryan could react —

_BAM!_

The boy's punch came out of nowhere. Ryan jerked left, barely dodging it. The fist cut through the air, grazing his hoodie. Instinct took over. Ryan grabbed the glass of Coke and swung it toward the guy's head.

The boy ducked and countered instantly — his foot slammed into Ryan's gut.

_THUD!_

Ryan stumbled backward, air knocked out of his lungs. His back hit a table, and his body folded. Saliva spilled from his mouth as he gasped for breath.

The bar went silent for a second. Then chaos broke loose. People shouted, chairs scraped, and half the crowd rushed toward the door while others stood on tables, trying to film.

[System: Host, enemy detected. Rank — A.]

Ryan's vision blurred for a moment. "A-Rank?!" he thought. "Oh, fuck… I'm fucking dead."

The boy smirked, stepping closer. "Come on, hoodie hero. Show me what makes you so special."

Ryan pushed himself up, clutching his side. He couldn't run — not yet. The mission wasn't done. He took a deep breath, slipped into his boxing stance, and glared back. "You'll regret this."

The fight started again, faster this time.

The boy — the so-called bar owner — fought with ruthless precision. Every move screamed Muay Thai — elbows, knees, quick transitions. Ryan blocked a jab, ducked under a kick, and returned a hook to the ribs, but it barely made the guy flinch.

He was faster. Stronger. Better trained.

Ryan was getting overwhelmed. Each hit he blocked sent shocks up his arms. When he managed to land a punch, the guy barely moved. It was like hitting a wall.

The bartender hadn't stepped in yet — he was watching, polishing a glass like this was entertainment. But Ryan could feel it; the guy wasn't just some background character.

He could _sense_ the pressure coming from him.

Ryan tried to break the rhythm — feint, step back, counter — but the boy caught his arm and twisted, slamming his elbow into Ryan's jaw. Ryan stumbled sideways, barely catching himself on a chair.

His breath hitched. His ribs screamed.

[System: Host, your condition is critical. You cannot sustain this for long.]

"Yeah, no shit!" Ryan grunted, spitting blood onto the floor.

The boy laughed, brushing a bit of dust off his sleeve. "Is that it? You're weaker than the rumors said."

Ryan raised his fists again. His body protested, but his mind refused to give up. "Try me again then."

The boy came at him — fast — but Ryan managed to slip under his swing and land a solid jab into his stomach, followed by a cross to the jaw. The hits connected — finally drawing a reaction.

The boy staggered back a step, his grin faltering for a split second.

Ryan exhaled sharply. "Still think I'm weak?"

The boy wiped the blood from his mouth and smirked. "Not bad. But you're still done."

He lunged forward again, faster, angrier. This time his strikes came heavier — pure rage mixed with skill. Ryan barely kept up, his arms shaking from blocking, his legs losing balance.

And then — a voice.

"Enough."

The bartender finally moved. He set the glass down gently, adjusted his gloves, and stepped out from behind the counter. His face was calm, but his eyes were sharp.

"Let me help you, boss," he said quietly.

Ryan's stomach dropped. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me…"

Two A-ranks.

The bartender's stance was clean, efficient — the same discipline Ryan had noticed earlier. He stood next to the boy, cracking his neck slowly.

The boy chuckled. "You're lucky. Not everyone gets to face us both."

Ryan exhaled slowly, adjusting his stance again, even though every muscle in his body begged him to stop. "Fuck… I didn't sign up for this," he muttered. "Guess I've got to do overtime."

The bartender stepped forward. "You won't last long."

Ryan smirked weakly beneath his mask. "Try me."

And just as the two moved in, the door behind them creaked open — and a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

"Yo."

Ryan's head snapped toward the sound.

That voice — calm, confident, unbothered.

The air shifted, the tension froze.

The boy and the bartender both turned their heads slightly toward the entrance.

Ryan's eyes widened beneath his mask, a small, involuntary smile tugging at his lips.

He knew that voice.

And just like that — the scene froze in that breath of silence before all hell broke loose.

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