BLOODS AND CHROMES

Kim Taehyung stood at the edge of Jinjahan, the city of endless neon and perpetual division, staring up at the skyline with tired, unfocused eyes. The air smelled of damp metal, burnt plastic, and the distant spice of street food—an odd mix that would take time to get used to. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into his bones. It had been a long journey.

He was twenty-four years old, fresh out of the Gallanta Police Academy, and already drowning in reality. The dream of wearing a badge, of upholding justice, had carried him through years of brutal training, but now, standing in the heart of Jinjahan, it all felt... small. Like the city had already swallowed him whole before he could even step foot inside it.

Taehyung wasn't particularly tall by Jinjahan standards—178 cm (5'10"), broad-shouldered but lean, with 67 kg (148 lbs) of wiry muscle packed onto his frame. Years of endurance training made him quick rather than strong, and though he could hold his own in a fight, he knew brute force wasn't his advantage. He relied on his instincts, his speed, and, above all, his ability to read people.

His face was sharp yet soft, with deep-set dark brown eyes that always seemed to be lost in thought. A straight nose, full lips often pressed into a contemplative line, and a defined jawline that gave him an air of quiet intensity. His hair, naturally jet black, was slightly unkempt from the long ride into the city, falling just past his brows in loose waves. He had planned to cut it before arriving, but part of him had wanted to hold onto something familiar—something from home. And home… that was another thing entirely.

Born to a factory worker father and a seamstress mother, Taehyung had never known luxury. His childhood had been filled with hand-me-down clothes, late rent payments, and the constant struggle to survive in a system designed to keep people like them at the bottom. They were Medean, and that alone was enough to limit their future before they even had a chance to chase it.

His father, Kim Hae-Jin, had worked himself to the bone to provide for them, only to die in an industrial accident when Taehyung was fourteen. His mother, Kim Eun-Byul, had done her best to hold everything together after that, sewing late into the night for extra money, but even she hadn't been able to stop the inevitable. Debt crushed them, forcing Taehyung to grow up far too quickly.

By sixteen, he was working odd jobs—delivering packages, fixing broken wiring, even running messages for shady dealers in the backstreets just to keep food on the table. The police? He had hated them then. They had never helped his mother when she was harassed by landlords or when his father's employer refused to pay compensation for his death.

But still, something had pushed him toward this path. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was the simple, foolish belief that if the system wouldn't change for people like him, then he had to be inside it to make it happen. And now, here he was. A new cop in the worst city in Edenia.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his duffel bag. His entire life was inside—two spare uniforms, a single pair of shoes, a few sets of casual clothes, and a worn-out photo of his mother folded neatly between them. She had cried when he left. Told him he didn't have to go. That Jinjahan would chew him up and spit him out before he even had a chance to prove himself.

But here he is, and as the taxi rattled to a stop in front of a cramped, run-down apartment complex at the edge of Jinjahan's lower district. The neon lights from a nearby bar flickered, reflecting off the rain-slick pavement. The air smelled of fried food, exhaust fumes, and damp concrete, a scent so thick that it clung to Kim Taehyung's clothes the moment he stepped out of the car.

He paid the driver with the last of his small bills, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. The weight of his entire life pressed down on him as he took in the sight of his new home—a rusted metal staircase, peeling paint, and a flickering hallway light barely holding onto life.

"Room 306," he reminded himself, gripping the address scribbled on a piece of paper.

The landlord was waiting for him at the entrance. A short, balding man in a stained tank top and faded sweatpants, he eyed Taehyung up and down like he was already calculating how much trouble he'd bring. His wrinkled face twisted into a skeptical frown. Newcomers never lasted long in this part of Jinjahan.

"You're the new tenant?" His voice was rough, hoarse from years of smoking.

Taehyung nodded, shifting the strap of his bag. "Kim Taehyung. I sent the deposit last week."

The landlord grunted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a rusted brass key. He dangled it in front of Taehyung's face but didn't hand it over just yet. "Rent's due on the first. No noise after midnight. No bringing in drunks or troublemakers. Water heater's broken, so you'll have to deal with cold showers. And if the pipes make weird noises? Just ignore 'em."

Taehyung took the key without argument. He wasn't expecting luxury. He was barely expecting livable conditions.

The landlord gave him one last once-over, then scratched his belly and muttered, "Stairs are to the left. Try not to get mugged."

Taehyung didn't reply. He simply tightened his grip on the duffel bag and climbed the stairs, his boots echoing in the hollow, dimly lit corridor. Third floor.

The walls were stained with water damage, the hallway light flickering every few seconds. A cockroach skittered across the floor, disappearing under a crack in someone's door. Taehyung ignored it. He had lived in worse places. He found Room 306 at the end of the hall.

The wooden door was chipped, the paint peeling away in long strips, revealing the warped surface beneath. The number plate was barely hanging on, one screw missing.

He pushed the key into the lock. It took two tries before the door finally gave way, creaking open into darkness.

His new home was tiny—barely big enough for a single bed, a desk, and a cramped bathroom. The walls were a dull gray, the floor made of old tiles that had long lost their shine. A single lightbulb flickered above, weak and unreliable. The window overlooked the alleyway behind the building, where garbage bins overflowed and stray cats fought for scraps. He dropped his duffel bag onto the bed. The mattress squeaked in protest, the springs old and worn.

Taehyung let out a deep sigh and pulled out the rickety wooden chair in front of the desk. It groaned under his weight as he sat down, elbows resting on the scratched surface. He reached into his pocket bag, feeling around for the last of his Lyd—his final lifeline in this city. Slowly, he emptied the contents onto the desk.

A few crumpled notes and some loose coins clattered against the wood. He straightened them out, counting carefully. 3,200 Lyd.

He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the chair. "Well, shit."

3,200 Lyd. That was barely enough for rent and food for two weeks—if he ate like a bird and miraculously avoided any extra expenses. A single meal from a decent street vendor was around 500 Lyd, which meant if he wanted to stretch his budget, he'd better start making peace with instant noodles and questionable canned food.

He rubbed his face and let out a humorless chuckle. "Guess it's time to start my 'starving artist' phase. Only, I'm not an artist. Just a broke-ass cop."

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the sad little pile of money, wondering if this was a sign to reconsider all his life choices.

Then, with another sigh, he scooped the Lyd back into his pocket bag and turned his attention to the window. The view was… something.

From up here, he could see the neon-soaked chaos of Jinjahan's Lower District in full force. Street vendors yelling prices, groups of workers spilling out of bars, hover-bikes weaving recklessly between slow-moving trams. In the distance, towering above it all, were the glittering high-rises of the Albens District, where the rich lived in their pristine, segregated world.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Must be nice, huh? Sitting up in your fancy penthouses, eating meals that cost more than my entire bank account."

A loud crash echoed from the alley below, followed by a string of furious shouting. Taehyung peered down and spotted two men brawling near a dumpster, while a few onlookers watched in amusement. One of them was even recording it on his wrist holo-screen, probably for some viral fight channel.

"Ah, Jinjahan. City of dreams." He rested his chin on his hand, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or nightmares, depending on your tax bracket."

Another crash. Another shout. The fight below got more heated. A vendor nearby just kept grilling skewers, completely unfazed.