"You think you can mess with me? You think you can show up here, owing me half the fucking bank of Seoul and beg me to be lenient? What are you, stupid?" Two men are holding the quivering mess of a junky, one fixing each arm and propping him up for Zico to talk to his face. "You know, I can't have people go around and tell each other that I give stuff out for free. Do you know what happens when they do that? Do you know that?"
Grabbing his face, he's not getting a coherent answer out of him, so he grabs it harder, feeling a row of teeth beneath the skin under his thumb. "Speak up already, scum." He hisses. He's seen the panic grow in the junkie's eyes, but didn't reckon with the force of it. He manages to wind out of one of his mens grip and Zico sees the flash of a jack knife – his reflexes work faster than his wits and he twists his hand around by his bony wrist, easily turning the matter around and sinking the blade into the junkie's stomach. The wound isn't too deep, but starts leaking unprettily. "This isn't how I wanted this to end." He grumbles. Dead people mean police, but hurt people mean police and mouthes that can still talk. He turns away. "Finish him off."
Having turned his back on the guy who's currently being strangled, his eyes fall onto an entirely different, but equally annoying matter. A spectator. A boy, slender, young, probably fresh out of his teens. "Oi. You!" He doesn't even have to ask what he's seen. It's pretty obvious. "Come here!"
