Episode 2 – The Property King
After the Fire Fades........
“I told you to grab the bag first!” a woman shouted.
“What’s the point of a bag if we end up dead, huh?! Run, Mom!” her daughter snapped back in panic.
The daughter nearly tripped over broken debris as she pulled her mother’s hand. Smoke still hung in the early morning sky, one that should have been peaceful. Behind them, the sound of collapsing wood and screams blended into something that hurt both ears and hearts.
Some people dragged suitcases, plastic bags, or just crumpled sacks filled with whatever documents they managed to save. Others were still pouring water over what was left of the flames, even though there was nothing much to rescue anymore. Just black ruins. Cinders and ash.
“Why… why did this happen?” a young woman whispered, frozen in front of what used to be her house. No one answered. No one really knew. Or more accurately, no one truly wanted to know.
**
“You bastards! My house is gone because of your stupid fight! My kid’s been coughing all night!”
Yelling and curses filled the empty lot that had turned into a temporary shelter. The boys who had been in the brawl stood under the morning sun, heads lowered. Some still had bruises on their faces. Others stayed silent, knowing no excuse would ever be enough.
“Where’s the community head?! Tell him to take responsibility!”
“He’s a victim too, Ma’am! His house also burned down!” someone shouted from the back, but the voice was drowned by anger.
“You should’ve thought before starting that fight! This is all on you!” one man shouted at the group of boys.
“We were just fighting back! They hit us first! Why is it always our fault?!” one of the boys fired back.
“Everyone's at fault! But who pays the price? Us!” another voice replied with fire.
That cry cut deep. Many people cried, not just from losing homes, but from losing the last shred of safety they once felt.
**
By nine in the morning, the small food stall that had somehow survived the flames was showing the news on a flickering TV:
“A massive fire broke out in a densely populated area known as 'Wolf Den'. The fire was contained after more than five hours due to narrow roads and previous damage caused by a street fight. The exact cause of the fire is still unknown, but early reports suggest an electrical short circuit. Authorities are continuing their investigation…”
“Short circuit, huh,” muttered an old man, eyes fixed on the screen.
“That’s a lie. Someone definitely set it on fire,” said the man beside him.
“But why?”
“So we’d leave. So the land would be empty,” replied by another, the pain in his voice louder than his words.
They looked at each other. No one said more. But the silence said it all, some kind of knowing. A warning.
**
Later that afternoon, some residents began going through what little could be saved. A burnt motorcycle frame, a blackened steel cabinet, old family photos that were barely intact.
“I got an offer this morning,” said a young man as he wiped sweat from his smoke-damaged shirt. “Someone wants to buy my land. Half the market price.”
A few people turned to look. A woman sitting with her two kids asked, “Seriously? In the middle of all this?”
“He said it’s a chance for a fresh start. That this place is done.”
“But he came real fast,” another man muttered. “Like they were ready... even before the fire stopped.”
An old man from under a plastic tent spoke up, “Anywhere in the world, a crisis is an open door........ for people with money.”
There was a moment of silence. Just the sound of metal scraping and footsteps on crushed stone.
“We need money,” the young man whispered, barely audible. “But if we all sell, then we’ve got nothing left.”
“This land is the only thing we own. And now... even that’s slipping away.”
No one answered. But the look in their eyes held the same truth that they hadn’t just lost houses but they also had lost their right to belong in a city that no longer made space for them.
**
Evening crept in slowly.
The sky began to fade, as if tired of witnessing all that had happened. An old man stood quietly, staring at the remains of his house’s foundation.
“I used to put little flower pots there… my wife loved plants,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Behind him, a young man was rolling up a donated sleeping mat.
“Sir, do you want to come with us to the rented house?” he asked.
The old man nodded softly, like his answer didn’t matter anymore.
Not far away, a young woman held a crumpled piece of paper she had just signed.
“I sold my land for only half the price,” she whispered to a friend sitting on the rubble beside her.
“Are you sure?” her friend asked, unsure.
She took a deep breath. “I don’t have a choice. My kid hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”
They sat in silence for a while.
In the distance, the sound of a transport truck got closer, honking twice...... long and loud.
Near what used to be a small street stall, two young men were talking in a rush.
“You sure you can sell your land without a certificate?” one asked, kicking a burnt piece of wood.
“Not really. But the buyers don’t seem to care. They just want this place empty, quickly.”
He let out a dry laugh and stared blankly at what used to be his home.
“Funny, huh? We’ve lived here all our lives… but our names were never really written on this land.”
Someone shouted from the end of the alley, “Why are you all in such a rush to sell?! This is our home, not just some empty land!”
No one answered. Only the sound of footsteps walking away, and heads bowed low.
Amid the burned clothes and shattered pieces of life, one voice whispered clearly,
“Because this place has nothing left to give us… except bad memories.”
**
Two weeks later.
A quiet, dark room.
An old chandelier hung low in the center, casting a faint yellow light over a long wooden table.
Cigar smoke curled through the air like a lazy snake.
Behind the table sat a man. His long black hair was slicked back, and his gray pinstriped suit fit him perfectly.
“The latest report?” he asked, his voice calm. Like still water that could kill.
A younger man stepped forward, handing him a folder.
“The fire went smoothly, Sir. No residents stayed. Eighty-seven percent of the land has been bought, under names we control.”
“And the rest?” the man raised an eyebrow without turning his head.
“Still in progress. We’re using price pressure… and a bit of persuasion.”
He smirked slightly and gave a slow nod.
His hand reached for a cigar and lit it with a golden Zippo lighter.
“No one suspects anything?” he asked, eyes fixed on the glowing end of his cigar.
“No, Sir. The media called it an electrical short. Police have closed the case. Even the NGOs only released one press statement, and then went silent.”
Silence filled the room for a few seconds, before a short laugh broke through....... soft, but sharp.
“The Wolf Den… finally gone,” the man said, like giving a eulogy for a place no one would miss.
He stood up and walked slowly to a tall window covered with thick velvet curtains.
He pulled back a small corner and looked outside.
All he saw was the dark, scorched land in the distance.
“Look at that… in a year or two, on top of all that rubble, the biggest entertainment hub in the city will rise.
A casino, a hotel above a mall. Music, lights, money.
People will come and forget who ever lived there.”
He turned to his assistant, eyes cold as glass.
“Make sure that Korean investor shows up on time next week. I don’t want a single inch of that land wasted.”
The assistant gave a deep nod. “Yes, Don. Kenny Blackwood.”
And as the curtains closed again, like hiding wounds and sins the world didn’t want to see, only one sound remained in the room:
A laugh that felt short, sharp, and cold as freshly sharpened steel.
The laugh of the city’s most ruthless land mafia boss, Kenny Blackwood.