Gangster to Idol

The thug swung a fist, aiming directly for Cain's face. But Cain moved faster than they could've imagined. He ducked under the punch, his movements fluid and precise.

Before the thug could react, Cain retaliated, landing a brutal punch to the man's stomach. The thug doubled over, gasping for air as Cain spun and delivered a sharp elbow to the back of his head, sending him crashing to the ground.

The other thugs hesitated for a split second, but then they charged all at once, hoping to overwhelm him.

Cain didn't even blink. His years of experience in street fights, combined with his increasing stats and fighting skills, had sharpened his reflexes to a dangerous degree. He danced between the attackers, each move calculated, each strike deliberate.

A roundhouse kick to the ribs, a swift jab to the jaw, and a brutal knee to the gut—within moments, three of the thugs were down, groaning in pain.

Cain's expression remained cool, his breathing steady, as he wiped his hands on his jacket, seemingly unbothered by the encounter.

Damien, EJ, and Lexter stared in shock, their mouths hanging open.

"Did . . . did you see that?" Lexter whispered, barely able to believe what he had just witnessed.

"Dude, that was insane," EJ muttered, still recording. "He took them out like it was nothing."

Damien shook his head in disbelief, his phone still pointed at the scene. "C.C. is more than just some wannabe idol. He's a freaking beast."

The three continued to watch as Cain casually walked away, not even sparing a glance at the defeated thugs lying in the alley behind him.

For the first time all day, they felt like they had stumbled onto something real—something that showed just how dangerous and multifaceted C.C. truly was.

As the three watched from their hidden spot, one of the thugs suddenly pulled out a gleaming knife. The flash of metal made their stomachs drop, and a cold wave of fear swept through them.

"Oh, crap . . . he's got a knife!" EJ whispered, his voice trembling as he fumbled for his phone, hands shaking. "Should we call the police?"

"Maybe we should," Damien muttered, nervously glancing down the alleyway. "This is way worse than we thought."

But despite the danger, Cain remained completely calm. His posture relaxed, eyes still cold and calculating as if he dealt with situations like this every day.

It was unnerving, and the three friends couldn't understand how he was so unfazed.

Without a word, the thug lunged, aiming the knife straight at Cain's chest. But in a swift, fluid motion, Cain deflected the blade with his forearm, the knife grazing his sleeve and tearing the fabric apart.

The sound of fabric ripping filled the alley, and suddenly, the skin of Cain's arm was exposed.

Lexter's eyes widened as they zoomed in on the scene with their phone. "Holy . . . tattoos," he gasped.

"I knew it," EJ muttered, eyes glued to the camera. "That's why he's always wearing long sleeves. He's hiding his ink!"

Damien gulped, unable to look away from C.C., who stood there with the jagged, dark tattoos winding up his arm, his expression still unbothered. The thug backed up slightly, startled by Cain's unexpected skill.

"Did you see how he moved?" Lexter whispered, eyes wide with awe. "It's like he's done this a hundred times."

The three exchanged tense glances, still recording every second. For a brief moment, there was silence between them before EJ hesitated and said, "Could C.C. be . . . actually a gangster?"

Damien's heart raced as he stared at C.C., who now faced the group of thugs like a predator sizing up its prey.

They didn't get the dirt they were hoping for, but what they did get was far more intriguing.

Meanwhile, Cain was exhausted. After a long day, the last thing he wanted was to deal with a group of thugs. He had practice early tomorrow with the others, and the thought of spending his energy on these low-level troublemakers irritated him more than the fight itself.

The alleyway where the ambush took place was desolate, the perfect spot for these thugs to stage their attack.

They had probably thought he was easy prey, alone and dressed in his C.C. getup—just some idol trainee who wandered into the wrong neighborhood. But they had no idea who they were messing with.

Cain had planned this. He intentionally stayed out late, parading around as C.C. to lure out these nuisances who had been wreaking havoc in his territory for weeks. If they knew he was Cain—the leader of CROSS—they wouldn't dare show their faces. They feared him too much to face him directly.

And now, here they were, crawling out from the shadows like the cowards they were.

As he looked around at the unconscious bodies scattered across the alley, Cain sighed. He made quick work of the ones who had come at him so far, but it had been too easy. They weren't even worth the effort.

His system notification blinked in the corner of his vision:

[Defeated 2/10 of the Posers]

Only two out of ten? Cain frowned. So far, he'd only dealt with a couple of these punks. The others were probably just low-level grunts—nothing worth his time. They weren't the real problem.

One of the thugs groaned on the ground, struggling to get up. Cain walked over, grabbed him by the hair, and yanked him to his feet with a cold, deliberate strength. The thug whimpered, his body trembling as Cain's grip tightened.

Cain's voice was ice, dripping with menace. "Hoi. Where's your leader?"

The thug squirmed, panic flashing in his eyes as he struggled to come up with an excuse. "W-what are you talking about? I don't know what you mean—"

Cain's patience snapped. He slammed the thug against the wall with a thud, the impact knocking the wind out of him.

The man gasped for air, wide-eyed as he met Cain's gaze—those piercing, unforgiving eyes that seemed to see straight through him.

"NoStoriesw, shall we start over again?"