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There was a beauty in his violence.
Gangok didn't think of himself as someone who was uncouth; he was vividly and constantly aware of his status as the vice president of DK Group. He needed to appear put together at all times, never show a crack in his defense or a loose string. There should be nothing that caught his interest, no person to stand out in a country of criminals and the exploited. But when he laid his eyes upon the Vigilante, upon the person who was a blinding figure in the dark, dank, and terrible world of South Korea, he saw something that was going to light up his world.
There were a lot of people who didn't like the Vigilante, thought that he was too violent, too dark, too crazy, too out of line and too far from the law. But Gangok didn't see any of that. He saw a hero, someone who would clean up Seoul, a savior who would show South Korea the real meaning of justice. He was justice incarnate, like the lady herself came down to the people in human form, her sword dripping blood and holding her scales high. A mythical figure, yet someone who was tangible in a way his figurines never could be.
Gangok was entralled. There was nothing else that could hold his attention anymore; every waking minute of his day was spent devoted to the preacher, to the man who represented a concept that no longer existed in the rotten country they both lived in. His very own superhero, his own Vigliante in every meaning of the phrase, had come to rest in his mind's eye from the time he woke up until the time he fell asleep.
He finally understood true madness, nothing as flighty as what he had previously felt in his life, but a true, encompassing madness. It was a madness of the mind and the heart. It was what kept his mind running and running and running, and kept his heart beating and beating and beating. Sometimes, in the dark of night, Gangok would hold a hand to his chest and imagine his heartbeat was the sound of the Vigilante's fists hitting, over and over and over again. What would it be like to reach salvation under those hands?
He wanted the Vigilante, wanted the man in the black hoodie. The man that the public loved and hated, the man that kept news anchors talking and journalists running. The man the police hunted down, whom politicians wanted gone. The man that the president of the company wanted dead. That was who he wanted, the one he wanted to embrace with his everything and hand his life over to.
Jiyong, he would whisper into the air, tracing the invisible characters over and over. Jiyong, the woman of justice and the righteous man.
Jiyong, the Vigilante.
And he, Gangok, would be the Mary Jane to his Spiderman, would be the Pepper Potts to his Iron Man, would be the supporter and companion and whatever Jiyong wanted him to be, would contort himself in whatever Jiyong needed him to be. Gangok needed the Vigilante, needed him like a starving man needed food.
Ravenous.
It was a blessing that Jiyong spoke to him, that he would stand in the same room as him. A disciple mustn't be greedy, but Gangok found himself to be a terrible follower. With every close interaction, he felt himself want more, felt himself crave. His hunger was terrible and all-consuming, and the ever-tantalizing tree kept bending towards his open, worshipful hands.
How wonderful it was that they were partners, that Jiyong gave and gave and gave—salvation, retribution, justice—and Gangok could receive in turn that divinity. That he could bask in the light of the holy, that an angel would bestow upon him the honor of hearing its voice, it was an honor he never could have imagined.
He would take anything, as long as his Vigilante thought he deserved it.