𝐌𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐀'𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 | 𝐉𝐉𝐊

2

*Present Day*

When my father's call comes through, I'm elbow-deep in wiring Lilac, my latest surveillance system, into every inch of my estate.

The last perimeter is nearly secured when his name slashes across my screen, cutting through the silence like a blade. 

Tension tightens down my spine. My teeth clench. I hate being interrupted.

But when the Boss calls, you answer. No excuses. I exhale, swallowing the irritation burning beneath my skin. It's not just the interruption—it's the disruption of control.

Lilac isn't just a project; it's a fortress, a statement, proof of my strength. My legacy. Built with my own hands. Leaving it unfinished feels like leaving my doors wide open, inviting enemies inside.

The weight of it undone sits heavy in my ribs as I pull up to my father's estate. The place looms, all excess and power, a monument to the life carved out for me before I even had a say in it. I park at the front, already mapping out my exit. 

In and out. A quick check-in to keep the old man satisfied so I can get back to things that actually matter.

Then I see it---

Jimin's Ferrari. Gleaming beneath the afternoon sun like a coiled serpent, waiting.

That changes everything. 

This isn't a routine check-in. This is business. And in our world, business means blood.

One of the guards steps forward to open the heavy oak doors, barely glancing in my direction. 

He's new. 

I don't bother acknowledging him. He won't last long enough for it to matter.

My steps echo against the cold stone, each click deliberate, each movement weighted with purpose. 

The house feels darker than usual. Colder. 

The kind of cold that doesn't leave. The kind that seeps into your bones and stays there.

This house raised us in shadows, molding us into what we are. My brother and I grew up here, our childhood etched into these walls. 

Then our mother left, and with her went the only light we'd ever known. Summers at her estate were the closest thing we had to warmth.

But in this family, light never lasts long. Our father shapes us with iron and fire, carving away every soft edge until only sharpness remains. Reverence. Fear. He demands both, and he takes them by any means necessary.

I approach his study, every step a reminder of the man he made me. A man forged in his image, yet one who still—despite everything—walks willingly into the lion's den.