Choi San, a revered and feared mafia boss, reigns over Seoul's underworld with an iron fist, his influence extending seamlessly across both legal and illegal domains. But his empire is shaken to its core when his beloved daughter, Eun-ji, is kidnapp...
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The afternoon sun cut through the blinds in thin, harsh slants, casting jagged shadows across my office. I sat at my desk, fingers tapping aimlessly on the polished wood, mind lost in the chaos of the morning. Wooyoung's face, pale and desperate beneath his disguise, haunted me. The words he'd thrown at me replayed over and over, laced with the sting of betrayal and raw emotion.
"I can't... don't move." The pain in his voice was sharp, a knife twisting in my chest. The way he'd looked at me, eyes filled with hurt and disbelief, left an ache that wouldn't fade. My jaw clenched as I pushed back from my desk, standing up abruptly and running a hand through my hair, the tension in my muscles coiling tighter with every passing second.
Seonghwa sat in the chair across from me, his brow furrowed with concern, watching me with an intensity that made the silence between us feel heavy. He'd seen me lose control, heard the edge in my voice when I called out to Wooyoung, but he hadn't asked for details. Not yet. The confusion in his gaze mirrored the storm inside me, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he demanded answers.
The door creaked open suddenly, breaking the tense silence. My head snapped up, and a familiar presence filled the room. My wife stepped in, her gaze sweeping over the space before landing on me. Her smile was practiced, the kind that never quite reached her eyes, and it made something in my chest tighten uncomfortably.
"San," she said, her tone light, as if nothing had changed, as if the fractures in my world weren't splitting wider with each passing second. Without waiting for an invitation, she walked over and perched herself on the edge of my desk, sliding gracefully into my lap. Her perfume wafted around me, a scent that used to feel like home but now felt suffocating.
Seonghwa's eyes narrowed, a subtle shift from confusion to something sharper. His brow furrowed as he watched, the tension in the room thickening. He didn't say a word, but his glare was unmistakable. He had questions, and now he was piecing together the answers he didn't like.
I forced a tight smile, my hands resting stiffly on the arms of the chair, not reaching for her, not reciprocating the gesture. "Is there something you need?" I asked, my voice strained, careful.
Her fingers traced the edge of my collar, the casual touch feeling like an invasion. "Can't a wife visit her husband without needing a reason?" she replied, a playful tilt to her voice that only deepened the guilt pooling in my stomach.
Seonghwa's eyes flicked between us, catching the way my muscles tensed, the way my eyes darted to the door as if hoping for an escape. The silent tension was palpable, and I could feel his disapproval like a knife edge. He'd seen Wooyoung earlier, seen the aftermath of our exchange, and now he was putting together the pieces I'd tried to keep separate.
I cleared my throat, pushing down the rising discomfort. "Now's not a good time," I said, shifting slightly, trying to create distance without making a scene. But she stayed, leaning into me, ignoring the strain in my voice.
