Author's pov...
Minho sat in the living room, his phone pressed to his ear as another call came through.
One after another, his phone buzzed with notifications, each call more urgent than the last.
His brow furrowed as he spoke in hushed, clipped tones, his eyes never leaving the screen.
His mind raced with decisions to be made, orders to be given. It wasn't unusual for him to be this busy, but today, the weight of it all felt heavier.
Jisung, sitting on the couch nearby, glanced over at Minho with a furrowed brow.
He didn't say anything at first, but the frustration was evident in the way he clenched his fists. He wasn't used to seeing Minho so consumed by work.
It wasn't that Jisung minded, but sometimes, the constant phone calls felt like they were taking Minho away from him, from everything they had together.
"Are you okay?" Jisung asked quietly, his voice tinged with concern.
Minho didn't look up right away, absorbed in his calls, but he sensed the shift in the air.
He glanced at Jisung, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Yeah, just busy with some work," he said, his tone dismissive but not unkind.
Before Jisung could respond, Minho leaned down and planted a soft kiss on his forehead.
The brief touch was enough to soothe some of the tension between them, but Minho was already rising from the couch, his phone still pressed to his ear.
"I'll be right back," he murmured, already heading toward the basement.
Jisung watched him go, a sigh escaping his lips as he returned to his seat.
There was little he could do to change it. Minho was always like this-dedicated to his work, no matter how much it tore at him.
The basement was a world apart from the rest of the house.
It was cold, dimly lit, and filled with the faint scent of metal and dust. As Minho descended the stairs, he couldn't help but feel a familiar sense of control slip over him.
Here, in this room, everything was under his command.
Weapons lined the walls-guns, knives, and a wide assortment of tools meant for anything but peace.
The air was thick with their presence, and yet, it was oddly calming.
Minho's gaze scanned the room with practiced ease. This was his domain, his sanctuary, where the decisions that shaped the world outside were made.
Walking toward the far end of the room, Minho approached a large, rusted closet.
He opened it with a soft creak and pulled out a stack of papers.
The documents inside were a mix of intelligence, plans, and messages-everything that kept the organization running.
His fingers brushed over the paper as he sorted through them, pulling out the most pressing tasks for the day.
It was all part of the job, the job that had come to define his life.
It was hard to imagine any other existence now, with the organization at the center of everything he did.
The leader of a powerful mafia, Minho was used to making difficult decisions, to balancing his personal life with the demands of his work.
But as he stared at the papers in his hand, he couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that it was all getting more complicated than he'd ever anticipated.
In the shadows of the basement, Minho exhaled slowly, knowing there was no turning back. This life-this world-was now his to control.
And he would hold onto it with everything he had.
