The night air in Busan felt heavier than usual, thick with the scent of salt and storm.
Ji-Yeon stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of her private penthouse, her gaze fixed on the dark harbor. The glass of whiskey in her hand trembled ever so slightly — a rare show of weakness, even in her solitude.
A sharp knock on the door.
"Come in," she called, her voice cold, controlled.
Yoon Sang-Ho, her second-in-command, entered looking ten years older than he had the day before. His face was pale, a deep gash above his brow from a recent fight.
"It happened again."
Ji-Yeon's grip tightened around the glass.
"Where?"
"Seoul. Last night. Four of our men… gone. Found in an alley. Clean kills. No witnesses."
Her face didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes.
"And the police?"
"On it already," Yoon said grimly. "Detective Kang Jae-Min is leading the investigation. They're treating it like gang retaliation, but no one's claiming it. Not even the local groups."
Ji-Yeon turned away from the window, pacing slowly across the room.
She could feel it — a storm closing in. A predator she couldn't see. Her people vanishing like ghosts. Her tight, lethal empire cracking at the edges.
"Was Hana hurt?"
"No, Boss," Yoon answered quickly. "She's safe. Was at a club with friends when it happened. The men were picked off during their rotation, after they left their posts."
Relief washed through her for a second, then hardened into fury.
"Who the hell is doing this?"
Yoon hesitated. "I have my suspicions… but no proof yet."
Ji-Yeon's voice dropped, lethal as a blade.
"I want names. Now. Tear apart every corner of Seoul and Busan if you have to. I don't care what it costs. And double the men on Hana. No one touches her. No one."
"Yes, Boss."
"And… get rid of those bodies before the cops sniff too close."
"It's too late. The scene's already locked down."
Her jaw clenched.
She was losing control — and she knew it.
As Yoon retreated, Ji-Yeon crossed to her desk, opening a drawer. Inside, a photograph — old, worn at the edges. Two girls on a beach, arms slung around each other.
Hana and her.
She pressed her fingers against the image, then shut the drawer hard.
Whoever was doing this… would bleed for it.
She would find them.
She would rip them apart.
And if anyone so much as breathed on Hana, it wouldn't be a clean death.
It would be slow.
And personal.