Sunlight spilled through tall sheer curtains, painting long stripes across the black marble floor. Everything in the penthouse was silent except for the faint hum of the built-in sound system, the soft notes of instrumental jazz blending with the morning light.
The space was immaculate. The wardrobe held rows of tailored suits in perfect gradient, each watch displayed like art under glass. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and polish.
In front of the three-panel mirror stood Kang Jungho, fastening the cuff of his crisp white shirt. He did not glance at the skyline or check the time. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic, the same order every morning, without deviation.
The phone on the vanity vibrated. Without breaking his focus, Jungho tapped the call to loudspeaker.
"Morning," came Daejin's voice, smooth and amused. "You made headlines again. Ice Prince of Seoul. They're really leaning into the brand this time."
Jungho adjusted his tie. "Lazy writing."
"Not their fault you never smile. Just remember, eleven o'clock with the forensic audit team. You said you wanted them grilled."
"They lied. I will handle it."
On the vanity lay a pair of custom black-rimmed glasses resting on folded cloth. He lifted them, cleaned them with a folded microfiber cloth, and slid them on. The world sharpened, the air seemed to still.
The 47th floor of Kang Corporation smelled faintly of fresh coffee and quiet fear. The meeting room's glass walls caught the morning light, but nothing inside felt warm. Three auditors sat at the far end of the table, their files neatly arranged. Their postures were straight, but the stiffness in their shoulders betrayed their nerves.
The door opened. Jungho entered without hurry. He didn't sit immediately, only took his place at the head of the table, letting the silence stretch until it was almost heavy.
"Let us begin," he said.
One auditor cleared his throat. "CEO Kang, the flagged inconsistencies were traced to an outdated purchase log…"
"That log never existed."
He set a folder on the table. "Three subsidiaries. Same expenses. No receipts. No timestamps. Forged signatures. One of you is responsible."
The room stilled. Jungho's gaze moved from one face to the next. "It is remarkable how people still choose to lie in front of me."
Daejin stepped forward and placed three pens in front of them. "Pressure-sensitive. Sign your personal audit trail. Now."
Jungho removed his glasses. The shift in the room was instant, as if the oxygen had thinned. His uncovered eyes were dark, penetrating, sharp enough to feel like they were peeling away layers. For him, they were.
A flash hit him, a storage locker, trembling hands, altered numbers on paper. His gaze locked on the man in the middle.
"You," Jungho said quietly. "Notify legal."
The man's voice cracked. "I did not take anything for myself…"
"You lied. That is enough."
The guards moved without needing to be told. Jungho replaced his glasses, the suffocating weight dissipating.
"Fix the rest," he said calmly. "Or next time, I will not use a pen."
He left the meeting room and walked through the executive floor, his stride measured. Conversations quieted as he passed. The sound of heels, the shuffle of papers, the muted chime of a phone, all continued in a quieter register, as though the entire floor held its breath.
Near the shared pantry, a cluster of employees bent over their mugs. "Did you see Director Noh? Looked like he aged ten years in there."
"He got Kang-ed."
"That man doesn't breathe unless it's on schedule."
Kim Bora stood among them, mid-twenties, glossy hair, officewear a little too polished for her role. She lifted her mug, which declared in bold gold letters: Mrs. Kang. "You are all jealous. He is the definition of self-control."
Her coworkers snorted. "You mean you wouldn't mind being ignored as long as you could sit near him?"
Bora smirked. "If I got to sit next to him for five seconds, I would frame it and hang it in my living room."
The elevator chimed. Conversations stopped mid-laugh. Jungho stepped onto the floor, glasses in place, suit sharp enough to cut. No one spoke. No one moved in his path. He passed them without acknowledgment and entered his office.
Bora's grip tightened on her folder. Confidence, Bora. This is your episode one moment. She spritzed perfume until the air was a floral haze and crossed the floor.
She knocked once. "CEO Kang? Urgent paper cup inventory."
From behind the desk, his head lifted slowly. "Paper cups."
"For… beverage morale," she said with forced brightness.
His gaze didn't waver. "Leave the folder. Take the perfume."
Her cheeks flamed. She retreated quickly, muttering under her breath, "He said my name. That counts."
The office was silent again. Jungho leaned back in his chair, the city sprawling beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. On the muted television across the room, a midday broadcast was in progress. And then she appeared.
Hanna.
The camera loved her. She was dressed in deep red, her hair pulled back to frame her face. She laughed at something her co-host said, tilting her head in that way she always had, the small gesture that was hers alone.
Jungho's gaze fixed on the screen. Hanna's smile was perfect, but her eyes told another story… calm, careful, untouched by the warmth she projected. The public saw charm. He saw distance.
She had once told him he was impossible to read. She had been wrong. She was the one who hid pieces of herself, leaving them scattered like clues he could never gather in time.
The broadcast shifted to a new segment, but his eyes lingered. Some people never truly left, even when they were gone.
He wished, in the quiet space between thought and action, that one day she might stop running. Until then, he would watch every segment, every interview, every moment she appeared on a screen, because it was the only way to see her without crossing the boundaries she had built.
The office remained silent, but the echo of her presence stayed, filling the space as surely as the city light.