Sleep didn't come easy to Kim Ha-joon.
He lay sprawled across the cold expanse of his bed, eyes tracing the fractured moonlight cutting through the blinds. Outside, Seoul breathed in restless rhythm — tires whispering through wet streets, a siren wailing somewhere distant, a lullaby for the sleepless.
He turned once, twice, then threw the blanket aside.
Jogging at midnight wasn't healthy for someone of his reputation. But then again, sanity wasn't either.
The night air struck sharp and clean as he ran through Gangnam's narrow streets, drizzle biting at his face. Each footfall echoed against the asphalt, his breath ghosting in the cold. It grounded him — a reminder that he was still human beneath the fortune, beneath the mask.
By the time he returned, sweat glazed his skin, but his mind was no calmer.
Morning sunlight split through the glass walls of his office. Ha-joon's expression gave nothing away as his finance director stammered through a report.
"What do you mean someone's been embezzling the company's funds?"
His voice was quiet — measured — but something dangerous lived beneath the calm.
"W-we're still investigating, sir. It's been happening gradually for—"
"Leave."
The single word cracked like a whip. Chairs scraped. Footsteps retreated. Silence fell.
Alone again, Ha-joon leaned back, took a cigarette from the gold case on his desk, and lit it. Smoke curled upward, thin and silver. Too busy chasing ghosts to notice thieves at my own table.
He exhaled, flicking ash into the crystal tray.
The door slammed open.
"I thought I said leave before I—" His voice stopped mid-sentence.
Park Choon-hee stood in the doorway, smiling like she owned the air in his lungs.
"Oh. It's you."
She glided in, all pastel silk and practiced charm. "I brought you lunch! Homemade."
Ha-joon stared. "You didn't have to."
"Oh, please, don't be so formal. Your mother told me this is your favorite."
Of course she did. Mother would sell his soul for a headline.
He opened the lunch box reluctantly. The smell hit first. Then the taste.
Catastrophic.
He forced a swallow, fighting the instinct to gag. "It's… nice. But maybe stay out of the kitchen. You could hurt yourself."
Her eyes softened — mistaking his warning for concern. But in his mind, another thought surfaced: Or someone.
She giggled, touching his arm. "You're so serious. Maybe after we're married—"
He froze. The word landed like acid.
"Choon-hee." His tone dropped. "Let's not pretend this is about love."
Her smile faltered, then reshaped itself, brittle but bright. "You'll come around, oppa."
He didn't answer. She left soon after, her perfume lingering like decay.
Hours later, deep in Seoul's underbelly, neon bled against tinted glass. Inside a hidden operations room, fingers danced across keyboards, code reflecting in tired eyes.
"This video was posted three hours ago," said Suzanne Chin-sun, his top analyst. Short black hair, sharp mind, sharper loyalty. "It lasted online for less than a second before deletion. But it was enough. I traced the IP — Hongdae Street, near a place called Red Velvet Club. Likely connected to the trafficking ring."
Ha-joon leaned over her shoulder. The replay flickered on-screen — half a frame, a muffled cry, a gloved hand. Then static.
"These rookies are ghosts," Suzanne said quietly. "They upload, vanish, scrub everything. They could be anyone."
Ha-joon's reflection stared back from the monitor — the immaculate suit, the cold precision in his eyes.
"Good work," he said at last. "We'll visit Red Velvet tomorrow night. For now, check the Hyundai Mobis accounts. Find who's been bleeding us dry. I want a name in an hour."
"Yes, sir."
He straightened his cuffs, diamond links catching the low light, and left the room. The elevator carried him down from the tenth floor of his private organization — the one the world didn't know existed.
By day, the CEO.
By night, the reaper.
The car door opened with a soft click. His driver bowed as he entered. Outside, Seoul's lights streaked past in the rain — a masterpiece painted in sin and motion.
His thoughts weren't on the skyline. They lingered on Choon-hee's touch, his mother's demands, the audacity of betrayal — and that video.
The scream that didn't sound like a stranger's.
Later that night, the man they dragged into his basement was already half-dead. Blood slicked his face, wrists bound tight.
"Hyundai Mobis accountant," one guard said. "Name's Do Kyung. Been funneling funds through dummy accounts. Fifty billion won in three years."
Ha-joon crouched beside the trembling man, voice quiet, almost gentle.
"Tell me, Kyung," he murmured. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
The man sobbed, shaking his head.
Ha-joon smiled faintly — the kind of smile that froze the air around it.
"Oh," he whispered, "I'll enjoy every moment of this. Trust me."
He gripped the man's collar and dragged him toward the staircase that led deeper underground. The steel door groaned open — somewhere below, a scream echoed and died.
Ha-joon stepped through.
The door closed.
And the night swallowed them whole.