No room smells like anxiety and outdated encryption software! This is not conducive to capturing the profound sadness of the rival poet!" she wailed, scattering her new brushes onto the holographic map of Seoul.
"Eun-ji, your lyrical life is in danger! We are tracking the man who wants to destroy your poems and our company!" Taehyung hissed, trying to move a bucket of blue paint off the keyboard.
"But if I don't paint the melancholy now, it will dissipate! The existential dread is fleeting!" she cried, grabbing the little CEO action figure and demanding, "Taehyung, tell me again about his tragic poetry! I need inspiration!"
Taehyung closed his eyes for a beat, forcing himself to multitask. "He writes about... about the unbearable weight of quarterly deadlines and the loneliness of the corner office," he rattled off, while simultaneously reviewing security footage of the dark sedan's hasty exit.
II. The Portrait of a Predator
Ha-eun immediately retreated to the one clean corner of the room and began furiously squeezing out the blue paint onto a makeshift palette (a discarded financial statement). Her focus was absolute—the kind of terrifying concentration that had once intimidated CEOs.
As the security chief zeroed in on the sedan's route, Ha-eun worked. She mixed the blue paint with a dash of black and a touch of the newly purchased glitter. She was capturing not just a face, but an aura—the elegant, cruel emptiness of the man who looked like he hated happy poems.
"Chairman, we have a partial match!" the security chief announced, pointing to a flickering screen. "The sedan was tracked to a private parking garage near the old docks. It wasn't registered to Seok-jin, but to a shell corporation tied to Madam Park."
Madam Park. Taehyung's stepmother. Seok-jin's mother. The true Architect who had orchestrated the entire family tragedy to secure her son's future. The woman his father had made a deadly promise to.
The surveillance feed sharpened, showing a blurry figure exiting the sedan—it was indeed Seok-jin, but he wasn't alone. Walking beside him was a slender woman with her back to the camera.
"Zoom in on the woman," Taehyung commanded, his voice tight.
As the image clarified, Ha-eun spoke up from the corner, holding up her half-finished canvas.
"Taehyung, look! I captured him! The sadness is palpable, but why is he carrying a ridiculous, oversized briefcase? It spoils the tragedy!"
Taehyung ignored the painting, his eyes glued to the screen. The woman next to Seok-jin was Joo Yeong-ho, the former investigative journalist who had promised to watch him.
III. A New Vow of Betrayal
Taehyung's mind spun. Yeong-ho hadn't destroyed the USB drive because of morality; she had done it because she was working with Seok-jin. She hadn't been an investigator; she was part of the conspiracy, feeding him information and helping him cover his tracks.
"Sir, Madam Park's assets and Seok-jin's movements are now coordinated. They're planning a massive, final strike," the chief warned.
Taehyung stared at the screen—the elegant predator, Seok-jin, the ruthless mastermind, Madam Park (unseen), and the betrayed journalist, Yeong-ho. They were a terrifying, coordinated front.
He looked back at Ha-eun, who was now painting a tiny, perfect crimson streak across the chest of the painted Seok-jin figure.
"What is that red line, Eun-ji?" Taehyung asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"I don't know," she replied simply, dipping her brush back into the blue. "It felt like he needed it. Like it's a debt. Now, tell me, protector: when we fight the tragic poet, can I use this tiny action figure CEO as a weapon?"
Taehyung looked from the painted debt on the canvas back to the surveillance image of his true enemies. He was surrounded by betrayal, protected only by a woman who didn't remember her own name. The Broken Vow was now a battle against the very people who claimed to fight for justice.
"Yes, Eun-ji," Taehyung said, a cold, hard decision settling in his eyes. "You can use him. But first, we need to create a bigger tragedy for the elegant man than he could ever write himself."