The morning light never really reached the bedroom they'd given to San, even when the curtains were left open. The room was too big for her taste, too tidy, too quiet for someone who'd learned to survive in the noisy, narrow corridors of a filthy warehouse. Surrounded by shouts, insults, and fights. Surrounded by men who reeked of testosterone and tobacco, sweat and a violence that matched her own. A place where dirty money mixed with the smell of gunpowder. San was used to all of that; but this house would have almost made her nervous, if she weren't so completely locked onto her objective.
As usual, she woke before dawn. It wasn't a choice—her body didn't give her one. So she pushed herself up slowly and swept the room with her gaze.
The double bed, perfectly centered, was useless. On the very first night, she'd dragged the mattress to the floor and wedged it into a corner of the room. An old habit you pick up when you never really sleep with both eyes closed. The kind you earn after killing certain targets in their sleep.
She ran a hand through her hair, drawing in a slow breath, listening for the slightest noise outside. From time to time, light footsteps paced the corridor in back-and-forth patterns like a perfectly timed dance, stopping, then moving again. The night guards were far too predictable. But that worked in her favor.
San recorded every coming and going with precision. Just in case.
Once she was sure no one was lurking nearby, she shifted the mattress slightly away from the wall and dug her fingernail into the groove of one screw, then another. The only barrier between the assassin and the air vent she'd spotted immediately on that first night.
It was the perfect hiding place. She'd made sure to stuff several things inside: files about Junghan and his daughter; bank statements; photographs; and even real estate projects belonging to her enemy. She'd also tucked away a notebook, a phone, and a weapon—on top of the one she wore at her belt during the day.
Frowning, alert despite the silence, San removed the metal grille. Her fingers groped for a few seconds in the dust before closing around a scrap of fabric that she pulled out at once. Carefully, she closed the vent again and sat cross-legged on the mattress.
The prepaid phone was old, worn out, and a far cry from modern smartphones. And for someone like San, it was ideal.
That kind of device couldn't be traced.
The cracked screen showed nothing new. No notes, no outside alerts. Just Akio's message from the previous evening, asking her for a report.
She typed without thinking, like an automatic reflex.
"House quiet. Nothing to report since yesterday. Junghan worked late after the gala. Confidential meetings in his office. Three comings and goings between 1:20 and 2:40a.m."
She hesitated for a second—not to think, but to sort the information before transmitting it.
"No suspicious interactions with staff members. He remains cautious. Too cautious."
The reply came instantly, as always.
"Details."
San drew a slow breath, her throat tightening with a tension that belonged only to her—a wire pulled taut for ten years, never once loosening.
"Guests: a party advisor, a lawyer, and an unidentified person. Low-voice discussion. Impossible to catch any words. Must find a way to install a surveillance system in the office."
She paused.
Then added what she had to.
What Akio expected from her.
"Altercation between the daughter and a certain Do-Hyun. Aggressive. Manipulative attitude. Father in real estate. Requesting full background check on him and his family."
Another pause.
Her fingers hovered above the screen before she concluded:
"Haerin is hiding something regarding Do-Hyun. Potential leverage. To be used if necessary."
She hit send and didn't wait for a response before putting the phone back, slipping it into the vent, and closing the grille.
Every morning, at the exact same time, San sent a report to Akio. Sometimes thin, sometimes detailed. Sometimes nothing more than "all clear."
Today was one of those days where she had to wait for answers before digging further.
Leaving her room, she adopted her usual gait at once: never walking too fast, never too slow, giving the impression of a calm, legitimate presence while never forgetting that every hallway in this house belonged to the enemy.
The night guards were coming down from the first floor.
She greeted them briefly—not too warmly, but just enough to avoid raising suspicion. They replied the same way. She noted their positions, their weapons, their fields of vision, their reactions. All of it was as natural to her as breathing.
She slipped quietly toward the staircase leading to the basement, where the security team's training room was located. A habit she repeated every day since she'd infiltrated enemy territory.
This part of the house had its own particular smell: a blend of damp concrete, rubber warmed by friction, and that faint metallic note betraying the presence of old, forgotten blood somewhere. A familiar scent. One that didn't belong in a house this wealthy, this clean, this polished.
She drew in a deep breath. This place had something raw to it—the only space where nothing was hidden behind smiles or political speeches. Here, violence was allowed. Here, strength was bare.
San rolled her neck, easing out the stiffness, then began a series of controlled stretches to wake a body still locked in the residue of a tense sleep. She paid attention to every muscle, methodically bringing each one online, before moving toward the punching bag hanging limply in the corner.
She tested it with the back of her fist — light, almost a greeting. The leather answered with a dull, muted sound. A sound that belonged to her.
She started circling it, just enough to feel the space. The floor was cold beneath her feet, slightly rough — perfect for grip. She lifted her guard. Then struck.
A sharp hit.
A calculated one.
The bag swung on its axis, then drifted back toward her like a disrupted breath.
Perfect.
She continued.
The first sequence was methodical. Routine. A warm-up. Movements etched so deeply into her muscle memory she could perform them in her sleep. Her strikes grew stronger, more precise, building in controlled increments. Her breath settled into rhythm. Her heartbeat stayed steady. Every motion carved arcs through the room, nearly flawless.
But stray thoughts disrupted the regularity of her blows.
The file she'd glimpsed in Haerin's room. The papers Seo Junghan kept hidden in his briefcase, always clutched tightly in his hand. The way he judged the world with a single glance, as if the entire city should kneel at his feet.
Had he looked like that when he ordered her parents' execution? When he watched the flames devour the house from a safe distance outside?
She hit harder.
The bag lurched back violently.
She pivoted, shifted her footing, struck with her left. Then her right. Then alternating fists, as if trying to extinguish something she never voiced aloud.
Her mind narrowed to a single thought.
A black wire pulled taut, vibrating in the hollow of her chest.
What had he felt when his men told him they'd slit the throat of a terrified little girl ? Satisfaction? Regret? A moment — even a second — of hesitation?
You're going to kill him.
You're going to kill them all.
She clenched her jaw. Her fist struck the bag with a dry, brutal force — a force no longer born of her body, but of something buried deeper, older, dirtier.
The fluorescent light above her flickered faintly, adding to the weariness of the room. The space seemed to breathe with her, like a caged animal waiting to be released.
San closed her eyes for a second. Just one second. She hated this feeling rising in her chest — hated losing control.
Fragments of voices.
Impacts.
The scent of rain on asphalt.
Blood slipping between fingers.
Her own breathing, too loud in her ears.
She hit again. The bag shuddered. The chain creaked. The vibration shot up her arm to her shoulder. She didn't notice she had stepped back half a pace, as if giving her anger more room.
She didn't notice her breathing was no longer steady. Or the muscle twitching in her jaw. Or the pulse beating faster at the base of her neck.
She struck again, sharper, lower, aiming for an invisible opponent's weak point. The breath that escaped her throat wasn't from training anymore — it was the echo of a memory that refused to die.
She pivoted. Right–left–elbow. Technically flawless. Internally unstable.
The floor seemed to vibrate with the impact.
Or maybe it was her.
She didn't sense the faint shift of air behind her. Didn't see the shadow flicker against the wall. Didn't catch the subtle scent she knew belonged to only one person in this house. San heard nothing.
Not the steps.
Not the breathing.
Not the whisper of fabric.
She heard only the blood rushing in her ears. The world condensed into a single beat.
The hand brushed her shoulder.
Barely a touch.
A breath.
A warning any normal person would have felt instantly.
But San wasn't just anyone.
Her body reacted before the thought even formed. She seized the intruding wrist with surgical precision, pivoted to shift her center of gravity, and used the momentum of her own anger to hurl the figure against the punching bag.
The impact was sharp.
The bag swung violently, as if stunned itself.
San pressed her forearm just under the stranger's throat, fingers locked around the captured wrist. Every muscle was drawn tight, her stance rooted, her entire body calibrated to neutralize a threat in less than a second.
A second that stretched.
A second too long.
Because this wasn't a stranger.
It was the scent that broke the reflex first— a soft floral note, completely out of place in the cold concrete of the basement.
Then the eyes.
The shock wasn't in San's.
It was in Haerin's—wide, clear. But not afraid. Not panicked. Not horrified. Just… quietly startled. As if she were analyzing the situation as calmly as San assessed danger.
A soft breath left Haerin, barely audible.
San felt her own inhale catch in her throat. An instant too brief to be seen—too long not to feel.
She withdrew her arm at once.
Not abruptly.
Not hastily.
But with that precise, controlled motion of someone trained to erase her own movements.
Haerin slid slightly against the bag before finding her balance again. She didn't speak right away. She simply tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
San straightened, taking a small step back, her breath still lodged too high in her chest. Her fingers trembled—just barely, just enough for her to suppress at once.
Haerin finally met her gaze.
Direct.
Unwavering.
"Do you greet everyone like this?" she asked, voice low, tinged with a bitterness she didn't bother to hide.
San held her stare.
"Only those who manage to surprise me," she replied, her tone sharp as a cold blade.
Haerin arched a brow.
Not offended.
Not impressed.
Just… intrigued.
"Anyone else would be on their knees apologizing for daring to lay a hand on me," she added softly.
It wasn't a threat. It was a fact. A reminder of her rank.
San's frown deepened. In any other context, it would take nothing—just a twist of the wrist—to force every ounce of air from Haerin's lungs.
One move.
A single one.
Her gaze flicked briefly to the red mark on Haerin's wrist.
"I kneel before no one," she said, each syllable falling like the stroke of a blade.
Her jaw was clenched—too tightly. Her anger had stopped being a noise; it was a steady line running from the base of her spine to the back of her skull.
If she didn't have a cover to maintain, she would have left the room. Vanished. Buried the incident in the dark.
But she stayed perfectly still.
Haerin didn't step back either. She watched San with that strange mix of analysis and… curiosity. As if danger alone wasn't enough to keep her away.
Behind her, the punching bag's chain still swayed, creaking faintly, a lingering echo of what had just happened—an unspoken warning hanging in the air.
"You have no right being here," San continued. "Especially at this hour."
Haerin didn't reply right away. She turned slightly, as though she were seeing the room for the first time—the raw concrete, the chains, the training weapons lined against the wall. Then her eyes returned to San's. A flicker passed through them—a blend of wounded pride and defiance.
"Are you planning to report this to my father?"
It was the first time Haerin didn't look like the image she was meant to project, and for a fleeting second, San wondered what her real face looked like beneath the mask.
She kept silent, simply holding her ground, wrapped in that cold stillness that fit her so naturally. But inside, she noted everything: Haerin knew the guards' rotation well enough to slip down here unseen. If she hadn't, she would've been flanked by two bodyguards.
The heiress looked away just long enough for San to catch the crack— then it closed.
Her back straightened, her shoulders set, her expression smoothing back into the immaculate, controlled mask she wore for the world.
The perfect daughter. Untouchable.
"I came down mostly to apologize," she said at last, her voice steady again, almost official.
San watched the shift with clinical precision. It wasn't just a different tone—it was a role, practiced and mastered.
"For last night," Haerin continued. "My behavior was unacceptable."
San didn't respond immediately. She let her speak. Letting someone lie revealed more than any question ever could.
"I let my emotions get the better of me. I made you think the situation required you to intervene."
"Does he usually lay his hands on you?"
There was no need to say his name. They both knew whom she meant.
Haerin dismissed the topic with a distracted wave.
"He didn't mean any harm," she replied. "Father wouldn't have allowed it if that were."
Had he seen the incident?
San filed the question away. With the kind of man Junghan was, it wouldn't have been surprising if an even darker secret tied him to Do-Hyun. A secret she would have to uncover if she wanted to make progress.
"He seems very… comfortable with you," San remarked.
"Our families have known each other for a long time. He considers me a sister."
San barely lifted a brow.
A sister whose wrist he squeezed hard enough to leave a mark? A sister he tried to stop in front of an entire crowd?
She didn't need to voice the thought—her mind sorted it, archived it, connected it to the files hidden behind the air vent.
"And your father encourages this closeness?"
Haerin inhaled. As though the air had suddenly thickened.
"Father trusts him," she replied, her voice trembling despite herself. "He believes he's… good for me."
There it was.
The key sentence. The one they put in the mouths of girls whose lives are controlled for them.
San heard only one thing:
Junghan wanted Do-Hyun close to her. And therefore close to him. And that was valuable information.
"Why?" she asked bluntly.
Haerin opened her mouth, closed it again, searched for an answer. Her gaze dropped to the floor, then drifted to the still-swaying punching bag, as if it could offer an escape.
"Because he's loyal."
Loyal.
A word far too strong.
Too precise.
Too political.
The kind of word used in corruption networks, not childhood friendships.
"Loyal to whom?"
Haerin jerked her head up. Her eyes clouded. She understood the question. Understood the danger. And shut down entirely.
"I thought you weren't the intrusive type? I don't believe these questions are part of your mission."
San bowed her head slightly, careful not to crack the cover she had worked so hard to maintain. This kind of mission wasn't her usual terrain. She was used to entering, eliminating, and leaving. Here, she had to play a role, identify the precise adjustments that would blow open the secrets buried in this house and among its inhabitants. A slowness that grated at her nerves.
Haerin didn't grant her another glance.
She turned on her heel and left the training room, her poised silhouette disappearing into the hallway as if nothing had happened, leaving San alone with her thoughts.
She had just made two mistakes: letting her guard down, and underestimating Haerin. Two lapses she would never have committed in her former life. Two lapses that, back then, might have cost someone their life. Maybe hers.
San exhaled deeply before striking the punching bag one last time.
The leather absorbed the blow with a sharp, heavy sound—much harsher than the ones before. It wasn't just part of her training. It was a reset, a brutal reminder of the discipline she had enforced on herself for years.
She glanced at the digital clock above the door: 6:28.
Without hesitation, she left the basement, climbed the stairs in silence, and returned to her room.
Haerin had surely already reached hers.
The shower ran cold, and San let the water stream down her skin, washing away the smell of leather, dust, and anger. Only a few minutes. Never more.
Once dry, she slipped into her black uniform—simple, neat, perfectly fitted—and brushed her hair with the same precision she used to assemble a weapon. Within fifteen minutes, she looked exactly as she was expected to: a composed, silent, controlled silhouette.
San stepped into the hallway.
The upper floor was still wrapped in that fragile quiet of early morning, when the entire house seems to hold its breath before resuming its performance. She walked forward, ready to take her place outside Haerin's room, when something caught her attention.
A light. Thin. Low. Filtering through the crack of a door.
Seo Junghan's office.
San slowed almost imperceptibly, a natural, almost organic shift, as if her body adjusted instinctively to the situation. Her next step was calculated; the following one even more measured. Just slow enough to pass the door without drawing attention, but slow enough to catch what was happening inside.
A voice. Muffled. Controlled. Recognizable anywhere.
Seo Junghan was on the phone.
San stopped at the perfect angle—one that allowed her to glimpse inside without casting the slightest shadow under the morning light. Through the narrow opening, she distinguished his silhouette standing beside his desk, one hand gripping his phone like a concealed threat.
"…this is not what we agreed on," he said, voice low and razor-sharp. "Their attempt to negotiate with the occupants changes nothing. They will leave. With or without their consent."
He paused. His other hand rested on an open file.
A thick file.
Stamped Hwangseong Redevelopment — Phase II.
San's attention locked instantly.
"I gave you my approval because you assured me the evictions would be completed before the end of the month," Junghan continued. "I don't want to hear about stubborn families again. Handle it."
A silence. A brief, cold, almost satisfied smile touched his lips.
"As long as the profits go to the right people, I don't care about the rest. Do whatever you need to do."
San felt her throat tighten automatically. Words like that—she knew them too well. Orders from above. Invisible decisions. Lives erased in the name of progress.
Junghan slammed the file shut.
"Get rid of the problem," he repeated. "And I want nothing compromising in the official reports."
A cautious man.
A meticulous man.
A man who erased every trace.
She needed to move before he turned toward the doorway. But just as she prepared to step back, another detail froze her in place:
On the corner of the desk, half-hidden beneath other documents, was another file.
A name printed in discreet black letters:
Han Development Group.
Han. As in Han Do-Hyun.
She had no time to linger.
San slipped away, her steps fluid, her breathing perfectly steady despite the rushing thoughts. She reached Haerin's door at the exact moment the hallway clock chimed seven.
By the time the handle turned, she had already reclaimed her posture as an unmoving shadow. As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't just obtained the first real proof that Seo Junghan was hiding something far darker than expected.
She stationed herself in front of Haerin's room as though nothing at all had occurred in the office next door. Her body settled naturally into the straight, silent posture she had perfected in this house—a shadow forgotten by everyone, but one that never stopped watching. She adjusted her collar discreetly, steadied her breathing, and wiped every trace of the overheard conversation from her expression.
She became the perfect guard again.
Moments later, a faint shift of air signaled movement behind the door. Then the lock turned—softly, with the precise control Haerin put into all her gestures.
The door opened.
Haerin appeared, fully ready—hair perfectly styled, outfit carefully chosen, as if she had been awake much longer than dawn allowed. Her face was smooth, composed, revealing nothing—absolutely nothing—of the scene in the basement.
She did not look at San immediately. Her eyes swept the hallway—an ingrained reflex, perhaps. Only then did she meet her guard's gaze.
"We may go," she said calmly.
San dipped her head and positioned herself one step behind, to the left. The required distance. The exact role she was meant to embody.
Haerin walked down the corridor in silence.
San followed, taking in every detail of the house slowly coming alive: the soft murmur of kitchen staff, the clink of utensils, the quiet rustle of a newspaper a guard pretended not to be reading.
Nothing seemed different. Nothing seemed out of place. And yet—Behind the immaculate façade, San knew a countdown had begun. One Junghan believed he controlled. She would control it better than he ever could.
Haerin slowed slightly, as if hesitating to speak, then continued without a word.
The day was beginning.
So was the mission.
They descended in a perfectly measured silence. Haerin moved with that poised, delicate, almost choreographed step she used whenever staff might be watching. San followed at exactly one pace behind, her shadow aligned with hers.
As they reached the ground floor, the sounds sharpened: plates being set down carefully, the murmur of the coffee machine, hushed voices constrained by the rigid discipline of a household where order was never meant to be disturbed.
Haerin inhaled quietly. A tiny gesture only those trained to perform would make before entering a room. She pushed open the dining-room door.
Pale morning light streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the already prepared table. Every detail was perfectly aligned: symmetrical cutlery, meticulously folded napkins, fruit sliced with almost surgical neatness, and a pot of steaming coffee releasing a warm but impersonal scent.
Seo Junghan was already seated. Ready. Impeccable. Wearing the posture of a modern patriarch—controlled, composed, and hiding the monster beneath.
San stood against the wall where she was expected—neither too far nor too close, never in the path of conversation.
"Good morning, Father," Haerin said, bowing slightly.
Junghan looked up. His smile was the same one he reserved for cameras—polished, calibrated to perfection.
"You're up early today. That's good."
He didn't ask if she'd slept well.
He never did.
Haerin sat without a word. A server placed a cup of tea before her; she acknowledged him with a small nod. Her gaze slid briefly—almost accidentally—to San. One second. One thread. A quiet I still see you.
Junghan followed the direction of her eyes.
"Miss Kawada, how is your integration going?"
He asked the question the way one evaluates a tool: is it functional? reliable? profitable?
"Perfectly," San replied evenly. "Nothing to report."
"I expected no less."
Haerin lowered her eyes to her plate. A tiny gesture—but San registered it. The perfect family only worked when Haerin kept her head down.
"You'll both be going out this afternoon," Junghan continued.
Haerin looked up, though her face remained perfectly composed, as if she already anticipated the answer.
"For… what purpose?" she asked, her voice steady enough that neither apprehension nor hope could be read beneath it.
Junghan took his time setting his cup down. The gesture was measured, almost theatrical, which only made his answer fall heavier when it came:
"A meeting with Do-Hyun. He wishes to speak with you about an important project, and I believe you should listen to him carefully."
It was as if the morning light dimmed by a single degree. Nothing in Haerin's face truly changed, but San saw the tension slip into her shoulders—subtle, nearly invisible. The kind of reaction one only notices after a lifetime spent watching the shadows.
"Today?" she asked. Not to oppose him—just to delay the inevitable.
"Today," he confirmed. "I trust him. I know he'll take good care of you."
That last sentence carried the precision of an order.
Haerin simply nodded.
"I'll be ready."
She cut a piece of fruit, a perfectly polite gesture, the gesture of an obedient daughter at a family breakfast. Yet San noticed the stiffness in her hand, the faint tremor of the knife as it touched the plate. A restrained shiver, entirely hidden—undetectable to anyone who didn't know what to look for.
Haerin's gaze drifted then, almost involuntarily, toward San. Just for a second. A brief flicker where something fragile—almost feral—crossed her eyes. A thread ready to snap, or cling to the first steady presence it found. Then she looked away, mask restored.
Junghan pushed back his chair, ready to leave for a meeting. He smoothed his jacket with a precise gesture, checked his watch, then finally turned to San.
"Be especially vigilant this afternoon. The stakes are high."
Not concern.
Not paternal warning.
Just a logistical instruction.
"Understood," she replied.
He nodded, offered his daughter a brief farewell, and disappeared down the hallway with the cold elegance that only men born to power seemed to possess.
The room shed a layer of its rigidity as soon as the door closed.
Haerin inhaled deeply—longer than necessary, as though she were putting back in place, one by one, the components of the role she had to perform. When she rose, her posture was impeccable again: back straight, face perfectly smooth, each gesture controlled to the millimeter.
"I'll go get ready," she murmured.
She left with an almost mechanical grace. San waited exactly two seconds before following, automatically falling back into her role, even as her mind coiled around a single, tightening idea:
Junghan.
Do-Hyun.
A forced meeting. And Haerin—offered like a piece on a chessboard she never chose.
San walked at the regulated distance behind her. A soundless shadow.
At the door of Haerin's bedroom, the young heiress paused for a fraction of a second, her hand on the handle. A single breath too long. Just enough to reveal what she would never willingly express. She stepped inside.
San took her usual position to the right of the door, slightly back from the frame—perfectly visible if someone looked for her, perfectly absent if they preferred not to see her.
Through the door, she listened to the familiar sounds Haerin made while getting ready— not like a young woman choosing what she liked, but like a display being arranged: the soft glide of hangers, jewelry boxes opening without any genuine choice, measured footsteps, barely audible sighs.
Everything was precise.
Measured.
Almost ritualistic.
San stood motionless in the hallway, observing in silence. The servants walked past without looking at her, already accustomed to the dark silhouette that kept watch outside the young heiress's room. Then, after a few minutes, the door cracked open.
Haerin appeared— not yet fully ready, dressed in a simple, pale dress that seemed almost fragile compared to the harsh world waiting for her outside. Her hair was still loose, falling over her shoulders with a natural softness that vanished the moment her official role was imposed on her.
"How do I look?"
The question was innocent. The kind two young friends might ask each other. But San had never had a friend, and questions like that required an answer she had no idea how to give. So she merely nodded.
"You don't have to accept," she said quietly.
Haerin smiled under the weight of that sentence. A smile without joy, without light— the kind one wears only when freedom is not an option.
"It isn't up to me to decide where I go. You know that."
She finally gathered her hair and twisted it into a neat chignon behind her head, a hairstyle far too adult for her age.
The drive to the meeting place unfolded in a dense, nearly uniform silence, as if the car were moving inside a sealed shell. Streets slipped by behind the still-misted windows, and every turn seemed to stretch the space between them.
Watching Haerin through the rearview mirror, San saw only a motionless profile turned toward the outside world— not truly attentive to what she was looking at.
Her eyes drifted along facades, pedestrians, flashes of the rising sun, without ever catching on anything. It wasn't observation—it was retreat. A way of stepping away from the world rather than engaging with it.
The young heiress sat perfectly straight, hands resting flat on her knees, breathing with that almost mechanical regularity people adopt when they're trying to convince their own body not to react.
Nothing in her posture showed panic, or anger, or even hesitation. But the absolute calm she displayed was too controlled to be natural. It was a calm built as armor.
San recognized that kind of silence— the silence of people who aren't preparing to take part in something, but to endure it. The silence of those who know their presence is not a choice, and that the role expected of them allows no deviation.
She simply watched, discreet and silent. Haerin didn't speak. Didn't ask anything. Didn't try to fill the space between them. She remained suspended in a thought San couldn't read—but she could feel its weight with uncanny clarity.
Each time the car slowed at a light or an intersection, a faint movement of Haerin's head betrayed the effort she was making to remain perfectly composed, as if she refused to let her profile in the rearview mirror reveal anything about her.
For San, it was different. Every meter the car traveled was another stretch of terrain to analyze, another chance to anticipate blind spots, reactions, risks. If this forced meeting with Do-Hyun was a problem for Haerin, it became— for her— an opportunity she had no intention of wasting.
When the car turned onto a wide avenue lined with trees, Haerin took a deep breath. Not like someone preparing to speak— but like someone gathering their strength before walking across burning ground.
The car finally stopped in front of a discreet building, elegant without ostentation—one of those private cafés where people reserved tables to discuss projects too important, or too compromising, to be mentioned anywhere else. The tinted glass façade reflected a smooth, polished image, giving the illusion of neutrality in a district where nothing was ever truly neutral.
San immediately registered the silhouettes already stationed by the entrance: guards in tailored suits, not from the Seo household, but unmistakably of the same breed she had dealt with all her life. Bodies held too rigidly. Hands resting too close to their belts. Eyes scanning everything. Trained men— but not trained enough to notice a professional.
Do-Hyun hadn't arrived yet.
Haerin stepped out of the car first, the way one steps down from a pedestal they never asked for. Her face betrayed nothing explicit, but San sensed a distant, almost electric tension running through the muscles hidden beneath her dress. She exited the car as well, naturally falling one step behind the heiress, as her role required.
A light morning breeze loosened a strand from Haerin's chignon, a detail she didn't bother to fix. She kept her gaze firmly forward, as if meeting Do-Hyun earlier than expected was already draining what reserves she had left.
A low, steady engine hum grew louder in the distance. A dark car approached.
San shifted her stance by a barely perceptible degree. Haerin's shadow merged with hers on the pavement.
The car stopped a few meters away. The rear door opened.
Han Do-Hyun stepped out with that almost insolent confidence found only in those convinced of their own invulnerability. Light suit, practiced smile, open posture. He swept a quick glance at Haerin, then at San—his gaze lingering just long enough to assess the margin of error he thought he had.
"Haerin," he greeted, flashing teeth too white to be natural.
She dipped her head lightly, without warmth. Her politeness was flawless, mechanically precise.
"You look stunning," he added, letting his eyes trail a little too low, a little too long. "Your father has excellent taste when it comes to… presenting you."
"What brings us here today, Do-Hyun?"
Haerin knew exactly how not to encourage his advances without provoking tension. She offered him a polite, discreet smile—worthy of her social standing—without stepping closer. Hands joined neatly in front of her, posture poised but subtly withdrawn.
Do-Hyun cast a brief look toward San. She remained still, not a single muscle twitching. Watching his every move with heightened attention, ready to intervene the moment he stepped beyond acceptable boundaries.
But he held her gaze, an amused curl at the corner of his lips, before turning his attention back to Haerin.
"Let's go inside."
They walked into the café, reserved entirely for the occasion.
The walls were lined with dark wood, polished with an almost obsessive care, catching warm reflections under the soft lighting. Minimalist frames displayed abstract sketches. The air carried the smell of freshly ground coffee, layered with subtler notes—bergamot and white tea, the establishment's signature scent, likely diffused discreetly through hidden vents. At the back, a spotless counter showcased an espresso machine in polished steel, gleaming like surgical equipment. The staff moved around it in silence, executing a flawless choreography. No raised voices. No unnecessary sounds. No glass shifted without purpose.
The entire place exuded that muted calm characteristic of spaces where money circulates without ever appearing, where family names matter more than the orders placed, where everything—from the service to the silence—was designed to keep the outside world firmly outside.
The entire place radiated that hushed, velvety calm found only in spaces where money moves without ever showing itself—where family names matter more than the orders placed, where everything, from the service to the silence, is designed so the outside world stays firmly outside.
Moving like a conqueror across his own territory, Do-Hyun let his hand brush the small of Haerin's back—a touch so light it was almost calculated. She didn't react.
Not because she accepted it,
but because resisting him here would be a battle she had already lost long ago. She simply followed him to the table he had chosen, and they sat—face to face.
"I won't make you wait any longer, Haerin," he began, a new smile stretching across his lips.
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small black velvet box, which he placed on the table with a soft, deliberate tap.