Bread Music Entertainment
Los Angeles, California
Perched on a sun-soaked hilltop overlooking Sunset Boulevard and the sprawling canyons, the mansion sat like a quiet apex predator. All sharp modern lines, glass, steel, and that unmistakable "old money but we're trying to act minimalistic" aesthetic.
The estate stretched across the cliffside in three sleek structures—
the main residence, a guesthouse, and a wellness-slash-garage pavilion So Massive It Could Probably Host a UN Summit.
Each one was arranged around a clean, circular drive, all connected by a thin ribbon of water that shimmered like liquid silver under the sky. From a distance, the buildings looked like obsidian shards wedged into the hillside.
Jonathan had given the whole thing to Foca on his 18th birthday.
Foca took one look at the mansion, declared, "Absolutely not, I'm not living alone in a villain lair," and proceeded to go back to his condo. Since then the mansion had remained untouched—
except for the team of elite maintenance workers keeping it spotless on the daily. Because rich-boy logic.
But now?
Now the place finally had a purpose.
With Foca's sprawling property portfolio, choosing one to repurpose felt like picking a favorite pair of shoes. So he simply decided this one was the least emotionally complicated and turned it into the headquarters of his brand-new entertainment company.
Inside, the place buzzed with workers putting on the final touches: interior designers softening edges, tech teams installing gear, and contractors losing battles with Vincent's expectations of nothing less than perfection. Every gadget, every piece of equipment, every recording, filming, and training tool—top tier. Vincent had made sure of it. "Only the best," he'd said… like a threat.
Legal paperwork? Completed.
Licensing? Secured.
Timelines? Bulldozed by expensive lawyers who did not know the word "delay."
And so, three days after the dramatic family meeting, Foca now sat at the head of a newly transformed boardroom—crystal table, soft lighting, the faint smell of new furniture—and faced Luca, Tuesday, and the hand-picked elite staff Pearl had hunted down like a bloodhound in heels.
"Greetings to all of you," Foca began, standing proud at the head of the table. "I want to express my sincerest gratitude for answering our call and helping bring Bread Music to life."
The executives applauded warmly.
"Are we really going with Bread Music?" Luca cut in, eyebrows raised.
The room turned to him.
Foca stared at him like a disappointed single father.
"Yes. We. Are," he said slowly, with the tone of someone scolding a toddler caught eating markers. "Now get over it."
Luca let out a massive huff, flopped back into his chair, and pouted like a six-foot, 180-pound child. "Fine…"
"Anyway," Foca sighed, clearing his throat. "Our first order of business is signing talented artists we can help make shine. I've already sent our people out to scout the prospects I personally selected."
"Once we secure them, that's when the real grind begins," Tuesday added, leaning forward like she was about to start a heist.
And sent people he did.
Four sharp, elegant business operatives — handpicked, terrifyingly competent, dressed like they walked straight out of a luxury noir film — scattered across the streets of Seoul with one mission:
Come back to L.A. with their target talents.
No excuses. No delays. No mercy.
Luca called them "the Vampire Squad," because every single one of them looked like they drank moonlight and bathed in liquid diamond glow.
Seoul National Hospital
Seoul, South Korea
A tall foreign man — the kind of gorgeous that makes people drop their phones mid-scroll — strode toward the front desk. His obsidian-black suit was cut so sharply it could file taxes on its own. His trench coat moved like dark silk. And against his pale skin and piercing blue eyes, he didn't just walk — he glided.
People stared.
People gawked.
One elderly man clutched his chest like he'd seen THE Grim Reaper.
At the desk, he offered a polite dip of his head.
"안녕하세요."
Hello.
His voice was smooth velvet — the kind that ruins lives.
"아… 안녕하세요…" the receptionist stammered back, snapping out of her trance only after realizing she had been openly staring for several seconds.
He smiled — gracefully, lethally — and continued,
"혹시… 어거스트라는 이름의 젊은 남성이 여기 입원해 있는지 알 수 있을까요?"
By any chance… is a young man named August admitted here?
At the name, the receptionist's expression tightened.
Everyone knew about the leak. The hospital had doubled security around August's ward.
"혹시 그분 팬이신가요?"
Are you a fan of his, by any chance?
He shook his head with polite softness.
"아… 아닙니다. 팬은 아니고요. 익명 후원자로 왔습니다. 치료비 전액을 대신 내드리고 싶어서요."
Ah, no. I'm not a fan. I'm here as an anonymous sponsor. I'd like to cover all of his medical expenses.
Then he slid a black card across the counter — gold-trimmed, heavy, the kind of card that screams I don't wait in lines. People wait for me.
The receptionist's eyes nearly flew out of her skull.
"정말요? 와… 잠시만 기다려 주세요."
Really? Wow… please wait just a moment.
Processing took barely a minute. Money talks — and this card apparently sang.
Returning the card with both hands, she asked,
"다 처리됐습니다. 혹시 가족분들이 물어보시면 성함을 남겨드릴까요?"
Everything's been processed. If his family asks, should I leave them your name?
He waved gently.
"아니요, 괜찮습니다. 가족들이 저와 이야기하고 싶어하시면 VIP 라운지로 오라고 전해주세요. 오늘 하루 종일 있을 거예요. 제가 좀 눈에 띄어서, 찾기 쉬울 겁니다."
No, that won't be necessary. If his family wants to speak with me, tell them to come to the VIP lounge. I'll be here all day. I'm… rather easy to spot.
He smiled again — devastatingly — and the entire front desk collectively forgot how to breathe.
"네, 가족분들께 그렇게 전달하겠습니다…"
O-of course, I'll let the family know… the receptionist said, pink to the ears.
"감사합니다."
Thank you.
And with that, he turned and glided away, heading toward the VIP lounge.
Every person he passed froze like they'd been hit with a stun spell — watching him go, struck silent, bewitched, borderline feral.
A few hours later, a couple in their mid-to-late thirties approached the front desk.
The woman looked heartbreakingly exhausted — red, swollen eyes, trembling hands, the kind of fatigue that comes from crying until the body gives up.
"저기요… 808번 환자 치료비를 내려고 왔습니다."
Excuse me… we're here to pay for patient 808.
The receptionist recognized the number instantly.
A soft smile bloomed across her face — gentle, warm, almost relieved for them.
"어머님, 아버님… 이제 치료비 내지 않으셔도 됩니다."
Ma'am, sir… you don't have to pay anymore.
Both parents froze.
"죄송하지만… 그게 무슨 말씀이죠?"
Sorry… what do you mean? the husband asked, confused and wary.
With a bit of excitement she couldn't suppress, the receptionist explained,
"익명의 후원자분이 이미 모든 치료비를 전액 납부하셨습니다. 이제는 걱정하지 않으셔도 됩니다."
An anonymous sponsor has already paid the full cost of your son's treatment. You can finally breathe easy now.
The couple's expression shattered — surprise first, then disbelief, then relief so powerful it buckled their knees.
The wife burst into tears.
The husband pulled her into a tight embrace, his own shoulders shaking as he held her.
For a long moment, they simply cried into each other's arms.
When they finally managed to steady themselves, even just a little, the husband wiped his face and asked,
"혹시… 누가 후원하신 건지 알 수 있을까요?"
May we ask… who the sponsor is?
The receptionist nodded eagerly.
"그분이 지금 병원 VIP 라운지에서 두 분을 기다리고 계십니다."
He's waiting for you both in the hospital's VIP lounge.
The couple stiffened slightly at the word VIP.
They exchanged anxious looks — they weren't rich, weren't powerful, and certainly weren't used to speaking with people who had access to places like that.
But gratitude mattered more than intimidation.
"정말 감사합니다."
Thank you so much, they both said, bowing deeply before heading toward the VIP lounge, hands tightly intertwined, bracing themselves to meet the mysterious benefactor.
****
Ps - you can go visit this site, to see where I got the inspiration for the mansion/head quarters' architecture and design. (https://onekindesign.com/modern-dream-home-los-angeles/)