The mood inside Hwain Finance, an organization whose name alone could make the underworld tremble, had remained shrouded in gloom even now, two months on. It had never been lively or bright to begin with, but the place that had once overflowed with a kind of raw, ruthless vitality now felt like a house of mourning—downright hard to look at. Brutal, terrifying mugs hung slack and exuded such a dark air that it wasn’t just intimidating anymore; it was almost terrifying. The men themselves didn’t seem to realize it. No—even if they had realized it, nothing would have changed.
There was only one reason.
Their boss’s sudden death.
Even now, two months later, Lee Hajin’s death was not just sudden; it was so shocking it still felt unbelievable. A few were still insisting there was no way the boss had died—that he must be alive somewhere—but in truth, everyone knew. They were the ones who had seen it with their own eyes: the face that had always been indifferent and quiet, the boss whose eyes had stayed like that—calm to the very end—when he closed them in death.
He looks like he’ll get up any second.
That neat face, gone pale, would open those firmly shut eyes and, with that quiet gaze, look their way and speak.
“Why are you crying again,” he would say. His voice had always been flat—cold at a glance—but the ones who served Lee Hajin knew better. He wore a cool, uninterested face with other people, but that wasn’t it. He was strict about everything, yes, but at the same time there was a strangely gentle side to him. He didn’t seem aware of it himself, but most of those close to him were.
He wasn’t talkative, and he didn’t know how to comfort anyone.
He didn’t know how to reach out gently and pull someone into a consoling embrace, but he was the sort who would stay close by in silence. He never said anything, never offered any spoken comfort, but just the way he would take a cigarette from his breast pocket and flick it over was enough.
Once, a younger man had fallen to his knees and bawled, saying his girlfriend had had a baby, that he wanted to leave the organization and get a proper job. Looking at that face, everyone had expected the kid would either die or spend the rest of his life a pitiful cripple. It was a shame, but they were used to such endings. That was what this place was. That was the kind of world this was.
Lee Hajin, who said so little, finally spoke after a long while. “I didn’t hear anything.” The words he murmured low as he slowly approached the kid staring up at him, eyes wide, and bent his head:
“—And now that I take a closer look, looking so feeble like that really gets on my nerves.”
Squinting at the eyes as if it truly got on his nerves, he turned his head and spoke to another man beside him.
“There’s no reason to keep someone I don’t like under me. …Drag him out of here. You’re nothing to do with Hwain anymore.”
In other words: get out of my sight. Startled by the blade-sharp voice, the kid forgot to cry and just stared up blankly; soon enough, rough hands were dragging him out. He’d steeled himself to lose at least one wrist when he opened his mouth, so at first he couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Then he burst into even louder sobs than before, wheeled around, and cried, “Boss!” Pulling your feet out of an organization once you’d put your body into it meant being ready to die; conversely, being one-sidedly thrown out because the boss “didn’t like you” was a different case. “Boss….” His face was a wreck of tears as he looked back at him, unable to go on. Lee Hajin only drew his brows together.
“Don’t call out to me. I don’t know a bastard like you.”
Then, with a lazy tilt of his chin as he bit down on a cigarette—hurry up and take him out.
Even after the kid who’d been crying and calling his name disappeared, Lee Hajin was silent for a long time; then he quietly whispered to Han Daejun, who stood at his side, Find him a job somewhere. Because even if the kid walked out like this, a man who’d spent his whole life as an organization foot-soldier wasn’t going to land decent work on his own. Sensing the sideways glances from the other members, Lee Hajin added in an indifferent voice: If you don’t want to please me, this is how you should behave. If Hajin’s viper of a father found out, he’d blow his top and order a beating for such words, but Hajin himself looked perfectly unruffled.
That was the kind of man Lee Hajin was.
There were even those who had joined the organization not for Hwain, but to serve Lee Hajin himself.
And yet that man—
The man who seemed detached and composed no matter the situation, the one who felt like he would keep them propped up—he was dead. Unable to accept it, the underlings packed into the morgue finally bowed their heads one by one and coughed up tears. Big, hulking, scarred men weeping in a line was not a pretty sight, but with a little exaggeration they did look like children who had lost their parents. At this man’s side, nothing felt frightening. Sometimes his face said he was sick of it and suffocating, but they knew he wouldn’t abandon them.
They had witnessed countless deaths in this life, but there were deaths one never got used to.
So when Han Daejun, who regained consciousness late after surgery, heard of Lee Hajin’s death, maybe it was inevitable that he wrecked his hospital room with an unhealed body while he roared. A voice like a scream. The hastily stitched wounds reopened; doctors and nurses rushed in to restrain him, but it was no use—Han Daejun was a wreck, and he was crying. It was only the second time Han Daejun, whose face was always a mask of severity unless he was at Lee Hajin’s side, had looked like that. The other time was when Lee Hajin had cut off his own finger in Daejun’s stead. After he’d shown tears, Han Daejun had stayed by Hajin’s side with even more ferocious loyalty. Eyes that seemed to live for someone.
Han Daejun was deathly desolate.
A raw, ice-blue despair of someone who had failed to protect something precious, forever.
The man who appeared in front of them looked extremely suspicious. A cap pulled low, sunglasses, a black scarf wrapped round and round up to his mouth—his exact face was impossible to make out, but the lean lines of his jaw and his long, clean build under the coat made it obvious at a glance he was one of the glamorous sort. Why would someone like that stride into a place like this? Even with the room crawling with members who had faces fierce enough to make civilians flinch just by locking eyes, he didn’t shrink—he walked like he knew the place. Everyone stared in a strange mix of curiosity and wariness—until one of the men stepped in his way and rumbled:
“Kid, this isn’t a place you can just waltz—”
“I’m here to see Han Daejun. I already made an appointment, so I’d appreciate it if you’d just show me to his office.”
The hell? What did that spindly thing just say…?
He’d just tossed out the name of Daejun, who was currently filling the dead Hajin’s seat on an interim basis, and now he was ordering them to escort him to the office? The guy’s guts weren’t just outside his body; he was dragging them along the floor. The men could only let out a dumb laugh. The newcomer didn’t seem interested; maybe the warmth of the room made his getup feel stifling, because he slowly unwound the scarf. A slender line of throat appeared. Then the sunglasses came off, and the cap pulled low came away—like a shot from a racy commercial.
Under the lights, a face of ridiculous, faultless beauty.
He raked through the flattened hair with one hand and lifted his head. The face was too beautiful.
“…I asked you to show me the way.”
Why are you just staring? His slightly red lips curled and he gave a short, soft laugh; it wasn’t a sneer—more like the look you’d give something cute. Cute…? While looking at a row of big men, all of them sporting hideous scars? A few of them flushed without meaning to at that smile; a few of them were seized by the eerie sense that the expression wasn’t unfamiliar. An indifferent face. A slow way of speaking that somehow carried weight. A habit of addressing others from above, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Startled by the image rising in his head, one of them shook it sharply away.
The hell are you comparing him to, asshole! Do I miss the boss so bad it’s terminal now? I’m seeing the boss in some guy I’m seeing for the first time today. With a deep sigh, the man turned his body with a face that looked, somehow, a little heartsick. “Follow me.” The way he agreed to guide the stranger so meekly made the other members glance over in puzzlement, but if he had an appointment, well—fine.
In fact, Sihyeon already knew where Han Daejun would be.
He’d be sitting in Lee Hajin’s office, taking his place for now.
But for Lee Sihyeon—for Hajin, who was new to this place—walking straight to the office without any direction would obviously be suspicious, so he’d spoken up. Even so, the wary faces of the members he looked at were all familiar to Lee Hajin.
Of course they were. They’d been under him.
The gormless, slack faces staring at him even after he’d asked to be shown the way were funny; Sihyeon smiled a little. So small he didn’t realize he’d done it. It had only been two months since he’d last seen them, but it felt like a very long time; the feeling was strange. Maybe because he’d thought he would never see them again. As Lee Hajin walked slowly down the hallway he could have found with his eyes closed from sheer repetition, for the first time with open eyes he thought about the people left behind.
Deaths were common in the organization; he’d figured his death would just be another of those.
The eldest wife’s son finally died; there must be more than a few raising a glass in joy.
Still, Han Daejun, who had spent eleven years with him…
Was he a little sad? In any case, the boss he served had died. He couldn’t know exactly what Han Daejun felt about his death, but one thing was certain: Han Daejun would be fiercely angry. There was a cold streak in Han Daejun. Hajin had been the exception; now that he was useless as heir, as backing—maybe it would be different.
Lost in such practical thoughts, oblivious to how the ones left behind were rotting from the inside, Sihyeon realized he had arrived at the office. Wuhan, who had guided him, said, “Here,” and knocked first. A voice came from inside. Wuhan slowly opened the door.
“……….”
The gaze they met head-on carried nothing in it.
Tak. As Sihyeon stepped in and the door closed behind him, a heavy silence crept across a room that contained only the two of them. Han Daejun said nothing. His face looked a little thinner, streaked with fatigue, which made his sharp features stand out even more. Sihyeon took a step at the sight.
“…You the one who called yesterday?”
He was forcing himself to smooth the edge from his voice. Sihyeon nodded and, with a calm face, sat down on the sofa right next to where Han Daejun was seated. The low gaze lingered on him for a long moment, but no barked order came. The quiet face watching him with a probing eye was composed, but Sihyeon knew.
Han Daejun was deciding whether to kill him.
“Right. I’d like to know what the hell you were running your mouth about on the phone.”
“I’d like to tell you—but first, before we finish talking, I want a promise you won’t kill me.”
“I don’t kill without cause.”
“I know. Just—covering my bases.”
His brow twitched up and fell, but then Han Daejun murmured in a low voice, “I promise.” Lee Hajin already knew Han Daejun didn’t kill without cause. It was a promise Hajin and Daejun had made long ago. After a brief pause, Sihyeon spoke.
“I want to hand over material on Taegang.”
And along with that, some very personal files. A youthful voice whispered like a secret.
Yes—that was why he’d taken the call he would normally have ignored. Hearing the caller claim to know about the friction between Taegang and Hwain had put Han Daejun’s nerves on edge. That was a secret known only to a handful. Outwardly they had a treaty and kept the peace, but Taegang, growing by the day, had begun nibbling at Hwain’s turf. When Hwain issued a warning after catching on, Taegang brushed it off as a misunderstanding; suspicious of the slithering act, Lee Hajin had quietly dug into Taegang’s back, and after a dogged tail he had recently confirmed Taegang was preparing to hit Hwain from behind.
They were still smaller than Hwain, but not an opponent to dismiss.
And there seemed to be another organization helping in the move against Hwain; they were investigating because they hadn’t been able to uncover the hand behind it. Knowing a bloodbath could break loose if they got it wrong, Lee Hajin had told only Han Daejun, the highest-ranking executives, and his father. As the mood worsened, Lee Hajin had been the first to make a proposal.
“—This is as good a chance as any to devour Taegang. It’ll make an excellent example.”
If Father wishes it, I’d like to take charge. You can make me bear all responsibility. I only have one request. When this is over…
“…Han Daejun?”
Pulled from his thoughts by a voice calling his name, Han Daejun suddenly lifted his head. A small, white face was looking at him, as if puzzled. He felt heat rise from his gut up his esophagus; he clenched his teeth and forced it down. Not yet. He hadn’t expected the bastard to call first, let alone show up in front of him. When the knock came, when the door opened and that face stepped in, he had nearly driven a blade into it—he’d barely, barely held himself back.
A face you could never forget.
Lee Sihyeon. The bastard whose very name made him want to tear and swallow him alive—the one who had driven his one and only idol into death.
When he woke after the crash and heard Lee Hajin had died, Han Daejun had half lost his mind and wrecked everything. No. No way. The boss—the young master is dead? He denied it thousands of times—such a horrible thing couldn’t be real—but everything mocked him, insisting that it was. Hajin’s presence at his side was so vivid—how could it be true?
Denial turned to despair, despair to screams. Then the roiling black of it soured into hatred.
Lee Sihyeon. Daejun learned the name of the man who had rear-ended his car right away. That radiant, beautiful face made him sick; his body burned with the urge to kill him on the spot, but a flood of matters crashed down on him. He’d planned to go to Lee Sihyeon once the Taegang problem was resolved. He’d planned to drag that demon of a man who killed his idol down to the very bottom—until the bastard begged at his feet to kill him.
But now Lee Sihyeon had come to him—on his own feet. To make a deal.
He had to hold back—he had to read the bastard’s intent, then show him hell. But unable to swallow the surge of rage, Daejun exploded; in an instant he lunged, snatched the neat collar of Lee Sihyeon’s shirt, and growled, lethal.
“What kind of bullshit is this, Lee Sihyeon… You think I don’t know who you are…?”
“……….”
“Pretty bold of you to climb into your own grave without even grasping the situation. You come here to ask me to kill you? Hm?”
He’d been planning to hunt him down and carve him up anyway; this was convenient. The dank rasp of his words went past menace into naked intent to kill. At a hand’s breadth away, Han Daejun looked down at him with blood-red eyes full of hate. Letting go of the collar, grabbing that slender throat and snapping it—it would be easier than a child’s game. Lee Sihyeon’s face, swaying limply, still didn’t change.
And then, as if he’d expected it, he parted those faintly reddened lips. It was vicious.
“Right. That’s why I said we should make a deal, Han Daejun.”
Pale, fine fingertips tapped at Han Daejun’s hand, which was clamped around his collar. Tok, tok. There was no way that gentle touch alone could have loosened his strength—and yet it felt like it would.
“…Because I’ll let you kill me, if we make the deal.”
The demon whispered, quietly.
He was smiling softly—a dear, familiar face.