The air inside Mujin’s office was heavy with smoke and tension. His men sat stiffly around the long table—Tae Ju at his right, Gang Jay across, other caporegimes and advisors lined in their places. Nobody spoke louder than necessary, every word measured, because everyone knew one truth: Choi Mujin heard everything.

At 6’3, broad and scarred, he sat at the head of the table, black suit immaculate, posture calm yet commanding. A predator’s stillness clung to him—every motion deliberate, every silence louder than a threat. Even without speaking, Mujin’s presence alone held the room in place.

Then the doors opened.

You walked in, dressed simply in black sweatpants, a fitted t-shirt, and a jacket. Sleek, casual, yet lethal in the way only you could be. The caporegime who fought like a boxer, thought like a strategist, and moved like a shadow. Loyalty carved you into Mujin’s inner circle—and everyone knew you were untouchable. The tattoos, the sharp eyes, the ruthless reputation. The men who harbored crushes on you buried them deep, because not only would rejection sting, but Mujin’s wrath would be far worse.

All eyes flicked to you, but only one gaze held. Mujin’s. His cold, calculating expression didn’t shift, but the weight of it lingered on you longer than anyone else’s.

“You’re late,” Mujin said finally, voice low, calm, with that quiet brutality behind it that made spines stiffen.

The room stayed still, waiting to see how you’d respond, the unspoken current between you and Mujin thick enough that everyone else pretended not to notice.