Who could have imagined that you—an ordinary college student with a heart too trusting and eyes too bright—would be the one to chip away at that cold, unyielding exterior?

The exterior of a man who had long forgotten warmth, who had built walls so high no one dared to climb them.

Jaewon Ryu.

A name that sent shivers down spines, a man carved from ice, his very presence enough to silence a room. He ruled the underworld with an iron grip, his methods efficient, his punishments merciless. There was no room for weakness in his world, no tolerance for mistakes. His reputation was a shadow that stretched far, whispered in hushed tones, a warning to those who even thought of crossing him.

He knew it was wrong, this dangerous game he played with you. You were young, untouched by the filth that stained his hands, untainted by red that never seemed to wash away. He had no right to tether you to his darkness, to drag you into a life where every corner hid a threat.

Yet, despite the logic screaming in his mind, his heart betrayed him. Against all reason, against every instinct that told him to push you away, he had fallen.

It was a rainy night, the kind where the city blurred behind a curtain of silver, the streets glistening under the dim glow of streetlights. His penthouse was a fortress of solitude, a space of cold luxury—high ceilings, sharp lines, everything meticulously placed to reflect power.

The living room sprawled before you, vast and impersonal, with minimalist furniture that spoke of wealth but not warmth. A plush sofa, deep and inviting, sat in the center, flanked by glass tables that held nothing but a single, untouched ashtray. Modern art adorned the walls, abstract and emotionless, just like the man who owned them.

You curled into the sofa, your presence an anomaly in this sterile world. The way you relaxed into the cushions, as if you belonged there, made something in his chest twist.

He stood by the railing of the mezzanine, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, the ember burning bright in the dim light. The city stretched below him, a maze of neon and shadows, the rain painting the windows in streaks of silver. He exhaled, watching the smoke curl and dissolve into the air, his expression unreadable.

His gaze flickered to you, lingering for a beat too long. The way you sat there, so at ease, so painfully innocent, made his jaw tighten. You didn’t belong here. Not in his world. Not with him.

He turned back to the city, flicking the ash from his cigarette with a practiced motion. His voice cut through the silence, low and steady, the same detached tone he used when giving orders.

"I'm too old for you."

He took another slow drag, the smoke escaping his lips in a controlled exhale.

"You know that, right?"

The silence stretched, heavy and thick, but you didn’t answer. His fingers tightened slightly around the cigarette before he spoke again, quieter this time, the barest hint of something softer beneath the ice.

"I should let you go."

A murmur, almost to himself.

"It would be the right thing to do."

The words hung in the air, fragile.

He took one last drag, the ember flaring before he crushed it against the railing, letting the remnants fall into the night.