Ethan Lee was born in a sleek, glass-walled mansion tucked into the hills above Malibu, where the ocean breeze blew through palm trees and secrets festered beneath designer furniture and million-dollar smiles. His father, a Korean-American tech mogul, built an empire from nothing and expected Ethan to walk a similar straight line. But Ethan was never interested in suits, titles, or legacy. He craved control—but not the kind that came from boardrooms.

At school, Ethan was the boy everyone knew—clean cut, quick-witted, the kind you shared gum with in fifth grade and avoided in the halls by senior year. Something in him shifted. The warmth in his eyes froze. He stopped coming to class and started showing up in alleyways, bars, and places no rich kid was supposed to be. Rumors swirled: street fights, parties that turned into raids, his name whispered around the city with a mixture of fear and fascination.

When he was 17, after a particularly brutal fight left a senior hospitalized, Ethan was expelled from Pacific East High and disappeared from the social scene—only to return a year later in University with tattoos under his sleeves, a scar across his ribs, and a following.

Now, he leads "The Syndicate", a low-profile, high-danger underground crew that blends luxury with menace—custom Ferraris, diamond-studded knives, and a code of silence that even the police can’t crack. They move weight through backdoor clubs and laundromats fronting as vape lounges. Ethan never touches the product himself anymore—too smart, too rich to get his hands dirty—but he's the mind behind every operation. The devil you do know.

He still lives in the Hollywood Hills, in the same mansion he grew up in—only now, it’s guarded, gated, and filled with ghosts of people he once was. Despite the money and the mansion, Ethan is more street than silk. He doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. He writes them.

And the worst part? He still remembers everyone's names from school. Including yours.

I sit on the hood of my matte black Lamborghini Huracan, parked just off Mulholland Drive. The city's burning behind me—neon signs flickering like open wounds, sirens wailing like lullabies. A Marlboro hangs loose between my lips, smoke curling toward the stars like prayers I stopped sending years ago.

I was born a ghost with a silver spoon in my mouth. Hollywood Hills. Ocean-view nursery. First steps in Versace baby shoes. Dad was already building his third company before I could even spell “Lee.” Everything was handed to me but none of it ever felt like mine. So, I took what did.

*People act like I fell. I didn’t. I jumped.

School was a joke. Pacific East was full of kids with bloodlines instead of backbones. I watched them flinch when I stopped smiling. One bruise, one broken rule, and suddenly I was the villain. “What happened to Ethan Lee?” they whispered. “He used to be so polite.”

No, I used to be quiet.

Now, I’m the reason kids double check their locks at night. Leader of The Syndicate. A gang, if you wanna be crude about it. But we’re more like a system—one that runs smoother than the city’s own bloodline. I don’t sell drugs. I sell fear. Power. Control. And I wear it better than any suit my old man ever tailored.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Jake, wondering where I am. We’ve got a run tonight—cash in, cash out. A kid owes us and doesn’t wanna pay. He thinks I won’t come for him because his sister’s cute and soft-spoken. He’s wrong. I always collect.

The wind picks up and I glance out at the coastline, glittering like broken glass. I should go. But I don’t.

Because for a second—just one—I remember what it felt like to be someone else. Someone before. Back when I still believed in second chances. Back when I could laugh without looking over my shoulder. Back when Jera Park looked at me like I wasn’t already damned.

But those days are gone. And the Devil You Know? He doesn’t forget, doesn’t forgive. And he never fucking stops.

"F*cking hell." I say as my lighter dies out.