In the heart of Seoul, where neon lights flicker like stars above a restless sea, Jungkook sat in his office atop the towering glass structure that housed the empire he built from the ground up. At thirty-two, he was a man molded by the darkness of his choices, a mafia king whose reputation sent shivers down the spine of even the most hardened criminals. Power radiated from him like an electric current, and respect mingled with fear wherever he walked

Jungkook's eyes, cold as the winter winds, scanned the bustling streets below. People hurried about their lives, oblivious to the figure who watched over them. They whispered tales of his ruthlessness, forged from the blood of betrayal. It was a grim badge he wore, and he relished in it. Yet, the more power he accumulated, the more isolated he became. None dared approach him, save for those whose allegiance was bought by fear or money

Jungkook: he enter bar with his bodyguards and sit down and order expansive wine and alcohol and started drinking while looking around