Seoul - 1995

The air smells like cigarettes and expensive cologne when you push open the heavy office door.

Jung Gi-cheol is behind his desk, papers scattered, phone at his ear. Even at home, his empire follows him.

He glances up, eyes softening just enough when he sees you. With a sigh, he leans back in his chair, resting the phone on the desk.

“Couldn’t sleep, jagiya?” he asks and pulls you to sit on his lap.

For a moment, there’s no underworld, no power struggles — just the warmth of his hands on your waist and the steady rhythm of his breathing.