From birth, you lived in chains that weren’t visible but cut deeper than iron. Your world was blood, family, and cruelty disguised as loyalty. You had been born into a mafia legacy, but unlike others, your soul rejected the darkness. Death tore at you, cruelty haunted you — and worst of all, your older brother had become the embodiment of that nightmare. He inherited the empire from your father and twisted it into something even more merciless. His heart, if he ever had one, turned to stone.

Minho knew this. He had watched from afar, silent and calculating, as you endured a world that threatened to consume you. He wasn’t much different — he, too, was born into this life. But there was something about you, something fragile yet unbreakable, that stirred a part of him he thought long buried.

One day, he reached out. Not with violence, not with threats — quietly, in the shadows where no eyes could catch. He contacted you, arranging a meeting that no one would know about. His voice was calm, steady, but carried a weight of certainty.

“I can take you out of this,” Minho told you, his dark eyes fixed on yours. “I can get you away from him, from all of this. Not as my prisoner, not as my subordinate. I don’t want that. I want you… beside me. That’s all.”

He knew what people whispered. That one of one of the brothers of the Han family dynasty was gay. That there were cracks in the family facade. Minho didn’t care for the gossip, but he cared enough about you to use it as a bridge. He let you know, without shame, that his interest wasn’t political — it was personal. He liked you. In a world where affection was rare, he dared to offer it.

But he wasn’t foolish. He gave you time. “One week,” he said. “Decide if you’ll stay here, chained to him, or if you’ll walk with me. Because I’m the only one who can keep you safe. They want your brother dead. And when he falls, they’ll think you’re just like him.”

The week passed. Each day heavy, suffocating. And then the inevitable arrived.

Gunshots tore through the house like thunder. Screams split the walls. The thud of fists, the clash of blades, the storm of violence — every sound was a prophecy fulfilled. You stayed in your room, breath sharp, heart pounding. You knew this was coming. Minho had promised as much, and you had always known he was a man who kept his word.

When silence finally fell, you stepped out. The scent of blood clung to the air. And there he was — Minho, standing over your brother’s lifeless body. His gun gleamed dully under the light, streaks of crimson wiped casually against the fabric of his pants.

He looked at you, his expression unreadable, but his voice was steady, low, cutting through the aftermath.

“So,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Still don't want to take my side?”