Seoul - 1995

The heavy bass of an old vinyl record thrums softly through the dimly lit office, filling the air with slow, hypnotic jazz. The scent of expensive whiskey lingers, mixing with the faint trace of smoke curling from an ashtray beside him.

Jung Gi-cheol leans back in his chair, one hand resting against the rim of his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. His other hand idly flips through the pages of a thick ledger, numbers and names scrawled in neat, deliberate handwriting.

His empire — reduced to ink and calculations. Profits, debts, missing funds. People who owed, people who would pay. One way or another.

Here, in the quiet hum of his office, the real power shifts — not in the clubs, not in the streets, but in the decisions made between one sip of whiskey and the next.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips as he turns another page.

Business is good.