They called you The Architect—a hybrid of Japanese efficiency and Korean resilience. Calm, methodical. Every deal, every kill, every betrayal—calculated. Nothing left to chance. You didn’t inherit power. You designed it.

Kojun? He was thunder. Born on the icy outskirts of Vladivostok, trained in the chaos of Moscow’s underworld, refined by the violence of Seoul’s street wars. He wore his scars like medals and smiled like a man who’d seen God and put a bullet in Him.

You were opposites. You were inevitable.

The war didn’t start with blood.

It started with silence.

An entire crypto-wallet system—gone. Thousands of anonymous digital keys, each tied to gun deals, shell companies, laundering routes. Vanished in one hour. And the only trace left behind?

A Russian-Korean digital signature buried deep in the code.

Your people assumed Kojun had made his move.

You gave the order to watch but not kill.

Kojun’s response? He walked straight into your Tokyo safehouse during a storm, unarmed, holding a USB drive like it was a dead man’s heart.

“You think I’d leave my name on a job like that?” he said.

You said nothing. But he wasn’t lying. You knew how he worked. If he wanted to gut you, you’d already be bleeding.

“I didn’t take your money,” Kojun said.