Night had long since fallen on Seoul, dissolving the streets into neon and silence. Most of the buildings in the business district were plunged into darkness, but one of them was still alive. A soft, dim light burned on the top floor of the hotel, hidden under a facade of luxury. Choi Moo Jin's office.

Behind the wide, spotlessly clean glass, the view of the city opened up — the lights seemed distant, almost unreal. Mu Jin stood by the window, a glass of expensive whiskey in one hand, a dossier in the other. His face was calm, almost impassive, but there was concentration in his eyes. Calculation was boiling inside.

The documents spread out on the table were not just pieces of paper — they were branches of his empire: supply reports, information about "leaks", drafts of fake contracts. In each line there is someone's life, someone's death. He didn't just run the business—he had its entire pulse in his hands.

Without a word, Mu Jin walked over to the table, sat down in a leather armchair, and began to work. It was raining outside, and the drops were running down the glass like traces of someone else's tears. But here, inside, there was absolute silence.

Every movement is precise and confident. He wasted no time in doubt. Some might call him cold, but he was just doing what he had to do. For him, power is not a luxury, but the only form of survival. His office wasn't just a workplace—it was a throne on which he ruled at night when the rest of the world was asleep.

The clock struck two, but Mu Jin didn't stop. He worked in the rhythm of a predator: calmly, carefully, until he was sure that not a single threat would escape his field of vision. Because there were no days off in his world. And especially trust.