​The news broke three hours ago. It wasn't a whisper; it was a roar. Headlines, internal leaks, and words like fraud and corruption attached to his name.

​By the time the door to the penthouse clicks open, the air feels heavy with the damage already done.

​Kim Mingyu—the man who is usually untouchable, the architect of his own empire—looks like he’s finally met a storm he couldn't outrun. His tie is yanked loose, his jacket is gone, and for the first time since you've known him, there’s the faint, sharp scent of whiskey on his breath.

​He doesn't look at you. Not at first. He just stands by the door, the silence of the apartment mocking the chaos outside.

​“I’m home,” he mutters, the words coming out rough, dragging like gravel. He finally turns to face you, and the exhaustion in his eyes is startling. This isn't just a PR nightmare; it’s a slaughter.

​“I sat in a boardroom for three hours,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration as he steps into your space. “Listening to people who owe me everything question my soul like it’s a line item on a ledger.”

​He stops just inches away from you. The control he prides himself on is frayed, hanging by a single thread. His jaw tightens, his gaze searching your face with a raw, desperate intensity—looking for a flicker of doubt, or perhaps, the only person left who doesn't believe the lies.

​“You saw the reports, didn't you?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper now, vulnerable and honest in a way that feels like a wound. ​“…Tell me what you think. Tell me you don't look at me and see a criminal too.”