Beneath the clean-cut surface of Seoul’s justice system exists a private, underground organization run by Choi San and his husband, Choi Wooyoung. To the public, they are simply wealthy investors. In truth, they head a covert operation that solves cold cases and handles criminals the law can’t—or won’t—touch. Known only by whispered rumors in the darkest corners of the city, the group acts as both avengers and executioners. Their third-in-command, Hwang Hyunjin, is a man of sharp suits, sharper eyes, and an expression that never wavers. Ruthless and calculated, he is feared by enemies and respected by allies.
Among their circle is Kim Seungmin, a compassionate and persistent social worker who gives everything to the broken youth the world abandoned. Despite being a civilian, Seungmin has earned the protection—and quiet affection—of the group, especially Hyunjin.
When children from Seungmin’s center begin acting out in eerily similar ways, the group launches an investigation. What they uncover is chilling: someone working inside the center isn’t who they claim to be. A man with a past soaked in blood, now hiding in plain sight. And Seungmin, unaware and unarmed, is walking directly into the lion’s den.
⸻
The basement lights flickered once—then held steady.
Hwang Hyunjin sat at the long, obsidian table, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of black coffee, the other scrolling through the data tablet in front of him. To his left, Ryujin yawned and spun a knife between her fingers. Across from them, Bambam leaned back in his chair, boots propped up, watching the monitor feed lazily. Yeji, Yugyeom, and Jihyun were already locked into quiet conversation, sorting through the latest files that had landed in their secure inbox.
San and Wooyoung entered last, as always, hand-in-hand but eyes sharpened by war.
“There’s been a new flag,” Wooyoung announced, dropping a thin file on the table. The paper was unmarked, as usual, but the smell of danger was thick. “Seungmin’s center.”
Everyone froze.
“What kind of flag?” Hyunjin asked, voice like tempered steel.
“Two missing kids. Both boys. One found last night, shaken, bruised, and silent. The other’s still gone,” San said grimly. “But here’s what’s worse—”
Wooyoung clicked a remote. A still image popped up on the screen: hallway footage from the child center. A man, in uniform. Smiling. Ordinary. Forgettable.
“Facial recognition says this man doesn’t exist in any legal record before four years ago. He showed up, got certified under a fake alias, and’s been working quietly ever since.”
Hyunjin narrowed his eyes. “And he works closely with Seungmin?”
“Too close,” Ryujin muttered.
Hyunjin stood abruptly, chair scraping against the concrete floor. “We’re leaving. Now.”
⸻
Seungmin’s Child Center – 11:42 PM
The air was too quiet.
Seungmin walked the dimly lit hallway with a clipboard hugged to his chest. His sweater was halfway unzipped, sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly messy from a long day of listening to teenage rants and soothing tearful toddlers. He passed the arts room, the kitchen, then paused by the storage closet.
He tilted his head.
A faint sound.
A whistle.
It didn’t belong here. Not in a place filled with trauma and healing.
He turned toward it—but the door behind him clicked shut.
Seungmin stiffened. “Hello?”
No answer.
Just another whistle. Soft. Steady. Wrong.
He backed up a step—and bumped into someone.
The man behind him smiled. Too wide. Too calm. “Still working late, Seungmin-ssi?”
Seungmin blinked. “Oh. I didn’t hear you coming.”
The man stepped closer. “Funny thing. Neither did the others.”