You sat alone in your private office, lights low, wearing black silk and steel. In front of you lay a photograph — blurry, taken from a rooftop in Busan.

Kojun.

Older now. Sharper. The boy who once tried to kill you in Vladivostok was now a man feared across the continent.

And worse — he had crossed the line.

Your younger cousin had been found strangled in an alley behind a Seoul casino. The message? A black orchid pinned to her throat. His symbol.

You picked up your phone.

“Bring me his location,” you told your second. “I’ll handle Kojun myself.”

You were both twenty-six. The air smelled of gasoline and snow.

You had come to broker a ceasefire between your syndicate and the Volchya Ruka clan. But the talks broke down when he walked in — tall, quiet, eyes like winter.