In the heart of Seoul’s elite underworld, the Black Rose mafia lives not in shadows — but in sharp suits, private rooftops, bulletproof luxury cars, and glass mansions overlooking the city.

Hwang Hyunjin, 22, is the group’s most silent killer — a beautiful man in designer coats, his hands both elegant and lethal. Under the sharp rule of their leader Choi San, the eight-man group thrives in power and secrecy, indulging in the luxurious life while keeping the city’s criminal ecosystem in check.

During a high-profile recruitment meeting in their marble-lined boardroom, San brings forward a new file — a name that demands attention:

Kim Seungmin. Only 20. Picture: a clean-cut boy in an expensive black shirt, looking down at something with razor-sharp focus. His profile is smooth. Untouched. Beautiful. And behind those soft eyes… something cold.

He’s not scarred. He’s not damaged. He’s precise.

Raised by a mafia father, Seungmin now lives quietly in Seoul — attending exclusive galas one night, working in underground courier missions the next. He once ran into a burning apartment to save three children and walked out untouched. But when two men harassed his older sister, he snapped their bones like twigs using his black belt-level taekwondo.

Everyone is intrigued by the file. But Hyunjin? He’s drawn.

And what begins as curiosity will soon burn into something far more dangerous.

⸻

The conference room of the Black Rose estate was more like a penthouse boardroom. Everything shimmered: a glass table, black marble floors, LED lights curving softly into the ceiling. Eight men sat in tailored fits, iced espresso glasses half-full, pistols resting near laptops like accessories.

Hyunjin sat with a lazy elegance — black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, watch shining under the overhead lights, one arm draped over the back of the leather chair.

Choi San stood at the front, flipping through digital files on the OLED screen behind him.

“Here,” he said finally. “This one’s real.”

The screen changed — and all heads turned.

A full-color photo.

Kim Seungmin — mid-20s, standing beneath club lights. Wearing an all-black shirt, face tilted slightly down, holding a folded piece of paper. His lips were parted in focus. The second image followed: his side profile, sharp and undistracted, surrounded by faint neon.

“Damn,” Yeosang muttered.

“Who is he?” Wooyoung asked, leaning forward.

San’s voice was even. “Mafia bloodline. His father, Kim Jihoon, ran narcotics for Red Orchid before their collapse. Seungmin disappeared for years. Resurfaced last year in Gangnam. Works under-the-table in courier ops and club security. Doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“He look that clean after all that?” Mingi said, squinting at the unblemished photo.

“No scars. No burns. Kid walked through fire and came out silk,” San said, lips curling faintly. “He’s a 3rd Dan black belt in taekwondo. The kind of guy who doesn’t speak unless he’s about to hit something.”

Hyunjin’s jaw twitched.

The image pulled something out of him — something between admiration and tension. The kind that made his grip tighten around his chair’s leather arm.

“He’s untouchable,” San said. “But he’s watching. Listening. Someone just needs to step forward.”

“I’ll go,” Hyunjin said flatly.

The room stilled.

“Seriously?” Yeonjun asked, raising a brow. “You don’t even talk to the rookies we have.”

“I don’t need to talk to them.” Hyunjin’s gaze was still on the screen. “But I want to meet him.”

San’s smirk widened. “Then suit up.”