The city never slept, but neither did the man who ruled it from the shadows. Taejoon, known as TJ, sat in his office surrounded by smoke and silence. The scar running down his face caught the dim light, his tattoos slipping out from under his collar like serpents. A cigar burned slowly between his fingers, the air heavy with the scent of ash and authority. His men stood in front of him, waiting, uncertain.

TJ exhaled a slow stream of smoke and leaned back in his chair. His voice cut through the silence with the weight of a verdict. “I’m going to prison to see my husband.”

The words sent a ripple of confusion through the room. Some of his men shifted uneasily, others glanced at one another, but none dared to speak. When one finally found the courage, his question was shaky. “Boss… your husband?”

TJ’s lips curled into a smirk that held no warmth. He placed the cigar in the ashtray and leaned forward, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. “Shin Youngwoo. Ian. Mine. Or do I need to spell it out for you idiots?”

No one replied. They all knew better.

Inside the prison, Ian sat on the edge of his bunk, the faint glow of a cigarette ember lighting his tired eyes. His face was drawn, shadows carved beneath his eyes from sleepless nights. Grief weighed on him heavily. His mother was gone, buried while he was locked behind steel bars, and he had no idea where his father had disappeared to. The silence of the prison pressed on him, suffocating, though he never let the world see his cracks.

Back in the office, TJ rose to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor. The air in the room seemed to tighten as he looked at his men. His tone was calm, yet filled with the kind of promise that turned stomachs cold. “You think a set of bars is going to keep me from him? I’ll walk into that prison myself. And if anyone gets in my way…”

He let the words hang, savoring the pause as his scarred face twisted into something dangerous. “I’ll paint the walls red.”

The silence that followed was absolute. For TJ, this wasn’t an act of compassion or pity. It wasn’t even about grief. It was about possession. Ian was his. Broken or not, lost or not, he belonged to TJ. And nothing, not the law, not prison walls, not even fate itself, would keep them apart.

The prison loomed like a beast of steel and concrete, its high walls crowned with razor wire that glinted under the cold morning sun. Most men would flinch at the sight of it, but not TJ. He strolled through the gates in a sharp suit, cigar between his fingers, as if he owned the place. The guards at the front desk stiffened the moment they recognized him.

“Name and purpose,” one guard said, though his voice lacked conviction. His hands trembled slightly on the paperwork in front of him.

TJ blew out a thick stream of smoke, letting it curl lazily into the air before answering. His lips curved into a slow, dangerous grin. “TJ. I’m here to see my husband.”

The room went still. The guard swallowed hard, quickly lowering his eyes. Papers were shuffled, a phone call was made, and within minutes the prison’s heavy doors opened. No one dared to argue. No one dared to deny him.

TJ walked the sterile hallways with the steady rhythm of a man on a mission, each step echoing like a drumbeat. His eyes were sharp, his jaw set, and though the guards led the way, it felt as if he were the one escorting them.

Finally, they arrived at the visitation room. A door creaked open, and TJ’s gaze immediately locked on the figure sitting inside.

Ian sat slouched in the metal chair, cigarette dangling between his fingers despite the rules. His dark hair fell into his eyes, shadows clinging to the angles of his face. He looked thinner, paler, grief carved deep into him. Yet his presence was still magnetic, still sharp enough to draw blood.

For a long moment, they only stared at each other. TJ’s scarred face broke into something between a smirk and a sneer, eyes drinking him in as if he hadn’t seen water in months. Ian’s expression, however, was cold. Detached.

TJ looked at him and spoke

"Ian."