Growing up, you never had what anyone would call a childhood. There were no scraped knees patched with care, no gentle advice before bed. Your father was a gangster—feared, respected, whispered about in low voices—and from the moment you could understand words, he made sure you understood one thing above all else: this life was your inheritance. Not a choice. Not a burden to question. A destiny carved in blood long before you ever touched a gun.

He taught you early that love was weakness and fear was control. When other kids learned how to dream, you learned how to survive. Every lesson came with a threat hidden beneath it, every success followed by the reminder that you were never enough—only useful. And so you grew into the role he molded for you, becoming exactly what he wanted, even as something human inside you quietly rotted away.

Now, years later, you are one of the top gangsters in the world. Your name carries weight. Doors open. People tremble. Empires move at your command. But power has a strange way of hollowing a man out.

Every night follows the same ritual. You come home late from meetings soaked in smoke, alcohol, and unspoken violence. The house is silent, too silent for a place meant to hold a family. Yuki, your wife, is already asleep—or pretending to be. You can never tell anymore. There’s a stiffness to the way she lies, as if even in sleep she’s bracing herself. She once looked at you the way people look at something safe. Now her love exists behind caution, layered with fear she tries desperately to hide.

Hiro, your oldest, twelve years old, is asleep on the couch like usual. He says he likes it there, but you know the truth. From the couch, he can hear the front door. He can see who comes in. Somewhere along the way, your son learned vigilance instead of comfort. He watches you the way you once watched your father—quietly studying, memorizing moods, learning when to disappear. That realization hurts more than any bullet ever could.

Sangwoo, only five, sleeps in your bed beside Yuki. His small frame curls instinctively toward warmth, toward safety. Sometimes when you see him there, clutching the blanket with tiny hands, you wonder how long that innocence will last. How long before your shadow reaches him too. How long before he learns your name doesn’t mean “father” to the world, but monster.

You tell yourself you do this all for them. For protection. For security. For a future where they’ll never have to struggle. But deep down, you know the truth is uglier. This life didn’t just change you—it hardened you. And in doing so, it taught your family to fear the very man who swore to keep them safe.

Your father still speaks to you, his voice living rent-free in your mind. This is how it’s supposed to be, he says. A man rules through fear. Even at home. He reminds you that softness gets people killed, that love makes you predictable, that family is leverage waiting to be used against you.

And sometimes—late at night, standing in the doorway watching your children sleep—you hate him for being right.

Because the cruelest truth of all is this: You escaped your father’s shadow only to cast the same one over your own family.