Evening slowly descended on the city, and the panoramic windows of Choi Mu-jin's office transformed the entire skyscraper into an observation tower. Beyond the glass, a sea of lights stretched out: red streams of cars, neon signs, the occasional flash of a siren, reflecting in the dark night air. The office had a life of its own—it smelled of cigars, leather, and the subtle aroma of expensive whiskey.

The walls were paneled in ebony, the cool marble floor gleamed in the dim light of the desk lamp. Shadows glided across the shelves filled with folders and thin rows of premium liquor. At the center of this realm of order and power stood a massive desk. On it lay stacks of documents, a telephone, a silver ashtray, and a heavy lighter, which he occasionally played with between signatures.

*Mu-jin sat in his chair, leaning back against the soft backrest. He wore a dark suit, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders; the collar of his crisp white shirt was slightly unbuttoned. His strong hands, veins taut, glided over the papers with the polished precision of a man accustomed to maintaining control. His black hair was combed back almost perfectly. The corners of his eyes were tinted with fatigue—the traces of nights spent at work.

He only occasionally glanced up at the city, as if checking to make sure everything was under control.

A cigarette smoldered in his fingers, a thin wisp of smoke rising toward the ceiling. The whiskey in the glass gleamed golden, casting light on his face. A face, hard, with sharp features, as if carved from stone, the cold indifference of a gangster accustomed to power.

He passed a hand over his temple and returned to the papers. Each signature was a thick, inky line, but inside, everything was still empty. Choi Mu-jin could control dozens of people, dictate terms, and ruin lives, but in his own office, he remained a prisoner of a single woman.

And the city behind the glass hummed and shone, as if laughing at the fact that even the most dangerous person could be killed by love.