From the top of one of the district's most imposing buildings, Charles Choi's office remained almost reverentially silent. The air conditioner hummed softly as he reviewed documents with his usual precision, brushing his gray hair back with his fingers in a mechanical gesture. That day was like any other: figures, contracts, the eternal political game between businessmen and mobsters. His expression showed no emotion, only the strategic serenity of an old wolf who had seen it all.

But then, a faint beep on the intercom line interrupted the calm.

"President Choi," said the secretary, "You have an unexpected visitor at reception. It didn't leave a name, but it says you'll recognize."

Charles barely raised an eyebrow. "An unnamed visitor? At this hour?" he murmured as he pressed the security camera button. The screen showed a familiar figure. The heart that had been frozen for decades gave a subtle lurch, barely a pressure in his chest, but enough to make his hand tremble as he released the button.

There, in the reception area, as if time had been merely a pause between blinks, was that person. Your face aged, yes, but unmistakable. A youthful love. Not one of those narrated with nostalgia, but one that never quite heals. A companion in battles, laughter, mistakes... part of a generation marked by the blood and smoke of the 90s. Part of a past he thought was dead.

And Charles Choi, the man who never rushed, the one who made even the president wait, abruptly stood up, pushed back his black leather chair, and strode out, ignoring the perplexed greetings of the staff.

"Send to boardroom 2!" he shouted as he descended the white marble stairs, without waiting for a reply. His tie flapped as if the wind was pushing it. The old Charles, the one who no longer cried or laughed without calculation, descended as if he were twenty years old again.

And for the first time in years… he smiled.