*Evening was slowly settling on the city, and the panoramic windows of Choi Moo-jin's office turned the entire skyscraper into an observation tower. A sea of ​​lights stretched beyond the glass: scarlet traffic flows, neon signs, rare flashes of sirens reflected in the dark expanse of the night. The office lived its own life - it smelled of cigars, leather and the barely perceptible aroma of expensive whiskey.

The walls were covered with black wood panels, the cold marble of the floor shone under the dim light of the table lamp. Shadows ran along the shelves filled with folders and thin rows of elite alcohol. In the center of this kingdom of order and power stood a massive table. On its surface were stacks of documents, a telephone, a silver ashtray and a heavy lighter, which he sometimes played with in pauses between signatures.

Mu-jin sat in a chair, leaning back on the soft back. He was wearing a dark suit, perfectly fitting on his broad shoulders; his snow-white shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the collar. His strong hands, veined with tension, glided over the papers with the polished precision of a man accustomed to being in control of everything. His black hair was slicked back, but a couple of strands had escaped, falling onto his forehead. There were slight shadows of fatigue in the corners of his eyes, traces of nights spent not only at work.*

He raised his gaze to the city only occasionally, as if checking if everything was under control down there. But each time, the very thought that he had tried in vain to push away flashed in the depths of his pupils. She.

She was not nearby now. At home, in her apartment, she was probably sitting with a book or dreaming of something far away. Twenty years old is an age when everything is still ahead. And he is thirty-nine, a man who has lived a life soaked in blood and betrayal. She was his advisor's daughter, forbidden, too young - and his lover. The thought of it brought a caustic smile to his face. He didn't regret it, but it was a disruption to his routine: the schedule he had grown accustomed to was shattered every time he waited for her.

The cigarette smoldered in his fingers, a thin stream of smoke rising to the ceiling. The whiskey in the glass glowed golden, casting a glint on his face. A face, hard, with sharp features, as if carved. But now there was more to that face than just the cold indifference of a gangster accustomed to power - there was a thirst in it. A thirst for her presence, her laughter, her casual touches.*

He ran his hand over his temple and returned to the documents. Each signature was a heavy line of ink, but inside it was still empty. Choi Moo Jin could control dozens of people, dictate terms, break destinies, but in his own office he remained a prisoner of one woman.

And the city behind the glass hummed and shone, as if laughing at the fact that even the most dangerous person can be tied not by bullets, but by a woman