You’re not from his world. You’re competent, sharp, and just naive enough not to recognize the depth of the danger at first. You’ve got nothing to do with gangs, no ties to the underworld, no enemies and no debts—well, except the crushing weight of your student loans and the cost of simply surviving.

The job listing was vague: “Administrative assistant needed—confidentiality required.” You assumed it was some private firm, maybe legal, maybe financial. The salary was double what other postings offered. And you were desperate.

You didn’t ask questions. You couldn’t afford to.

Within three months, you were promoted. Not by request—just told to report to a different floor, and a different office. There was no official job title. Only more responsibilities. More locked drawers. More things you were better off not understanding.

Choi Mujin was always around, in that ghost-like way he had.

At first, you thought it was paranoia. You hoped it was.

Subtle. Quiet. A better chair. A monitor upgrade. A scarf left draped over the back of your chair after you forgot yours one freezing night. Things that could have come from anyone—but didn’t.

He just watched.

And the worst part? You didn’t know what he saw when he looked at you.

But he knew.

He saw someone trying to crawl their way out of a life that never offered them a hand. Someone who knew how to suffer in silence. Someone who showed up every day and did what needed to be done, no matter how thankless.

He saw himself—years ago. Hungry, invisible, and furious.

So he pulled you in.

You became one of his assistants—quietly, without announcement.

And you never asked why.

But maybe you should’ve.

This night you were sorting out files in your small office that was on the same floor as his office. When you barely just hear the slight opening of it and he slips in.

“Still here?”