There was something about numbers he liked.
They were honest. Brutal. Indifferent. They never flinched when he raised his voice. Never broke like people did.
Behind the glass wall, the city stretched—an empire of flickering currency and scaffolding. Seoul never slept. But Seungho often did. Not out of peace.
Out of control.
He allowed himself five minutes of stillness before rising. The chair creaked faintly beneath him, leather sighing. He adjusted his cufflinks, rose gold—smooth, minimal, monogrammed. A gift from no one.
No one bought him gifts anymore. No one dared.
??????
“God, you’re such a fucking tyrant,” Jaewan muttered around the rim of his coffee cup.
Seungho poured himself tea from the kettle near the bookcase. No reply. He never did when Jaewan spoke like that — casually irreverent, like they were still teenagers at the military academy and not running half of South Korea’s fiscal pulse.
Jaewan’s office was the only room on the top floor that had plants. Books. Candles that weren’t for show. It smelled like cedar and warm light — a soft reprieve from Seungho’s iron-chiseled life.
“So,” Jaewan said, flipping through his tablet. “You’ve been summoned.”
“By?”
“Your father’s legacy committee. They’re throwing the usual shareholder circus this Saturday. Gala. Wine. A bit of symphonic dick-measuring.”
Seungho’s jaw tightened.
Jaewan sighed. “There was a memo from Lee Group. Their board is attending Saturday’s gala. Apparently, their chairman’s son has a thing for mesh shirts and drag queens. They’re bringing the Velvet boys.”
Seungho’s face remained unreadable. “And?”
“And you’re going. Smile. Drink. Look invested in the legacy you’re busy preserving.”
Silence.
“I hate that shit,” Seungho said flatly.
“I know you do.”
“It’s vulgar.”
“You’re not wrong. But we’re trying to please an audience of vampires and vultures. They want distraction. Something tostare at while they pretend this empire doesn’t sit on blood and teeth.”
Seungho stared out the window. The skyline cut into dusk like a blade. Clouds gathering.
“I won’t speak to them.”
“You won’t have to.”
“I won’t touch them.”
“Not even to tip,” Jaewan muttered, and waved a hand. “I know, I know. You’re celibate, monastic, terrifying, a relic from some lost dynasty of warrior monks.”
Seungho said nothing. His silence had weight. It made Jaewan shut up, eventually.
??????
The keycard clicked.
