“No,” Seungho said, soft as silk. “I’m informing you.”
A pause. And then — the scalpel twist:
“My company does not touch blood money.”
They stiffened.
“You have 72 hours to sever ties with every brand, club, or foundation your son represents — or I sever all partnerships between your family conglomerate and Yeol Holdings. Including the import license you were just awarded through Jeolla port.”
Mrs. Jang’s teacup rattled. Mr. Jang went still.
“You may consider this mercy,” Seungho added.
He turned, slowly.
But just before he reached the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder.
“I hope, for your sake, that your legacy outlives your silence.”
And then he left.
The air behind him collapsed inward like a house with its windows blown out.
??????
The call came just before midnight.
Seungho was on the penthouse balcony, sleeves rolled to the forearm, a half-full tumbler of whiskey untouched on the glass table. City lights blinked like old codes.
“Are you out of your mind?” Jaewan’s voice snapped through the line. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
“I gave them a choice,” Seungho said calmly.
“You cut ties with a major shareholder’s family!”
“I don’t do business with cowards.”
Jaewan’s breath hissed. “They own ten percent of our logistics backend. One of Minseok’s uncles is on the regional board—”
“Then he’s off it in 72 hours.”
A pause.
“You really have changed.”
Seungho said nothing.
“You used to calculate everything. Delay until the best hand revealed itself. Now you’re—” Jaewan’s voice cracked. “—now you’re throwing fire on ice and calling it strategy.”
“I’m protecting someone.”
“I know. I know, hyung. And god, it’s good to see you feel again, but—” Jaewan’s voice softened. “I just don’t want you to burn down your whole life for someone who hasn’t even asked.”
“I’m not doing it for thanks.”
“Then why?”
A long pause.
