Blood in Silk
The night air smelled like ozone, gunpowder, and the ghost of cherry blossoms from a nearby park.
Leejoon didn't flinch. He stood over the body of the man who had dared to siphon funds from his syndicate's offshore accounts. The man's lifeblood bloomed across the white marble floor of the secluded warehouse like an ugly, spilled inkblot. The silence that followed the single, muffled shot was absolute, broken only by the rapid, shallow breathing of his own men.
Leejoon's gloves were still pristine, a testament to his chilling efficiency. He always kept them clean.
"Burn everything," Leejoon said flatly, his voice echoing in the vast space. It wasn't a request. "And make sure his wife gets the severance package. And the fake story, the one about the business trip gone wrong. No loose ends."
One of the guards, a man named Minho, wiped sweat from his brow, despite the cool temperature of the warehouse. "Y-yes, boss. Right away."
Leejoon's eyes, cold and dark, narrowed on Minho. Weakness. He hated it. It was inefficient, messy, and betrayed vulnerability. He turned from the bloody scene with a sigh that was more irritation than exhaustion.
He stepped out into the pre-dawn night. Seoul glittered in the distance like a dying, seductive star, a perfect reflection of his world. His life was built on violence, secrecy, and fear, but none of that chaos showed on his face. His jaw was sharp, his expression utterly unreadable. Not a wrinkle, not a muscle twitch, betrayed the storm raging within him.
No one sees my nightmares, he thought. No one ever will.
He paused by his car. He could still smell the jasmine perfume from the brief, electric moment he'd encountered Lia on the street two days ago. He had demanded his men find out everything about her, her address, her job, her history. And they had come up with almost nothing but the modeling agency. It was an impossible silence, a red flag that both warned him away and drew him in further.
He pulled out his phone, stared at the two messages he'd sent, unanswered: You looked stunning tonight. And who are you really?
He pocketed the phone, the cold metal a reminder of his own hardened resolve. She runs. Everyone runs. But I'll find the reason she runs.
The Day Job: Han Jisoo's Claim
Meanwhile, Lee stood in front of a rack of designer coats at Golden Media Group, pretending to take inventory. The weight of his own plain, safe identity felt heavier than Lia's most elaborate gown. He hadn't stopped thinking about the mysterious message since last night.
Who are you really? The question was a scalpel, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed reality.
If Leejoon, the man whose aura smelled like power and fresh violence, ever found out the full, ridiculous truth, would he be disgusted? Intrigued? Or worse: would he view Lee's vulnerability as a weakness to be exploited? Lee touched his lower lip unconsciously, recalling Leejoon's piercing stare. It had pierced through Lia's perfect image and found something deeper, something raw and real. And that terrified him more than the mafia threat itself.
"Lee," a sharp voice snapped behind him, laced with impatience. "Spacing out again? This company pays you for your eyes, not your imagination."
It was Han Jisoo. She leaned against the doorframe, her expensive camera slung over her shoulder, dressed in a sharp blazer and leather pants that screamed elegance and controlled danger.
Lee bowed slightly, immediately retreating into his professional persona. "I apologize, Miss Jisoo. I was cross-checking the accessories list."
She walked toward him slowly, her eyes not looking at the coats, but only at him. "You've been different lately. Distant. You used to be shy, now you're practically opaque." She cocked her head, eyeing him with possessive intensity. "I have always wondered, is there someone in your life taking up all that precious headspace?"
Lee's throat tightened. He had to lie. The truth that two men and one woman were currently battling for his attention was unthinkable. "No, Miss Jisoo. There's no one."
"Shame," she said, circling him slowly, like a predator assessing its territory. "If it's true there isn't, then there definitely should be. You have a quiet intensity that drives me crazy. It's a challenge I actually enjoy."
Her fingers brushed the small of his back, a casual, familiar touch that made Lee step subtly away, his face rigid. Too close. Too messy.
"I truly have a lot of work to finish, Miss Jisoo," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I can't afford distractions."
She stopped, her face hardening slightly. "Distractions? You think I'm a distraction, Lee? You think the CEO's daughter is just something to be filed away?" Her voice lowered, becoming seductive and deeply possessive. "Don't insult me. I see how hard you work to stay invisible, but I also see the spark. And I'm going to fan that flame."
She leaned in, her perfume heavy and sweet. "We'll talk later, love. But understand this: I'm not interested in a quick fling. I'm interested in claiming what's mine. And you, Lee, are becoming a fixation."
As she left, her heels clicking a powerful cadence down the hallway, Lee let out a shaky breath. Every day was a tightrope walk between desire and deception. And the world kept pulling him in opposite directions, threatening to shred his two personas into nothing.
The Private Penthouse
Later that evening, dressed as Lia, the armor back in place, Lee returned to the streets for a private gig. It was a modeling job arranged by a stylist friend, ostensibly for a confidential client. The location was a luxurious penthouse at the edge of the city, towering over the quiet districts.
Lee arrived feeling a strange cocktail of anxiety and anticipation. He told himself it was the dangerous thrill of the disguise. He knew, deep down, it was the hope of seeing Leejoon again.
The doorman, a mountainous figure with the dead eyes of a trained bodyguard, ushered Lia inside. The penthouse was dimly lit, filled with the scent of expensive whiskey, leather, and something darkly masculine underneath. It felt less like a home and more like a high-end holding cell.
The door creaked shut behind him.
And there he was. Leejoon.
He wasn't leaning; he was sprawled, almost lazily, against a grand piano, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong, scarred forearms. A glass of amber whiskey was held loosely in one hand.
Lia froze mid-step, the crimson silk feeling suddenly fragile.
Leejoon straightened slowly, his eyes burning with focused intensity. "You made it, beautiful. I wasn't sure you would come, but it turns out my instincts were right."
Lee's heart slammed against his ribs. The hope was confirmed, the fear realized. "You… you hired me?"
Leejoon smiled, a slow, sharp, terrifying gesture. "Not exactly. I just made sure your name ended up on the only list that mattered to the client. Consider it… a reallocation of resources." He took a slow sip of his whiskey.
"That's manipulative," Lia said, her voice laced with Lia's cultivated disdain. "You shouldn't have used your influence."
"And you shouldn't wear such distracting silk if you don't want attention," he countered, walking closer, his black leather jacket catching the ambient light. "You still haven't replied to my messages, you know. I've been waiting."
"I didn't know what to say," Lia replied quietly, trying to regain her composure. "You're not exactly someone who invites polite conversation."
"Polite conversation is boring," Leejoon murmured, stopping inches from her. The air crackled between them. "You don't have to say anything at all, Lia. I'm quite good at reading people."
Lia forced herself to stand her ground. "And what do you read when you look at me?"
Leejoon didn't answer right away. He lowered his gaze, scanning her face, then her perfectly sculpted figure, then returned to her eyes. His expression darkened, not in anger, but in utter fascination.
"I read a magnificent amount of effort," he said finally, his voice almost a purr. "The dress, the hair, the makeup, it's armor. You're hiding something way bigger than a few modeling secrets. Not just behind the foundation."
Lee's entire body went cold. He tasted the fear like bile. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Lies are easy to spot, Lia. They don't match the truth in your eyes," Leejoon continued, his gaze unrelenting. "You smile, you pose, you project confidence, but your eyes beg for someone to see the real you, the person the makeup is covering up."
Lee's hand trembled slightly at his side. He wanted to confess, to run, to scream. "And what would you do if you saw the real me?"
Leejoon's eyes burned, hot and deep as a freshly stoked fire. "It depends on what I find. Would it be interesting? Would it be worth the trouble you've caused me?"
The room fell into a heavy, charged silence. Electricity seemed to arc between them, unspoken feelings and violent possibilities simmering just beneath the surface.
Lia couldn't handle it. The pressure of his gaze, the terrifying accuracy of his observation, it was too much.
"I should go," she whispered, turning quickly toward the door.
Leejoon stepped aside, his eyes never leaving her, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I won't stop you."
Lee almost ran, heels clicking rapidly as she fled the dangerous warmth of the penthouse.
"But next time," Leejoon added, his voice ringing out behind her, full of challenge, "don't run, Lia."
The Aftermath and the Cost
Back in his apartment, Lee didn't bother to undress. He tore off the wig, the black strands scattering on the floor, and sank onto the cold hardwood, letting the panic roll over him. The expensive crimson dress felt cheap and suffocating.
How could someone so dangerous see through me so easily? And why did that validation matter more than his own safety?
Lee didn't want to be vulnerable, not with someone as powerful and deadly as Leejoon. Yet, something in the mafia heir's voice, in his challenging touch, made Lee feel... not like a disguise or an illusion, but like an important, difficult puzzle.
He's a killer. He lives in a world of shadows. He would never accept a truth so complicated, so blurred.
Would he?
Elsewhere, Leejoon walked into a hidden, soundproofed room behind a velvet curtain in one of his clubs. Two of his men knelt before him, beaten and bloodied. They'd stolen from one of his high-roller casinos. They begged, they pleaded for mercy, citing their years of loyalty.
Leejoon said nothing. He only raised a hand, making a brief, single motion with his wrist.
In seconds, the scene was silent again. The silence of finality.
Leejoon stood over them, his gaze cold, yet his expression troubled. He wiped his hands clean with a fresh silk cloth, noticing a tremor in his hand that hadn't been there before.
He realized with a terrifying clarity: he hadn't felt this internal chaos since he was a boy, forced to witness the reality of his own destiny.
And it was because tonight, a beautiful, fragile, and utterly deceptive stranger had looked at him with something close to fear… and it had twisted something in his chest. His feelings were changing rapidly, violently, and it was a form of losing control that both annoyed and fascinated him.
He exited the scene and requested his guards to clean up the mess after him. His mind, for the first time, was not on the syndicate, but on a pair of eyes that had silently begged him to see the real person underneath the flawless crimson silk.