Three days passed.
Morning sunlight crept through the haze like a silent omen, casting long slashes of gold across the old, stone driveways of the Cheon family's main estate. It was a grand compound built for the powerful and meant to remind anyone who entered of their insignificance.
Tae-Hyun stood beside his father at the entryway, staring up at the looming structure with an expression crafted from obedience and innocence. He wore a pale blue sweater, his small hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, eyes wide and curious — the very image of a well-mannered six-year-old. But inside, his mind raced like the quiet hum of a well-oiled machine.
Today's meeting was critical. The company's first internal steps into the entertainment sector — a realm Tae-Hyun already knew would dominate the world in a decade. Streaming wars, idol group dynasties, scandals, collapses, acquisitions — he remembered it all.
His father, Cheon Min-Jae, glanced down and gave his son a rare, tired smile. The man was dressed immaculately in a navy suit, his hair neat, his shoulders tense with pressure.
"Be good while you wait," Min-Jae said, placing a gentle hand on Tae-Hyun's head. "I'll be back as soon as the meeting ends."
Tae-Hyun nodded. "Okay, Appa."
He was escorted inside by one of the estate's long-time housekeepers — a woman with kind eyes who had no idea the child she guided had the soul of a man who'd lived and lost everything.
She led him into a side room filled with sunlight. There, a small wooden table sat beside a window that opened to a garden in bloom. Colored pencils were arranged in neat rows, and a sketchpad sat waiting.
Tae-Hyun sat down. He picked up a green pencil and began to draw aimlessly, lines forming meaningless spirals and clouds.
But in his mind? He was reviewing data.
Idol agencies. Stock projections. Scandals set to detonate in four, five, seven years. The acquisition timeline of major streaming services. Which entertainment startups would rise, which ones would crash and burn. Which producers would shape an era.
His eyes flicked briefly to the old bookshelves on the far wall. Antique. Decorative. Behind them, if his memory served, were two safe compartments — one used by his uncle later for embezzlement.
Not yet, he told himself. But soon.
Time ticked by. Minutes became an hour. Then two.
And then — footsteps.
Heavy, dignified, echoing down the marble corridor. A familiar cadence. Authority wrapped in warmth, power softened by age.
"Tae-Hyun-ah."
The boy turned.
Cheon Yeon stood in the doorway, framed by morning light. His white hair was combed back, his tailored suit pristine as always, but his eyes — they were the eyes of a man who had seen wars. Economic, familial, generational. His mere presence held gravity.
To any other child, it would've been awe-inspiring.
Tae-Hyun smiled like a child and ran toward him.
"Grandfather!" he exclaimed, arms open.
Cheon Yeon bent slightly to receive the hug, his powerful arms wrapping around the small body. There was sincerity in that gesture. The old man loved his family. But love alone was never enough. Not in this house.
"How has my grandson been?" Yeon asked, pulling back to examine the boy's face.
"I'm okay," Tae-Hyun said. Then he looked down, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.
Yeon frowned slightly. "Is something wrong?"
Tae-Hyun hesitated. Just enough.
"I wanted to ask you something," he said, voice small, uncertain.
"Of course. Anything."
Tae-Hyun looked up with eyes filled with hope. "Will you come to my birthday? It's in four days."
Cheon Yeon's expression cracked — just for a fraction of a second. Not enough for most to notice. But Tae-Hyun did.
The old man sighed. "I wish I could. But there's an overseas meeting I must attend. I'll be gone that week."
Tae-Hyun's face fell. Not dramatically — just enough. A small shadow over the eyes. A faint downturn of lips.
"I understand," he said quietly.
Yeon reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Next year. I promise."
The words meant nothing.
Tae-Hyun nodded again. "It's okay, Grandfather."
But inside, the disappointment curled into something sharper.
You're still the same. Still choosing business over blood.
He walked back to the table and picked up a pencil again, doodling a crooked star. Yeon stood in the doorway for a moment longer, perhaps wanting to say something more, then turned and left without another word.
When Tae-Hyun was alone again, he didn't draw.
He simply stared out the window, jaw clenched, eyes cold.
Everything had to change.
They wouldn't take him seriously yet. That was fine. Let them see a child.
By the time they realize who Tae-Hyun is — by the time they realized what he was building — it would already be far too late.
The real game hadn't even begun.
But soon.
Very soon.