The room stank of violence.
Even the rich, imported air of the estate couldn't mask it now — a pungent mixture of sweat, blood, and something worse: fear. It clung to the velvet drapes, soaked into the ornate Persian rug, seeped into the walls like a curse. The chandelier above, all crystal and gold, cast fractured reflections over the brutal scene below, glinting off the slick blood already staining the floor.
Kang Jin-ho sat on his elevated seat — not merely a chair, but a throne in all but name — positioned to dominate the room like a monarch holding court. His legs were elegantly crossed, the gleam of polished wood from the armrest catching the dim golden light from the low-set lamps beside him. His posture was casual, but his presence was anything but relaxed.
Around him, five shadows moved with terrifying precision — faceless in the gloom, but unmistakably skilled. Their hands delivered punishment in practiced, methodical blows. Every thud against flesh echoed through the room like the closing of a vault. The man they worked on, Mr. Zhou, lay in a crumpled heap, his moans barely audible through swollen lips and blood-choked gasps.
Kang did not flinch. Not once. He watched with a sculptor's eye — detached, cold, calculating. He had seen worse. He had ordered worse. He understood the language of pain. It was a tool like any other.
Finally, he lifted a single hand.
No words. No dramatic command. Just a flick of his fingers — and the brutality ceased.
The silence that followed was a different kind of cruel. It vibrated in the air, filled with the aftermath of violence. Mr. Zhou twitched feebly on the ground, his breath shallow and erratic, his body reduced to a twitching mass of bruises and blood. Kang leaned forward, the luxurious creak of the leather beneath him barely audible — but in that silence, it sounded like thunder.
He stood.
The sound of his shoes — finely made, sharply shined — tapping against the marble floor rang out clearly. Each step was deliberate, echoing in time with the distant tick of a grandfather clock somewhere outside the room. He approached the crumpled man with the same grace and composure he might show while walking through a boardroom.
Kang stood above Mr. Zhou, his silhouette stretching long and ominous under the golden lamplight. Without hesitation, he reached down. His fingers — long, clean, deceptively gentle — curled around the front of Mr. Zhou's blood-soaked shirt. In one fluid motion, he hauled the man upward. Mr. Zhou dangled helplessly in Kang's grasp, like a puppet with its strings fraying.
Their faces were now inches apart.
Mr. Zhou trembled, his eyes barely open through the swelling. His lips quivered, stained with red. Kang's voice, when it finally emerged, cut through the air with chilling precision — low, cold, and precise. Not anger. Not shouting. Just something far worse.
"So, Mr. Zhou," he said, each syllable honed like the edge of a blade, "how many more beatings will you have to take before you open your mouth?"
Mr. Zhou's composure shattered. His chest heaved with sobs he could no longer suppress.
"Young Master… please…" he choked, his voice hoarse and broken. "I swear… I've told you everything I know. Leave me alone."
He was crumbling — not just physically, but in soul and spirit.
"I only know… about the underground room… in the Beijing branch… Kang Industry… terrible research…"
He coughed, hard. A spray of blood hit Kang's shirt — but Kang didn't even blink.
"Never been inside… just… security… very high… guards… stopped me… when I got lost… on my first day… Please, Young Master… that's all… all I know… Family… I have a family… please…"
His voice finally collapsed, falling apart into sobs and breathless gasps. The words no longer held logic, only desperation.
Kang's gaze searched his face, his icy stare penetrating deep, scanning for deception. He found only fear. Raw, choking, uncontrollable fear. This man was broken. Kang could see it in the way his limbs twitched, in the way he sagged under his grip like a man with no more fight left in him.
With a sudden grunt of disgust, Kang shoved Mr. Zhou away. The force of it sent the man sprawling backwards onto the already ruined rug, where he lay panting and twitching like a dying animal.
"Get him out of my sight," Kang snapped, his voice sharp with disdain. "Dump him somewhere he can crawl home. But make sure he crawls."
The command was met with instant obedience. Two of the men hauled Zhou to his feet, dragging his limp body across the floor, ignoring the blood trail that smeared beneath him.
Kang turned, striding toward the grand wooden doors. His steps were brisk, not hurried — purposeful. As he reached the threshold, he paused — not to reconsider, but to remind.
He glanced over his shoulder. His voice was calm and razor-sharp.
"And Zhou," he said clearly, "don't even think about playing games. You will have my eyes on you for the rest of your miserable life. Be very, very careful."
Then he stepped out.
The door closed behind him with a soft but unmistakably final click. It was a sound that marked endings. Finality. Consequence.
---
Later that night, the sleek black vehicle bearing Kang Jin-ho slipped through the estate gates like a phantom into the dark. The city had quieted, the roads nearly empty. Inside the vehicle, Kang leaned back into the leather, his muscles slowly relaxing. He rolled his neck once, exhaustion beginning to bleed into the tension.
"Home," he told the driver, voice flat, devoid of emotion.
The blur of passing lights flickered across his sharp profile. The glow of streetlamps faded behind him. The darkness ahead held no answers, but at least it held quiet.
When the car came to a stop outside the grand Kang estate, he emerged without a word. The guards bowed, and the staff stood at attention, but he acknowledged none of it. He entered alone, the vastness of the mansion swallowing his figure.
The quiet here was not like the silence of the interrogation room — this silence was curated, expensive. The kind of silence money could buy. It was neither warm nor cold. Just… still.
He turned toward his wing, walking past familiar corridors when something tugged at his thoughts — an image.
Shan. And the child. Sang.
His feet stopped. Then, without thinking, they changed direction. His shoes clicked along a path he hadn't planned to take. He stopped at a door — one that, by all rights, should not have existed in his world. And yet… here it was.
He knocked, the sound sharp in the stillness. A moment later, the door opened — slowly, hesitantly.
Shan stood in the doorway, eyes tired, hair tousled with sleep, his posture guarded. His voice was quiet, cautious.
"Mr. Kang?" he asked. "Is something wrong? Do you… want to say something?"
Kang looked at him.
He had intended to bark something — a question, a command, perhaps — but all of it vanished like smoke in the air. The only thing he felt now was weariness. Not just fatigue, but something heavier. Something without a name.
"No," he said at last. The word surprised him with its softness. "Actually, I came to see Sang. Where is he?"
Shan's expression shifted, confusion narrowing into subtle irritation.
"What time do you think it is, Mr. Kang? Sang is a child. No child stays awake until one in the morning."
He gestured toward the ornate clock on the wall. Kang's eyes flicked to it, and for the first time in hours, he registered something beyond control, strategy, or blood.
One AM.
He hadn't noticed. Time rarely mattered in his world — only results.
He nodded, curtly. "Right. Of course." He turned away, the weight in his shoulders deepening. "Goodnight, Shan."
"Goodnight, Mr. Kang," Shan said softly, and the door closed with a whisper.
Inside, Shan leaned against the door for a moment, exhaling slowly. He could hear Kang's footsteps fading down the corridor, precise and unreadable. Only when the silence returned fully did Shan turn back to the room.
Sang slept peacefully, curled up under the heavy covers, one arm flung over his pillow. The warmth of his tiny body had lingered on the sheets, and as Shan slid in beside him, he caught the scent of childhood — of innocence.
It clashed harshly with the metallic tang of dried blood still clinging faintly to his sleeves.
Sleep did not come easily.
Shan stared at the ceiling, his thoughts spiraling. The intricate mouldings offered no comfort. This place, this palace of perfection, would now be their home. And with it came a strange truth — their new life had already begun. It was a life far removed from mud huts and back-alley shadows. But was it safety? Or a cage with golden bars?
He didn't know.
He couldn't have known then just how far those words — from today onwards, our new life begins — would reach. Or how deeply they would carve themselves into everything that came after.
The future was unfolding — and it would be anything but quiet.