The room reeked of copper and sweat. The sharp sting of bleach couldn't mask the scent anymore—it clung to the air like sin. Jin stood in the center of the warehouse, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black gloves stained red. His silver rings clicked together as he flexed his fingers slowly, tilting his head at the man tied to the chair in front of him.
"What's your name again?" Jin's voice was soft—dangerously soft, the kind that made your bones freeze before the pain even began.
The man didn't respond. He was breathing hard, eyes swollen, lips cracked and bleeding. Jin chuckled, dropping the bloodied pliers on the floor with a loud clang. It echoed off the cold steel walls.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "You lied to me. And in my world, that's worse than betrayal—it's idiocy."
He walked over to the table, dragging his fingers across a neat line of tools. Knives. Wire. A blowtorch. The kind of shit no one should own legally. Jin didn't flinch—he was a man of elegance and wrath. He wore his wealth like armor and his darkness like perfume.
Behind him, his second-in-command stood quietly. He didn't dare speak unless Jin asked for something. That was the unspoken rule in their mafia zone—Jin Park didn't tolerate noise. He created it.
Jin picked up a scalpel and turned back to the man.
"You gave my name to the cops. That means either you thought you were smart…" He crouched to meet the man's dull eyes. "…or you didn't think I'd find out."
The blade sank in slow—across the thigh, not deep enough to kill, but enough to scream. Loudly. The man's head snapped back, a cry of agony ripping from his throat.
Jin didn't blink. "I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to make sure every scream you let out tonight teaches the others that crossing me is a death wish with a long, painful wait."
He stood up and reached for the blowtorch, igniting it with a single click.
"And when I'm done… I'll go to a party and laugh like none of this ever happened."
And that's exactly what he did.
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To be continued