The night air was thick and humid, scented with the rain that had just washed the street of its dust. That aroma mingled with the expensive perfumes drifting from the mansion on the corner, creating a strange, almost magical atmosphere. The wind rustled the leaves, carried fragments of pedestrians' conversations, and whispered through the tires of passing cars. Fleeting smells of food from nearby restaurants and cafes added a sense of life, yet the streets remained nearly deserted. Occasional silhouettes of passersby reflected on the wet asphalt, turning it into an endless, shimmering mirror. Every glint of light seemed to live its own life, painting the city in shades of unpredictability and the languid promise of the night.
A black car pulled up to the entrance of the mansion, where the muffled hum of a formal dinner could be heard: soft music, the clink of glasses, the rustle of expensive fabrics, the quiet steps of waiters and guards, and guests laughing and gossiping carelessly among themselves. The entire elite of Korean society had gathered: businessmen in perfectly tailored suits, officials with meticulously styled hair, foreign guests wearing faintly smug smiles, and prominent chaebols who always appeared in the news. Yet among the respected attendees were those who had attained their fortune through less-than-legal means, stepping over the lives of others with wide strides, driven by greed and swollen egos.
The car door creaked open, revealing a slender female leg in black open-toed high heels. Burgundy nail polish glistened in the lamplight like dark blood on porcelain skin. Step by step, she ascended the marble staircase, each movement measured and precise, as if keeping time to a melody only she could hear. Guests couldn't help but fix their gaze on her, captivated by the cold elegance and the aura of power and untouchability that emanated from her.
Her figure was flawless in its grace: a slender back adorned with an intricate tattoo, a neatly tied high ponytail, and a black fitted dress that perfectly accentuated her wide hips while still leaving room for the imagination. Her fair skin contrasted sharply with the dress and the darkness of the night. Her gaze was cold, unwavering, fixed straight ahead. She casually took a glass of champagne from the tray. The crystal gleamed in her hand, hidden beneath a black glove. Every gesture, every step, carried an unmistakable sense of control—over herself, over the space, and over everyone around her.
The air around the stranger felt dense, as if an invisible wall delineated the boundaries of what was permissible. Guests whispered among themselves, trying to discern who this mysterious figure was, yet an inexplicable sense of unease and tension kept them at bay, preventing anyone from approaching. She stopped by a table on the second floor, drained the champagne in a single gulp, set the glass down, and quietly closed the doors behind her. The silence became almost tangible. The corridor, lined with a luxurious carpet, absorbed nearly all sound, leaving only faint echoes of footsteps to hint at the presence of people ahead.
With a faint smile playing on her lips and her eyelids lowered slightly, the girl moved toward the source of the sound with a relaxed, unsteady gait. Deliberately stumbling and humming a popular tune, she leisurely approached the corner behind which the luxury suite should be. Leaning against the wall, she gracefully emerged from around the bend, coming into view of three guards.
The man standing closest raised his hand in warning:
"Miss, you can't go this way! Please return to the main hall!"
"Sorry, I was looking for the ladies' room. There are so many corridors, I got lost…"
"In any case, you should go back." - the guard said more softly this time, stepping forward.
"Ok, sorry…" - the girl replied, turning carefully, and swaying slightly, she rounded the corner.
"Ah!" - came a crash and a soft exclamation from around the corner.
"Are you alright?" - the same man rushed toward her, concern etched on his face. "Do you need help?"
"You're so kind. Seems I've had a little too much…" - she said, smiling gently, meeting his gaze."Take my hand, I'll lead you…" - the words caught in his throat, just like the metal claw that had pierced his neck. With a single swift motion, she ended his suffering, her eyes fixed on the fading, terrified gaze.
"Something's taking him too long. Maybe we should check?" - one of the remaining men asked, glancing anxiously toward the corner, where no sound had come from for a while.
"Forget it. Most likely some poor bastard couldn't control himself. A drunken beauty who can't even stay on her feet - what are the odds? Lucky bastard." - cut in the older-looking one.
"Still… I don't feel right about this."
"Then let's move faster. We're about to leave. Drag this idiot here." - said the second man, his eyes following the other's retreating back all the way to the corner.
A few seconds later, a low wheeze and a crash reached the ears of the remaining guard, and then all sound abruptly stopped. Startled, he instinctively placed his right hand at his belt, ready to draw his weapon at any moment. Sweat-covered, his face reflected a mix of shock, panic, and disbelief, yet his body obediently moved forward, toward the inevitable.
The scent of blood filled the room, seeping into the carpet, walls, and the clothing of the slain men. To the symphony of this deadly aroma, the girl moved inexorably toward the doors of the luxury suite. Her sweet smile no longer framed her indifferent face; her expressionless eyes were fixed ahead, and her hand, speckled with droplets of another's blood, decisively grasped the doorknob.
The room was bathed in half-light, its intimacy disturbed only by a floor lamp, conveniently illuminating her target. An Italian drug lord lounged on the sofa in the center of the suite, lazily puffing on a thick cigar. The smoke curled through the air, forming whimsical patterns. Narrowing his eyes, the suite's owner scrutinized the figure entering, trying to discern who had dared to intrude so brazenly.
"And who are you? I take it no one ever taught you any manners." - the Italian rasped disapprovingly, leaning forward slightly in the dim light when no answer came.
With each step, the lamp's glow gradually revealed her from the darkness. First came the feet in elegant sandals, then the shapely legs, the smooth curve of her hips, and finally her hands… asymmetrically stained with blood. The Italian's expression, previously anticipating amusement, shifted to horror in an instant. The primal fear that initially paralyzed him, rooting him to the spot, abruptly transformed into the instinct to survive: his flabby body, from which agility was least expected, suddenly sprang up and lunged toward the nightstand where a gun lay in wait.
The Italian's hand froze half a meter away. In a flash, the girl closed the distance, leaping to knock him to the floor. Her left hand grabbed his hair, lifting his head, while her right hand, in a single swift motion, slit his throat, scattering blood chaotically across the surrounding space. She watched his final breaths, eyes locked on the dimming gaze of the drug lord, observing life slowly leaving his worthless, vice-ridden body. Once she was certain the lifeless form posed no further threat, she rose calmly and approached the coffee table, where a heavy silver case lay.
Carefully examining it, she noticed a biometric lock on the outer panel.
"A fingerprint? Highly unreliable. But… which finger exactly?" - she mused, glancing thoughtfully toward the case's former owner.
Bringing it close to the body, she began pressing each of her fingers against the sensor, one by one, but none fit. Pausing briefly in thought, she removed his shoes and socks and repeated the process with her toes. Fortunately, the big toe on her left foot unlocked the case, and she began carefully inspecting its contents. With her left hand clad in a black glove, she delicately sifted through small translucent pouches filled with silvery crystalline powder. Once finished with them, she probed the inner walls of the case, and suddenly her fingers brushed against a small protruding component in one corner. Slitting the lining, she discovered a circular plate blinking red. Raising an eyebrow skeptically, she pried the plate with her metal nail, and it clattered to the floor with a dull sound. The little light continued blinking at the same rhythm.
"A GPS tracker… biometric lock and an outdated tracker… Really?!" - she scoffed mockingly into the empty room, snapping the case shut.
Finally severing the finger needed for the lock, she approached the window and, throwing it wide open, greedily inhaled the night air, fresh after the rain, infused with human despair and natural serenity. Then, tiredly adjusting her dress, she retrieved a device from her hip belt, secured it to the window frame, and without hesitation stepped down. A taut cable whisked her into the darkness of the alley, where a black car was already waiting.
The road to the residence was empty. Moonlight glided over the car's body, carrying the girl further from the city, while the occasional streetlamp flashed bright reflections in her empty, weary eyes. In the distance, the mansion appeared as a dark silhouette, illuminated only by scattered outdoor lights, giving it a grim, deserted appearance. Only a sparse contingent of guards hinted at life within.
Stepping out of the car, she took a deep breath and, discarding any excess emotion, advanced toward the dark edifice with firm, confident strides. The clicking of her heels echoed down the deserted hall, pulsing through her temples and making her presence palpably felt. She gave a fleeting nod to the guard on duty before entering through the wide, massive doors.
The oppressive atmosphere of the office mirrored its owner's character. Bulky leather furniture, heavy bookshelves crammed to the top with volumes, and the dim, sparse lighting-all combined to create an unbearable, suffocating sense of worthlessness, making every breath agonizingly heavy.
Director Park sat in his massive chair, holding a collection by the poet Choi Nam-jun, slowly sipping his whiskey. The light flickered across his thick, sweat-speckled face, making him appear even more menacing and repulsive. Following the girl's gaze, he provocatively asked:
"This is a book by a great poet and philosopher. Are you familiar with his work?"
"The modern era is an era of power, where only the strong survive and the weak perish. This competition continues until death itself. But why? Because the struggle for victory and survival never ends." ("현대는 힘의 시대다. 강한 자만이 살아남고 약한 자는 죽는다. 이 경쟁은 죽을 때까지 계속된다. 왜냐하면 승리와 생존을 위한 싸움은 끝이 없기 때문이다." – original) - she quoted in response, not daring to lift her eyes to the man.
"Exactly. Only the strong can survive in this brutal time; struggle and competition are the very symbols of this world's existence, and if you're lucky, they never end. You'd better value your position-better to suffocate among the strong than breathe in the swamp of the weak. I have generously given you a chance at a new life and expect gratitude and loyalty in return." - He then noticed the case in the girl's hands, and the impassive expression on his face shifted into naked anticipation:
"Report."
"Mission accomplished, Director. The target has been checked, witnesses eliminated, evidence destroyed." - The girl replied coldly, avoiding eye contact.
"Approach." The fat man barked, gesturing her forward, a reminder of her place and of who was in charge here.
Calmly, the girl stepped closer, and kneeling on one knee, she opened the case before him, placing the severed finger on the lock. The man's eyes gleamed with a mixture of superiority and insatiable desire, and a vile smile spread across his face, heralding a new era.
A few minutes after she left, a soft, brief knock sounded at the door. The secretary entered the office - a young, lean man, fit, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and wearing neat, thin-framed glasses.
With soft but confident steps he approached Director Park, bowed, and waited for instructions. The fat man's voice rasped, lazy and irritated:
A few minutes after she left, a soft, brief knock sounded at the door. The secretary entered the office - a young, lean man, fit, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and wearing neat, thin-framed glasses.
With soft but confident steps he approached Director Park, bowed, and waited for instructions. The fat man's voice rasped, lazy and irritated:
"Do you have anything to please me with?"
The secretary glanced at his tablet and gently adjusted his glasses with his index finger. The lens flashed in the dim light, reflecting the glow of the cigar burning out in the ashtray.
"Yes, Director. I've found a group of independent scientists willing to work for us. Some of them owe us substantial sums and now have no way out. They'll be able to identify the formula in a short time. If we manage to fully reproduce and secure it, we'll become the sole suppliers in Korea."
The boss leaned back heavily in his chair, studying the lean man opposite him with interest. His gaze was keen, greedy, edged with predatory excitement. A smirk appeared on his lips - a mixture of lust for power and self-satisfaction.
"Good. At the next alliance meeting I want to present this as a new opportunity. But distribution must remain completely under our control. Not a single leak, no one should know the formula. Do you understand what I mean?"
The secretary tilted his head slightly, his voice soft yet confident:
"I understand. The formula must remain in our hands. No one will know about it until we decide to launch it. This is our chance to push the syndicate into the top ranks. It'll be your moment of glory, Director - you'll position yourself as the main source of profit for the alliance, and the Chairman won't be able to overlook your achievements."
The fat man chuckled with satisfaction and slapped his palm on the lid of the case resting on the desk, as if emphasizing the weight of the treasure inside.
"Excellent. If everything goes as planned, we'll have no competitors left. We'll own the entire Korean sector."
The secretary bowed politely and took a step back, casting a wary glance at the case. A trace of unease flickered in his eyes - as if he alone understood the true complexity and danger of this scheme. But to oppose a leader so obsessed with power and control… was unthinkable.
"Then get everything ready for the presentation," the boss continued, drawing on his cigar. "Focus on the details and precision. Any mistake is unacceptable. I won't allow myself to look pathetic in front of the assembly."
The cigar flared brighter, sending plumes of smoke into the air, and at that moment a greedy anticipation flashed in the fat man's eyes. For him, that night and the case were merely the prologue to a new game where money and power intertwined with risk, and extreme caution became the rule of survival.
The secretary nodded silently, turned smoothly, and left into the corridor, leaving the fat man alone with the office's oppressive, mounting breath. Silence returned-heavy and ringing: it filled the space, settled in the mind, and felt on the skin. Thoughts of the upcoming meeting pressed on him, making his fingers twitch nervously. Finishing his whiskey, he set the glass down with a thud, as if trying to drive out the vague unease that had crept over his mind at the worst possible moment.
"Absolute power, huh?.." - the fat man drew on his cigar again; the smoke lazily rolled through the room, viscously settling on the leather furniture. He muttered to himself, as if soothing his greed. "Old man - time for him to retire. He worked hard for the alliance, but he's become useless. Profit - that's the true measure of value. Respect?.. Empty sound if it doesn't rustle with banknotes. I'll respect him gladly… when he's either retired… or in a coffin. Heh-heh… unless I'm not Park Jae-ho…"