"Some men don't seek peace. They seek the vertigo."
Seoul, 2:17 a.m., and the rain falls so violently that it turns every street into a black river, every neon into an open wound bleeding red and violet across the glistening asphalt, and in the VIP basement of The Velvet Abyss (the one whose entrance is hidden behind a steel door and a code only the very rich sons know).
Jeon Sion is sitting at the black marble counter, legs spread wide, one meter ninety of indestructible muscle as if he had been built to take on the whole world.
Broad shoulders, a chest that drew raw strength beneath his dark shirt, forearms marked by bulging veins.
White shirt soaked open to the sternum, torso hard as reinforced concrete, chiseled abs under skin glistening with sweat and vodka.
That black hair soaked, falling in heavy strands over his forehead, sticking to his high cheekbones, brushing his golden eyes, those burning gold eyes, piercing, inhuman, able to make a man bend with a single glance.
And his jaw… A square jaw, carved with a knife, full lips split by a smile that has nothing human about it, a trace of scarlet lipstick on the collar like a still-fresh bite.
Another glass explodes against the marble, the clear liquid splashes over his knuckles, runs between his fingers like liquid poison, he brings it to his mouth, downs it in one gulp, the vodka burns his throat, burns his esophagus, burns his stomach, but even that burn is lukewarm, even that pain is a caress, even that fire is too small to reach the icy void that has been screaming inside him forever.
A girl approaches, brunette, dress too short, eyes full of hope. She places her hand on his thigh, squeezes gently, whispers against his ear.
— Sion… look at me…
Hoarse voice, pleading. He lowers his eyes for half a second. A girl. Brunette. Swollen lips. Eyes full of hope.
He has already forgotten her.
— Are you mine tonight? she whispers.
He grabs her by the nape of the neck, his fingers sink into her flesh, he kisses her violently, brutally, teeth clashing, tongue forcing its way, the taste of blood exploding between their mouths, she moans, she thinks it's desire, she thinks it's for her, when it's just the self-hatred he spits down her throat.
He drags her into the back room, slams her against the black velvet-padded wall, yanks her skirt up with a sharp gesture that tears the fabric, rips off her panties, enters her in one thrust, no preamble, no caress, just pure violence, his hips slam against her, his hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing, just enough for her to run out of air, just enough to see fear dancing in her eyes.
— Look at me.
— Sion…
— Look at me while I fuck you.
— I… I can't breathe…
— That's the point.
He snorts, a low, nasty sound that makes the air shiver.
He squeezes harder. She cries. He comes without a sound.
He pulls out, zips up his fly, lights a cigarette, blows the smoke into her still-trembling face.
She stays there, naked, leaning against the wall, tears running down her cheeks, body shaken by silent sobs.
He walks out without looking back.
Outside, the rain hits him immediately — like a cold, almost violent slap.
He walks slowly toward the underground parking lot, every step splashes black water onto his Italian shoes, and already he hears them, five silhouettes under the awning, glowing cigarette tips, greasy voices, eyes looking for death without knowing it has just found them.
Sion slows down. Eyes meet. An insult flies in the wind. A mocking laugh. An almost imperceptible provocation.
He stops.
As usual, he hadn't looked for anything. But deep down, he had always wanted it.
The first blow lands.
A fist in his left cheekbone, explosion of white light, immediate taste of blood.
Sion smiles wider, split lips, red teeth.
— That all?
He answers.
A hook to the throat. A knee to the gut. A skull smashing the asphalt.
And then it's war.
Five against one.
Rain. Blood. Muffled screams.
He takes a blade in the forearm (he laughs), he rips the blade out, drives it into a thigh (he laughs even louder).
He feels the bone of his brow arch crack, warm blood running into his eye, cold rain rinsing it.
He looks for the pain.
He doesn't find it.
When it's over, he's the only one standing, chest heaving, breath short, hands shaking, surrounded by bodies that groan or no longer move.
He spits a red clot onto the asphalt.
He gets into his car, peels out, music screaming, headlights slashing the night.
His phone vibrates.
The name: Father.
He answers, puts it on speaker, voice calm, almost gentle.
— Election meeting tomorrow 8 a.m. Be clean. Be on time. Be perfect.
— Or what?
— Or I cut you off and send you to join your crazy mother.
— Say it again.
— Your mother is a hysterical whore and you're becoming just like her.
— Thanks for the diagnosis, Dad. He hangs up.
He laughs.
A laugh that sounds like a sob choked in the throat for twenty years.
A reminder that he was only a link. A pawn in an empire he hated. A name paraded, used, shaped since childhood. An heir programmed to be perfect, smooth, stable.
"You will serve this family's image before you serve yourself."
He drives fast, too fast. Tires skid, neon lights reflect in white streaks on the road, air vibrates around the bodywork.
It's dangerous. Almost suicidal. But it's the only way to feel a trace of adrenaline slide through his veins.
At a bend, the car skids slightly. His heart jumps — tiny, almost imperceptible. A whisper of life.
He accelerates again.
Horns scream behind him. Silhouettes curse. A motorcycle nearly hits him. He doesn't slow down.
The world could collapse around him, it wouldn't change a thing: he drives as if he wants to crash into something. Or someone. Or just destroy that inner silence that has been gnawing at him for years.
He finally parks on Banpo Bridge.
Engine running.
Rain drumming on the roof like impatient fingers.
He gets out, leans on the railing, pulls out another cigarette, lights it with blood-covered hands.
Smoke rises, mixes with the rain. He closes his eyes.
And there, in the silence between two heartbeats, his mother's face appears. Not the gentle mother from the photos.
Not in precise images. Not in organized memories. Just fragments, shards that cut.
A door slamming. The sharp sound of a plate breaking. A woman's voice that shifts from gentle to monstrous in a second.
Crying. Screaming. A trembling breath whispering I love you… then that same breath screaming You want to kill me.
Two versions of the same woman. Two worlds in a single face.
The one they finally locked away in a white clinic, behind steel doors, with pills that make her more dead than alive.
The one his father erased with a wave of the hand: "Genetic weakness. We hide her."
And him, in the middle. Always in the middle. Always silent. Always still.
He takes a long drag.
The smoke burns his lungs. He whispers into the void, voice broken, barely audible:
— Mom, were you just trying to feel something, or were you already drowning in your emotions?
The rain answers for her.
He flicks the cigarette into the black Han River. He stays there, soaked, bloodied, magnificent, dead inside.
He doesn't know yet that tomorrow, a girl with eyes too black and a soul already in ashes will meet his gaze.
He doesn't know yet that this girl will become the only pain strong enough to make him live.
And to destroy him.
For now, he gets back in the car. He starts the engine.
He drives toward the void. And he smiles.