Chapter Text
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The SW overseas branch occupies three floors of glass and steel overlooking a river that never quite looks real. Security Team Two and Team Three are charged with escorting and guarding the members of the Sin family and the executive board.
Park Jisuk has attended shareholder meetings before. He knows the rhythm: numbers first, people second, consequences last.
This one begins no differently.
The boardroom is expansive, polished to the point of sterility. A long table. Screens cycling through quarterly achievements — overseas acquisitions, defense contracts, logistics expansion. Currency figures large enough to make suffering abstract.
The chairman of SW corporation, Sin Gu-Seung, sits at the head of table, listening sternly as regional directors present their reports. His chief secretary, Ko Seongin is seated to his right. To the left is Sin Yeongho; Sin Jiye’s older brother, sits comfortably.
Too comfortably.
Mr. Yeongho lounges back in his chair, jacket draped over the armrest, fingers tapping idly as he listens to the presentation. When numbers climb, he smiles. When they falter, his gaze sharpens — predatory.
Sin Gi-Cheol, son of Chairman Gu-Seung and father to Mr. Yeongho and Miss Jiye, joins remotely, his image projected at the far end of the room. Even through a screen, his presence is oppressive. He does not nod. He does not thank.
He listens the way judges do.
=====
Sin Yeona sits stiffly two seats away from Miss Jiye.
Too young for this room. Too aware of it.
Jisuk notices the way her hands curl into her sleeves when Mr. Yeongho leans closer to speak across the table. Seokju, positioned discreetly behind her, shifts his stance — not aggressive, but braced. Team Three’s leader, Lee Siwon, stands a short distance behind Miss Yeona as well. attention subtly fixed on Mr. Yeongho.
Ijin stands behind Miss Jiye.
Jisuk, positioned beside Ijin, watches him from the corner of his eye.
Still. Alert. Quiet in the way of someone trained not to exist.
=====
“And of course,” Mr. Yeongho says smoothly, interrupting a regional director mid-sentence, “these gains were possible because some of us understand the value of decisive leadership.”
His gaze flicks to Miss Jiye.
“Not sentimental management.”
A few men chuckle.
Jisuk’s jaw tightens.
Miss Jiye does not react outwardly. She merely folds her hands on the table, posture immaculate.
“If we’re discussing leadership,” she replies evenly, “then we should also discuss sustainability. Short-term gains achieved through coercive partnerships—”
Mr. Yeongho laughs outright.
“Sustainability?” he repeats. “You mean hesitation.”
Mr. Gi-Cheol’s voice cuts in through the speakers. “This is why emotion should not interfere with governance. The market does not reward kindness.”
His eyes shift — unmistakably — toward Miss Yeona.
“And certainly not inexperience.”
Miss Yeona flinches.
Seokju’s breath catches.
Jisuk sees it — the instant Seokju’s attention fractures, pulled away from the room and toward something unseen at the far wall.
Ijin feels it too.
Jisuk recognises the micro-tension in his shoulders.
=====
Chairman Gu-Seung clears his throat sharply.
“That’s enough,” he says. “Yeongho, Gi-Cheol — your contributions are acknowledged. But this is not a forum for—”
Yeongho straightens slightly, expression cooling. “With respect, Chairman, SW’s current success speaks for itself.”
The numbers on the screen surge upward.
Silence.
The Chairman’s disappointment is visible — but so is resignation.
Jisuk has seen this before.
Money speaks louder than conscience.
=====
The meeting ends early. Officially due to scheduling conflicts. Unofficially because the air has gone sour.
The chairman and the chief secretary remain behind to review the reports. The rest of the Sin family depart at the hotel.
As they exit, Mr. Yeongho passes Miss Yeona deliberately close.
“You should listen more,” he murmurs. “Learn your place.”
Seokju steps forward before Jisuk and Siwon can stop him.
“Sir,” Seokju says, voice tight but respectful, “please don’t—”
Mr. Yeongho’s eyes snap to him.
“Don’t what?” he asks coldly. “Protect her?”
He smiles thinly.
“That’s not your job.”
Ijin moves.
Not fast. Not threatening.
He simply places himself half a step closer to Jiye — and by extension, between Mr. Yeongho and Miss Yeona’s line of sight.
Jisuk intervenes.
“Sir, that’s enough,” he says flatly.
Mr. Yeongho scoffs. “You are in charge of my family’s security, Mr. Park. Your trainees are poorly disciplined.”
Jisuk meets his gaze. “They’re doing their jobs.”
Mr. Yeongho’s smile disappears.
=====
Two SW vans arrive at the hotel – one carrying the Sin members, team leaders and the two bodyguard trainees; the other transporting the rest of security personnel. The security teams disembark first to sweep the perimeter.
Everything appears normal.
As they approach the revolving door of the hotel, Ijin feels it. He stills for a fraction of a second before moving again.
Not sharp.
Not immediate.
Just… misaligned.
Like a pressure that doesn’t belong to any direction.
Seokju slows at the same moment.
Jisuk catches it.
The hotel lobby is all glass and marble and soft lighting – the kind of place designed to feel harmless.
That’s what makes the wrongness stand out.
Ijin moves half a step behind Miss Jiye, eyes lifting – not to people, but to reflections. Polished floor. Mirrored pillars. The security camera dome near the ceiling.
Seokju shifts closer to Yeona without touching her. Not blocking. Just narrowing space.
“I don’t like this,” Seokju murmurs. Too quiet to be insubordinate. Too tense to be casual.
Ijin doesn’t echo it. He scans.
The valet desk.
The bellhop who hasn’t looked up once.
The man near the elevator bank pretending to check his phone – weight on the wrong foot, posture too ready.
“I—” Seokju starts, then stops himself, jaw tightening.
Ijin’s hand twitches – a reflex buried deep.
“Mr. Park,” Ijin says quietly. “Requesting reroute.”
Jisuk turns fully toward him. “Reason?”
Ijin hesitates – not because he doubts himself, but because the answer is incomplete.
“Surveillance overlap,” he says carefully. “We’re being watched by someone not aligned with hotel security.”
That should be enough. It isn’t.
Mr. Yeongho rolls his eyes. “Not this again.” He gestures at the lobby. “You see enemies everywhere.”
Seokju stiffens. “Sir, this isn’t paranoia. It’s –“
“Enough,” Yeongho snaps. “We’re already late.”
Miss Jiye doesn’t speak — but Jisuk notices her fingers tighten once against the folder in her hands.
Jisuk looks between the boys. Seokju’s jaw is tight. Breathing controlled — too controlled. Ijin hasn’t blinked in nearly a minute.
This isn’t fear.
It’s containment.
“Proceed,” Mr. Yeongho says, already walking. “We’re not rerouting because two trainees feel jumpy.”
The boys move. They don’t relax.
Jisuk feels the decision settle like a weight behind his ribs.
If this were a training exercise, a domestic detail, or a site under his sole authority, he would have already called it.
But Mr. Yeongho is his employer.
And believing the boys does not always mean being allowed to act on it.
=====
The private elevator is quiet in the way sealed spaces always are.
No music.
No chatter.
Just the soft hum of ascent. The wrongness sharpens.
Not louder — closer.
Ijin’s fingers curl once at his side, then still. His shoulders lock, not forward — down. Bracing without posture.
Seokju’s gaze flicks to the mirrored wall.
“Sir,” Seokju whispers, urgency threading his voice now. “We need to stop.”
The elevator doesn’t slow.
“You are not stopping this elevator,” Yeongho snaps.
The doors open. The hallway beyond is carpeted, immaculate — and empty in a way that feels staged.
That’s when Ijin understands. It’s not an attack.
It’s pressure. Someone wants them tense. Alert. Watching.
Waiting.
That’s worse.
Because it means the threat isn’t done yet.
“Miss Jiye,” Ijin says quietly, stepping half a pace closer, “please stay on my left.”
She obeys without question.
That’s when it happens.
Not a ghost.
Not an entity.
A camera housing shatters overhead. Not thrown. Not smashed.
Cut.
Glass rains down.
Ijin reacts on instinct — twisting, pulling Miss Jiye back as shards strike where her head had been. Seokju moves at the same time, arms wide, shielding Yeona as something thin and near invisible snaps loose and lashes across the corridor.
A wire.
It slices Ijin’s arm and clips Seokju’s biceps.
Blood hits carpet.
Real. Immediate. Mundane.
Chaos erupts.
“Get them out!” Jisuk shouts.
Both of security teams move immediately. Jisuk draws his weapon — then stops.
There is no visible assailant. No one to shoot. That’s the point.
Mr. Yeongho is shouting now — not in fear, but rage.
“This is incompetence!” he snarls. “You said it was safe!”
=====
They evacuate fast. No second strike comes. That’s worse too.
Because the boys never get the relief of resolution.
The medic clears them quickly. Superficial cuts. No nerve damage. “You’re lucky,” he says, already turning away.
Ijin nods. Seokju thanks him.
Neither mentions the lingering tremor in their hands when they think no one watching
=====
In the van, Ijin sits rigid, arm bandaged, eyes still tracking reflections. The glass warps as the van moves – just slightly. Not enough to be wrong. Enough to be noticed.
Ijin blinks once. The distortion doesn’t correct.
Seokju presses his thumb into his palm until the pressure anchors him back into the seat.
Yeongho fumes. “This is what happens when you indulge theatrics.”
Seokju swallows whatever response had been forming. His jaw tightens once – then smooth. Ijin doesn’t reach at all.
Miss Yeona sobs. Miss Jiye stares at him, voice cold. “Enough.”
Mr. Yeongho rounds on her. “You always take their side.”
Jisuk watches the boys instead.
They don’t slump. They don’t shake. They don’t come down. They stay on.
Long after the danger has passed.
Long after adrenaline should have burned out.
Jisuk watches for the signs he’s learned to fear – the sway, the glassy focus, the sudden heat beneath the skin.
None come.
That worries him more than if they had collapsed.
=====
Jisuk understands — with bone-deep clarity — that this will not be the last time adults choose convenience over truth.
What he doesn’t understand yet is that the cost will not be immediate.
It will surface later – misnamed as stress, written off as imagination, and punished as insubordination.
Jisuk has realised that this was one of many moments why the teens do not speak first. And by the time the adults finally listen, the boys will already be bleeding.
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END CHAPTER I