(ONE WEEK BEFORE THE STORM)
Location: Haseul's Penthouse
The Seoul skyline blazed with an amber hue as the sun dipped into the city's ceramic sprawl. A soft orange glow bathed the room through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of Haseul's penthouse, illuminating the olive tone of her skin. She switched off her tablet, seven dots pulsed, then faded to black.
But the silence that followed felt anything but peaceful.
One week left.
One week before everything would be either pieced together or burned.
As she placed her mug onto the tea table, her phone buzzed. The name 'Hana' lit up on the screen.
She pressed the mute button, silencing the static buzz of half-truths and curated narratives.
Since she had returned, the habit had rooted itself quietly-keeping the news on not out of trust, but necessity.
To hear what the world thought was happening.
To understand the lies they swallowed.
The truths they twisted.
And the shadows they ignored.
She didn't watch for information-she watched for patterns.
The things left out.
The shift in tone.
The silence between words.
People believed what they were told-but she knew reality rarely aligned with appearances.
And for someone like her...
Perception was a weapon.
A satisfied smirk touched Haseul's otherwise composed face as she picked up the call.
"Boss, just as you predicted-YG hesitated to explore the backdoor. I erased the trail the moment his laptop reset to 00:00," Hana's voice came through the receiver-crisp, professional, yet tinged with quiet respect.
Hana's breath hitched slightly—she'd seen the files. The unanswered questions.
"You never disappoint me, Hana," Haseul replied, her tone low and commanding, the kind that never needed to rise to dominate.
There was a brief pause.
She rarely gave praise, and Hana knew it. The silence that followed was more rewarding than any medal.
"Um... if you don't mind-may I ask something?" Hana's calm tone carried a flicker of curiosity now, she finally dared to voice out her unanswered questions.
"Curiosity kills the cat in this line, sweetheart," Haseul warned gently, her words laced with the softness of silk and the weight of steel. She walked to the sliding balcony window, fingers ghosting along the glass before she pushed it open. The cold night wind rushed in, stinging and alive.
"Apologies, Boss." Hana backtracked immediately. "After that warning... Red Dragons won't dare move anytime soon."
"No, they won't," Haseul agreed, her voice a breath of smoke and ice. "The puppet master behind them may be power-hungry, but he's no fool. He knows better than to start a war..."
Her gaze dropped to the glinting city lights below, distant and dim. Her smirk faded into something unreadable.
"...Especially when I have no interest in his throne."
But war wasn't always about thrones.
Sometimes, it was about the message.
And maybe her warning had instead paved way for another war.
Just then, as though the world conspired to taunt her, the screen flashed to life with a live tape: Kim Jaehyun, chairman of the Kim Group, delivering a passionate speech about "youth empowerment" at a press conference.
Haseul nearly scoffed.
Him, and motivating the youth? A better joke hadn't aired all week.
To Jaehyun, motivation meant brutality wrapped in legacy. It meant fists over guidance. Obedience over growth. Break them until they kneel-that was his gospel.
Her eyes lingered on the man longer than she intended. He stood there, smug and composed, as if the empire behind him wasn't rotting from within. As if he didn't already think he owned every soul in that room-and perhaps, even her crown.
Her fingers twitched—once—before stilling. The screen cracked under her grip.
Her grip on the glass tightened, the chill of it grounding her. She blinked once, slow and unreadable, before turning away.
The window beside her reflected the skyline of Seoul-sharp, modern, soulless. A city that forgot, even as its bones remembered. She hadn't returned for power, nor politics. Not for petty revenge or whispered deals.
Not revenge. Not closure. Just ghosts.
The one with blood of her mother on his hands.
And without warning, the memory surged-
Flames.
Engulfing her mother's fragile frame.
A broken smile. Haunting. Tender. Burning.
It clouded her mind like smoke, choking the present with the past.
Her fingers clenched instinctively around the edge of the desk. For a split second, Haseul wasn't the mafia boss, wasn't the merciless tactician.
She was just a daughter.
A daughter who had watched everything burn.
Yet if anyone mistook her silence for surrender-
They hadn't learned the true meaning of her name.
Let them strike first.
She would answer in flames.
The call ended with a soft click just as the doorbell chimed-a sound rare in her space, rarer still when unannounced. Only one person ever crossed that boundary without warning.
One of the guards glanced at the surveillance monitor and announced, "It's Mr. Viktor. Your secretary, Ms. Song."
She gave a single nod. That was all the clearance he needed.
Moments later, a man in his late twenties stepped in. Impeccably dressed, briefcase in hand, his gait was calm and calculated. Suave. Composed. Armed-of course. A sleek firearm rested against his lower back, hidden in the shadows of a tailored coat. But Haseul saw it. She always did. Nothing got past her.
She didn't offer a greeting, and neither did he. Words were wasted on those who understood each other too well.
Without pause, she pivoted on her heel and walked toward her home office, the hem of her robe whispered across marble-measured, defiant. Viktor followed, silent and alert. At the door, he extended his arm and opened it for her-never out of habit, always out of respect.
She stepped inside first.
Always.
Haseul sank into the high-backed chair like a queen returning to her throne, the dim overhead light casting shadows across her face. Her eyes locked onto Viktor, cold and calculating-dissecting him like a threat, not an ally.
Just... measured risk.
Loyalty was currency, and even that ran dry.
Viktor offered a subtle bow before taking his seat across from her. The soft click of the briefcase breaking open echoed louder than it should've. He laid out the contents with a soldier's precision-documents, IDs, credentials.
Lee Haseul-the name gleamed beneath the glassy lamplight.
"You're all set to begin at the university tomorrow," he said, his voice crisp. "An ordinary scholarship student. Seoul International Institute of Education."
A thin smile touched Haseul's lips. Dry. Disbelieving.
"At least I get to pretend I'm normal... between playing heiress and ruling a criminal empire."
Viktor chuckled, a little too bold. "Come on, Boss. You were made for this. Normal was never part of your origin story."
A flicker of danger flashed in her eyes.
Then-motion. Swift. Precise.
In less than a heartbeat, she leaned across the desk, pulled the gun from his waistband, and pressed the cold barrel to his temple. Her voice was a whisper-velvet laced with venom.
"You like walking on glass, don't you?"
She wasn't leaning in to tease. She was reminding him-one slip, and he'd bleed.
Viktor didn't move, but the sweat on his brow betrayed the stillness. He knew she wouldn't pull the trigger.
But with Haseul?
You could never be sure.
She held the tension like a blade, watched the flicker of doubt crack through his composure. Then, almost lazily, she lowered the weapon.
The air shifted.
Viktor exhaled-quiet, controlled-only now realizing just how long he'd been holding his breath.
Haseul placed the gun on the desk with a soft clink-louder than thunder in the tense silence.
"Stick to the mission, Viktor," she said, reclining in her chair once again, her composure returned as if the violent moment never happened. "Loyalty means knowing when not to get familiar."
Viktor gave a small nod, the smirk long gone. "Understood, Boss."
She flicked through the documents again-her new ID, class schedule, falsified academic records. Every inch crafted to perfection.
"Lee Haseul," she murmured, testing the name on her tongue.
The fake surname tasted unfamiliar-yet purposeful.
It sat on her tongue like a foreign truth, carefully chosen for function, not sentiment.
After years of navigating shadows-not for power, but to survive-she had become someone even she couldn't recognize. Not the wide-eyed girl from a decade ago. Not the younger Haseul who believed justice could be won without blood.
Her genuine smile had survived only in the presence of one person: her father.
But even that smile had been tainted-always laced with guilt. Guilt for hiding what she was. Who she had become.
What choice did she have?
Mr. Song, idealistic to his core, despised violence. It lived in his marrow after the tragedy, a quiet vow etched into his bones: never again.
She was grateful, at least, that her given name had remained untouched. As the heiress of the Song family, her first name had never been made public. That meant she could keep "Haseul"-a sliver of truth in a sea of lies.
It meant she could adjust. Blend.
Even if she no longer believed she belonged anywhere.
"An ordinary student with a not-so-ordinary agenda."
Her eyes flicked up, sharp as a blade. "Has the surveillance system at the university been modified?"
"Yes," Viktor confirmed. "Our team tapped the internal servers. You'll have remote access from your phone. No one sees you unless you want to be seen."
"So... the Red Dragon inner circle-the Kim brothers-are enrolled at the same institute. The Kim Group owns it."
It wasn't a question.
Viktor swallowed hard and gave a curt nod. "Yes. The younger ones attend the attached high school-same campus, same canteen. The older brothers are at the university. YG-Seungho and SJ-Hyunsik are in your year. You might cross paths with them."
Haseul's fingers paused mid-tap against the desk, the silence in the room stretching like a drawn bowstring. Her eyes, once calm, now held a flicker of something colder-calculation, perhaps, or an old storm stirring.
"So," she said slowly, her voice satin-draped steel, "I'll be breathing the same air as all seven."
Viktor nodded once. "Yes, Boss. All seven Kim brothers. Including... him."
He hesitated only a fraction. "Still doesn't know you exist."
Her expression remained unreadable. "He will."
She thought 'But not so soon, my little bunny.'
Haseul's thoughts drifted to a lightly bruised boy-
The scent of rain and blood—that alley, that night—flooded her senses.
The boy she had once found sobbing in an alley,
Back when the world hadn't yet hardened both of them into the silent storm they were now.
She remembered how his doe eyes had shimmered,
Just faintly.
When she'd gently ruffled his hair.
A flicker of warmth in a child who had known far too much cold.
"And Jaehyun?" she asked, tone deceptively light.
Viktor shook his head. "Never steps foot on campus. But his eyes are everywhere. Cameras, staff, even students. It's all part of the Kim Group's control."
"Then we'll give him something to watch," she muttered.
Rising from her seat, she walked toward the window again, gazing out over Seoul's glimmering cityscape. Her reflection stared back at her-composed, lethal, cloaked in secrets.
"The school will be our new chessboard," she said. "And each Kim brother? A piece long overdue for a checkmate."
"No one would suspect a quiet second-year girl of being the merciless mafia boss," Haseul said, her tone flat, almost amused.
Viktor gave her a slow once-over, half in awe, half in resignation.
"Sometimes I forget you're eight years younger than me-
Considering who's really pulling the strings here."
She might've been eight years younger, but age never ruled this empire-fear, pain, tactics did. And she wielded it like a queen born in blood.