Chapter 3
Far from his little studio, in a city where power ruled louder than law, he stood at the top floor of a high-rise that cast a shadow over the skyline.
The name whispered in underground circles, printed in police reports, and feared in every back-alley deal.
He was the kind of man no one looked at directly unless they wanted to die or fall in love — maybe both.
And he looked like sin dressed in poetry.
Eyes like smoked glass — sharp, dark, unreadable — as if carved by night itself.
His nose was regal, proud.
Lips full and slightly downturned, giving his face a cold, serious stillness.
A jawline cut with precision.
Hair dark brown, thick and tousled, brushing against his lashes and the nape of his neck.
And his skin — porcelain with a golden warmth, as if the sun had tried to kiss him once but couldn’t get too close.
He wore a black silk shirt, slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal veins and a gunmetal watch ticking like a countdown.
He didn’t speak much.
Didn’t need to.
His silence was enough to make men bow and women look twice.
He didn’t inherit power — he took it.
After his elder brother was assassinated in a betrayal that still stank of blood, taehyung took the throne of korea's underworld — not with celebration, but with vengeance.
He built his empire like a machine — clean, ruthless, quiet.
Only fear.
He didn’t smile often, but when he did — it felt like a promise and a warning at once.
And yet, there were nights he stood by the window of his penthouse, staring down at the city lights — silent, still, like he was searching for something no bullet could reach.
He had everything.
Power. Wealth. Loyalty.
But something inside him remained untouched.
Unclaimed.
As if his soul still remembered the feel of someone’s hand slipping away in another life.
Kim taehyung didn’t care for parties. To him, they were nothing more than gilded cages — all smoke, laughter, and hollow glasses, where men wore loyalty like masks and women whispered power like perfume. Tonight’s event was no different: another high-society gala thrown in the name of alliances and image. A formality. A performance. Something his advisors insisted he attend to "keep appearances." He was going for the same reason he wore a gun under silk — because it was expected. Yet, as he sat in his black car, city lights flickering past the tinted windows, something tugged at him. Not logic. Not obligation. Something deeper. Older. Like a string tied around his soul… pulling him toward the unknown. He didn’t believe in destiny. But tonight, fate had already written his name on the guest list — in ink only a red thread could see.
Author
Thank you sooo much for the support
Author
lovee yaaaa girlies 💋
Comments
Aisyah Azzahra
GIVE. ME. MORE. NOW!
2025-07-08
0