A new handy guard.

Rain hammered the asphalt in Incheon, neon lights fragmented across puddles. Lee Jae‑min exited the sleek sedan with deliberate control, dark hair plastered to his forehead, suit crisp despite the downpour. No hesitation as he approached the Velvet Orchid. Three shots—quick, precise—ended Sung‑woo’s betrayal. Blood pooled beneath the shoelight while rain washed it away. Silence swallowed his footsteps. The funeral hush of inaction remained as Lee returned to the car. Choi Soo‑jin leaned forward. “Hyungnim, it’s done.” Kim Dong‑ho stared ahead, expression unchanging. “No loose ends.” Their voices were quiet, professional. Loyalty sealed by violence, hierarchy absolute.

A few blocks away, beyond chaos, the alley breathed. Under a malfunctioning lamp was a boy curled on cardboard. Blonde hair, soaked and tangled, plastered to his face. His gaze was sharp, alert; his shoulders stiff with tension. Lee’s car slowed. He stepped out into the rain and didn’t wait. He knelt, extending a gloved hand. “Walk.” Linh rose without flinching—lean frame, coiled energy. The crew watched as their boss guided the boy into the car. A silent statement made. Inside, footsteps echoed.

Dong‑ho whispered, “Boss’s new bodyguard?” His tone asked whether this was mercy or madness. Soo‑jin answered, voice flat: “Street kid survived this long. That means strength.” Linh said nothing. His silence spoke louder than any words. The car moved on through flickering lights. Lee looked at Linh seated across from him—boy from dust, child of survival. No pity; only mutual recognition. That moment marked the fragile alignment of power and vulnerability. Inside the Velvet Orchid, music throbbed through stained glass. Lee and his men entered the smoky interior. Laughter and drunken song collided from private booths.

Soo‑jin approached the barkeep, collected the blinds, and scanned the room: a show of dominance. Lee followed without words, the staff parting like the sea. Linh watched from a corner—wide-eyed, silent, unseen yet present. Linh observed the boss with careful eyes: the way Lee’s fingers tapped the mahogany bar rail, the tension in his jaw as he surveyed the room, how his posture shifted when someone disrespected his men. Lee noticed Linh’s gaze. Their eyes briefly met. Linh looked away first. Later, when Soo‑jin offered Linh a drink—just water—Linh nodded. Their hands brushed. Linh’s grip tightened on the cup. It was nothing, yet it felt like something. Soo‑jin cleared his throat: “You were out there in the storm.” Linh’s reply was simple: “Rain doesn’t kill me.” That earned quiet respect. Soo‑jin relayed it later to Lee: “He’s quiet. Strong.” Lee’s only response was sharp, unreadable. In the back office, Lee removed his gloves. The tattooed lines on his forearms—the Chil Sung Pa emblem—glimmered under soft light. He leaned back, listening as Linh came in. No recognition of status, only presence. Linh stood behind: tall, silent. Lee’s pulse quickened—not with affection, not yet—but at the possibility of connection. He spoke: “Linh.”

No honorific. Linh bowed his head. Lee added: “Watch.” Two words. Linh understood. Their bond began on those syllables. As dawn approached, the sedan cut through neon shadows. Lee reviewed dossiers, territory lines, the threat matrix. Linh sat quietly. In a different world, Linh might have seen privilege or ownership around the long polished table. But here, power was silent. Still. Calculated. Linh leaned back, rainwater dripping off his collar. Lee glanced his way. A flicker of something new: curiosity, maybe something unspoken. In silence they traveled. Rain battered the windows. Outside submerged world melted into sheets of droplets. Inside, something fragile glowed between them—recognition, not redemption; necessity, not instant trust.

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