Days bled into weeks.
Life inside the Kang estate continued with the eerie precision of a clock wound too tightly. Outside the estate walls, the world trembled under Kang Jin-ho's command. Inside, however, things had changed — subtly, almost imperceptibly, like a current shifting beneath still waters.
The palace garden, once a sanctuary of sculpted hedges and immaculate lotus ponds, had long been a quiet corner of peace — perhaps the only softness allowed within the estate's sprawling luxury. But even peace was a fragile thing in Kang's world.
That afternoon, the tranquility shattered.
Beneath the flawless sky, where white blossoms drifted lazily through the breeze, two bound men were dragged into the open — their hands tied behind their backs, faces swollen with fear. They were members of a rival Yakuza faction, traitors who had crossed lines that could not be uncrossed.
Kang stood at the center of the garden, his face carved from stone, unreadable and composed. He said nothing at first — he never did. Orders were given with glances, gestures, silences. His men, as always, understood.
And then it began.
What followed was swift and brutal. Efficiency laced with blood. The sound of fists meeting flesh, of muffled cries, and the wet snap of bone echoed through the ivy-covered stone walls. The neatly groomed garden was quickly stained with dark patches, the smell of iron bleeding into the earth. The grass, trimmed to perfection, was now muddied with footprints and broken humanity.
When it was over, the air was heavy — humming with raw violence, a feral energy that clung to the skin. The scent of freshly turned soil mingled with something darker. Metallic. Ancient.
Kang, now speckled with blood across his sleeves, collar, and hands, turned wordlessly and walked back toward the house. His gait was smooth, almost mechanical — a man not thinking, not feeling, merely propelled by purpose.
The marble-floored main hall greeted him with its cold, familiar grandeur. Chandeliers sparkled above, statues loomed from recessed alcoves, and the silence of wealth lay heavy in the air. Yet today, the opulence felt hollow — even oppressive — following the rawness of what had transpired outside.
And then — movement.
Small. Innocent. Unaware.
"Uncle?"
The voice, high and chirping, stopped Kang in his tracks.
He turned slightly, and there, walking toward him in socks and a soft pajama set patterned with little stars, was Jain — or Sang, as Shan still called him. The child blinked up at Kang with large, wondering eyes. His gaze had fixed not on Kang's expression, but on the dark red blotches staining his sleeve.
"Are you hurt?" Jain asked, pointing a chubby finger toward the crimson mark. "Did you fall?"
The question was simple, sincere. Genuine concern from a child who hadn't yet learned what blood meant on a grown man's clothes.
Kang stared at the boy, something unreadable flickering across his features.
Before he could answer, Shan appeared — calm, composed, yet sharp-eyed, always watching.
He took in the scene with one glance — Jain's innocence, Kang's disheveled state, and the space between them where the truth could too easily slip through.
"Davy," Shan said, his tone smooth and practiced, slicing clean through the tension, "take Jain and play in the games room for a while, hmm? Uncle needs to… clean up."
Davey, standing off to the side, instantly stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he approached the child. Gently, he placed a hand on Jain's shoulder and guided him away, offering soft murmurs of distraction.
As the footsteps of the child faded, Shan turned fully to Kang.
Now it was just the two of them. Silence wrapped around them like smoke.
"Mr. Kang," Shan began, his voice composed but deliberate, "Jain is very young. He doesn't understand… this."
He gestured subtly — not to the stains, but to the totality of Kang's bloodied presence.
"He might think you've hurt yourself, maybe once or twice. But if he sees this… repeatedly…" Shan's gaze didn't flinch, though there was no accusation in it. Just quiet logic. "He'll start to understand."
He let the implication hang between them for a moment.
"Children learn from what they see, Mr. Kang. He'll think you've… done something bad."
Another pause.
"You wouldn't want Jain to be afraid of you, would you?" Shan added quietly. "Or… think badly of you?"
Kang didn't speak. Not immediately.
His eyes weren't focused on Shan anymore — but somewhere far beyond him, distant, unreadable. Whatever gears turned inside Kang's mind did so behind layers of silence and years of practiced detachment.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode away — back down the corridor, leaving Shan standing in the echoing grandeur of the hall.
Shan watched him disappear around the corner. A faint sigh escaped his lips.
Hmm, he thought wryly, I'm telling the cat whether or not to eat the fish. The idiom floated through his mind like an old friend. I really can, can't I?
A tiny smile ghosted across his lips — one not born of triumph, but something quieter. Maybe relief. Maybe curiosity. He turned, walking slowly back toward his own wing, the faintest trace of satisfaction in his eyes.
---
Kang, meanwhile, reached his study with quick, measured steps. The heavy door swung open under his hand and slammed shut behind him with a decisive thud. The space — lined with dark bookshelves and ancient paintings — was one of the few places in the estate that bore his presence entirely. A room carved from command and control.
He crossed to the desk, grabbed the landline, and jabbed a button.
"Ron," he barked into the receiver. His voice was tight, rougher than intended. "Get to my study. Now."
Moments passed.
Then the door creaked open.
Ron stood there — his usual crisp attire immaculate, but his face lined with caution. He had learned long ago to read Kang's moods in silence.
"Young Master?" he said.
Kang gestured to a chair, his movements clipped and agitated. His mind was still somewhere between the garden and Jain's wide, innocent eyes.
"Ron," he said, slower now, like he was thinking aloud, "from today onwards… all Yakuza work… stays outside the house."
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't shout.
But the weight of the order landed hard.
"No more… incidents… in the garden. Or anywhere near the palace." Kang paced for a moment, then stopped. "Arrange a separate… facility. Somewhere… dedicated to… our… activities."
Ron stared. Just stared.
For the first time in years of bloodshed and loyalty, he was at a loss. Kang — the same man who once ordered executions over a glass of wine — was… making boundaries?
"Young Master…?" he ventured, his voice careful, unsure if he should ask.
Kang's gaze snapped to his, sharp again.
"Just do it, Ron," he said. "No questions. Find a place. Discreet. Efficient. And ensure… absolutely nothing… Yakuza related… comes within a mile of this property."
The tone in his voice left no room for doubt. Or discussion.
Ron straightened immediately, bowing. "Understood, Young Master. It will be done immediately."
He turned and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
As he walked down the hallway, his hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out his phone. His fingers moved quickly, dialing the first of many contacts. His voice — calm, clipped, professional — relayed the new orders.
No more Yakuza work at the palace. Separate facility. Total isolation.
It should have felt routine — just another shift in logistics.
But even Ron couldn't suppress the quiet astonishment echoing in his thoughts.
Kang Jin-ho, the man who ruled with silence and blood, was drawing a line between power and family. Between war and the walls he now shared with a child.
This isn't just strategy, Ron thought.
This is something else.
Something almost… domestic.
Ron left the palace with the steady, purposeful stride of a man long accustomed to danger and discretion. The courtyard, still echoing with the memory of earlier violence, blurred behind him. In his hand, his phone buzzed to life, already loaded with contact names few outside the underworld would recognize—contractors, cleaners, information brokers, and location scouts. The machine of the Yakuza didn't pause for sentiment; orders were followed, swiftly and silently.
Within minutes, he was on the road in a matte-black car that bore no insignia. The windows were tinted, the license plates fake, and the driver someone Ron trusted to speak only when spoken to.
"To the warehouse district," Ron muttered.
He stared out the window, his reflection catching briefly in the glass—sharp eyes, a faint scar running from jaw to collarbone, the only mark left from a night long past. He thought of Kang's expression, unreadable but edged with something strange. Guilt? No. Kang didn't traffic in guilt. But something had shifted.
By the time the car pulled into the derelict industrial sector of the city—far from the palace gates and public eye—Ron's plan was already taking shape.
The first stop was an old textile factory, long abandoned, its brick walls weathered by time and neglect. Ron stepped inside, ignoring the creak of rusted doors and the stench of mildew. He paced the space with the eye of an architect sketching blueprints in his mind.
"Two rooms can be converted for interrogation. Reinforced walls," he muttered under his breath. "Steel beams intact. Good. Back lot's large enough for vehicle rotations. Discreet entry point."
He tapped his phone. "Code black. I need demolition prep on site 7A—South Dock warehouse. Bring in our usual crew. This place gets gutted and rebuilt under full silence protocol."
He hung up before waiting for confirmation. He trusted the right ears had heard.
From there, Ron visited three more locations, each more remote than the last. One had promising underground infrastructure—ideal for storage or temporary containment. Another had a direct sewage tunnel, perfect for quiet disposal. All the while, he kept one eye on his watch and the other on his surroundings.
By dusk, he'd shortlisted two viable sites. Files, blueprints, security layout drafts—everything was uploaded to a secure drive by the time he reached his private office. There, under low light and behind locked doors, Ron reviewed everything again.
He poured himself a glass of sake, untouched, as he placed a call to a voice only known as "Kaji."
"Facility transfer. Kang's orders. No mistakes."
A pause, then a chuckle on the other end. "Finally got tired of the blood on the roses?"
Ron didn't answer. "Get your best men. I want eyes, ears, and teeth on the new grounds within forty-eight hours."
He ended the call, letting the silence settle like ash.
Behind his stoic exterior, something itched. Not suspicion—he trusted Kang's instincts more than his own. But there was a shift in the air, a subtle recoil from brutality, not out of fear… but perhaps for something softer. Someone smaller.
Ron exhaled slowly, placing the untouched sake back on the table.
This wasn't just business anymore.
It was personal.
The sound came first.
The sharp thrum of engines. The low murmur of orders being exchanged. Footsteps—measured, professional. Not hurried, but purposeful.
Shan stood by the tall window, the silk curtain half-parted between his slender fingers. Outside, black vans lined the mansion's sweeping driveway like chess pieces. Uniformed men—some in discreet suits, others in plain cargo gear—moved quickly but silently, carrying boxes, equipment, and sealed crates into the mansion.
He blinked. "They're… moving things in?" he murmured, unsure if he was stating a fact or asking a question.
Davey, sitting cross-legged on the velvet chaise with Sang nestled against him, barely looked up from the file he was pretending to read. "More like moving us out."
Shan turned, startled. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Davey said, stretching dramatically before setting the papers down, "your little Alpha sugar daddy finally decided to rearrange his kingdom. Look outside, Shan. That's not furniture. That's infrastructure. Surveillance, files, probably safe room construction. You know—typical things you'd install when you're planning to move base or hide something valuable."
Shan frowned, stepping back from the window as if the sight itself unsettled him. "But… we just got here."
Davey arched an eyebrow. "Exactly. Which means whatever game Kang's playing, he's switching the rules again. And we're just the pawns being dragged along."
A pause. Shan looked at the child curled beside Davey, fast asleep after the turmoil of the last day. "He's doing this for Sang, isn't he?" His voice was quieter now, unsure.
Davey snorted, shifting so he didn't wake the boy. "Shan. Please. Don't start romanticizing the guy just because he gave your kid a gold-plated crib and moved a few ghosts out of the hallway."
Shan flinched, his mouth opening slightly—then shutting again.
Davey leaned forward, expression sharp with mock sympathy. "Oh no. Don't tell me. You think he's changed, don't you? Mister brooding Alpha in a three-piece suit suddenly grew a heart overnight and decided to play house?"
"I never said that," Shan said defensively.
"You didn't have to," Davey snapped. "I know that look. That 'maybe he's not so bad' look. That confused little flutter of an omega heart thinking—maybe the devil just needed love."
"Davey—"
"No. Let me finish." He stood up now, carefully laying Sang down on the plush chaise. His voice dropped, quieter but no less sharp. "You've been through hell. You've raised Sang with nothing but instinct and fear to guide you. You were strong, Shan. You ran. Do you remember that? You marked him during a rut, and then you ran. Because you knew better. You knew what that life would mean for your son. For you."
Shan looked away, his arms wrapping around himself, silence filling the space between them.
"And now," Davey continued, his voice softer, "you're standing in a mansion that looks like a goddamn museum, watching men move in high-grade security tech, and you think that's safety? That's not safety, Shan. That's containment. Kang Jin-ho doesn't build homes—he builds strongholds."
Shan's throat tightened. "Then why hasn't he locked us up yet?"
Davey's lips curved into a bitter smile. "Oh, he already has. You just haven't heard the door click."
The words landed with a heavy finality. Shan didn't answer.
A moment passed. Then Davey let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand through his disheveled hair.
"Still," he muttered, turning back toward the window, "at least the sheets are nicer than the ratty ones we had at the clinic."
Shan cracked a reluctant smile. "Yeah. Sang said they smell like flowers."
Davey smirked. "Probably imported. Kang wouldn't let his heir sleep on anything less than organic silk infused with rare northern blossoms or something."
Another pause. Then, under his breath, Davey added, "Maybe one day he'll be that thoughtful to you."
Shan's cheeks colored. "Davey—"
"I'm just saying," Davey interrupted with mock innocence, strolling toward the door, "if you're gonna get dragged into a cage, you might as well make the Alpha fall harder than you did."
And with that, he walked out, leaving Shan standing alone—confused, uncertain, and more than a little rattled by the truth buried under Davey's sarcasm.
Outside, the vans continued to unload. A new chapter was being written, brick by brick.
And somewhere in the mansion, Ren—no longer just an enforcer but a quiet architect of transition—was already executing Kang Jin-ho's orders to rebuild everything.
Not just for power.
But for something far more fragile. Something that might be called family.