The morning light spilled cold across Rin's desk, casting long shadows over the files he'd stacked neatly like weapons.
Than's message had been a warning. But Rin wasn't afraid. Not anymore.
He knew the battlefield had changed.
He stared at the phone, finger hovering over the screen. The words replayed in his mind: "I'll destroy everything you touch." Empty threats, or a promise?
He typed a reply, deleted it.
Typed again, then deleted again.
Silence was better than giving Than the satisfaction of a reaction. But the silence between them had turned sharp, no longer absence, but a blade.
Kieran had sent a cautious text hours ago. "Careful. Than's playing a dangerous game."
But Rin wasn't playing games. Not with Than.
This wasn't about revenge. It wasn't about pride.
It was survival now.
Instead, he leaned in deeper. Printed more reports. Dug into the financials. The security logs. Employee records. Anything that would give him leverage, not against the company, but against the man who ran it like a kingdom. Who believed he could crown and crush as he pleased.
He needed to hit back, and not just with words.
If Than wanted war, Rin would give it to him.
Only this time, it would be quiet.
Precise.
Untraceable.
At HanCorp, the atmosphere had shifted.
Than's usual ironclad presence was fading. His once-confident steps were slower, less certain. There were bags under his eyes he no longer tried to conceal. His voice, when it echoed across the conference room, sounded clipped. Not cold–brittle.
The board meetings were different, too–less about commands, more about damage control.
Whispers followed Than wherever he went, and Rin could see the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. The CEO mask was cracking, and underneath it was someone bleeding control, one subtle leak at a time.
Today, Rin's name was mentioned more than once.
A subtle exclusion here, a cold glance there.
People were choosing sides–they just didn't know it yet.
But Rin played it calm. Professional. Untouchable.
He smiled politely when colleagues avoided him.
He answered every email with a neutral precision that grated on Than's nerves. That was the only game Rin was still willing to play–perfection. Clean hands. Eyes wide open.
His silence echoed louder than any accusation.
He noticed when the assistant who used to bring him coffee every morning had been reassigned.
He noticed when his project updates were delayed in the system by a day– two-three.
He noticed when his access to internal data sets was "temporarily restricted."
It was petty.
And it was strategic.
Than wasn't coming for him in public.
He was dismantling Rin piece by piece, out of sight.
And still–Rin didn't flinch.
That afternoon, Rin's phone buzzed with a cryptic message.
"Coffee. 5 PM. The usual place."
No signature.
But he didn't need one.
Rin's stomach clenched. Kieran.
The café sat tucked beneath a faded building near the edge of the city–far enough from the chaos to feel like another world. The chairs always creaked, and the coffee wasn't great, but the silence here was sacred.
Kieran looked tired, his usual spark dimmed, suit wrinkled, dark circles blooming beneath his eyes.
"Than's tightening the screws," Kieran said. "No threats this time. Moves in the shadows."
Rin raised an eyebrow. "What kind of moves?"
"Sabotage. Not physical. Professional. Blocking your projects, spreading rumors, isolating you."
Rin nodded. "I've noticed."
Kieran's eyes narrowed. "You need allies."
"I have some." Rin's voice was low, careful.
"But not enough. Than's got more reach than you think."
"I know," Rin said quietly. Then, after a beat, "Then I have to make him reach too far."
Kieran exhaled, rubbing his face. "You're not scared."
"I am," Rin admitted. "But I'm used to it now."
He didn't say it–that fear had become background noise. That Than's voice in his head used to hold warmth, and now it was razor-sharp.
Kieran leaned forward. "There's talk about digging into your background."
"Let them dig."
"There are pieces you don't want them finding."
"I know," Rin said again. "But I'm not the only one with skeletons."
Back in his apartment, Rin set the scene.
He turned off his phone. Locked the door. Pulled the curtains.
He laid out every piece of evidence he'd gathered, every connection, every potential weakness. The email logs. The flagged transactions. The hiring discrepancies. The HR complaints buried under confidentiality clauses.
He called a trusted contact–a lawyer who owed him a favor–and began the slow work of building a legal shield.
It wasn't just defense anymore.
It was preparation for an offensive.
A truth bomb with a long fuse.
It was a game of patience, but Rin was ready.
Than thought he could crush him with fear.
Rin would crush Than with truth.
But truth didn't always roar.
Sometimes, it slipped in through the cracks and burned everything down quietly.
Days passed in a blur of meetings, calls, and silent confrontations.
Than's messages stopped coming.
But Rin knew the silence was louder than any threat.
It meant Than was thinking. Calculating.
It meant Than was losing control.
And when a man like Than loses control, he stops using his hands–and starts using fire.
One evening, as Rin left the office, he found a single envelope slipped under his door.
No note. No name.
Just weight. Still. Waiting.
Inside, a photo of Jun.
Burned at the edges.
A familiar face from a chapter Rin never reopened.
His heart hammered. Fingers clenched around the scorched corners.
He hadn't spoken of Jun in years.
No one should have access to this. No one should know.
But Than knew.
Because Than remembered everything Rin had buried.
Rin stood frozen in the hallway, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly.
This wasn't a threat. It was a reminder.
Than was still watching.
Still fighting.
Still dangerous.
But so was Rin.
He slipped the envelope back into his briefcase, eyes blank, pulse steady. Fear was too expensive now– he couldn't afford it.
He locked the door behind him with care.
Sat in the silence of his apartment, the city alive just beyond the windows.
That night, Rin stared at the photo long after the room had gone dark.
His thumb traced the burned edges.
He whispered, "This isn't over."
Because deep down, neither of them wanted it to be.
They had loved each other with knives.
And now they were cutting with silence.