. . . . . ☽◯☾╰──╮

Preview:

You recently got a job.

Or a contract. An opportunity.

You’re still not sure what to call it in this world—where money talks louder than names, and silence is worth more than a clean record.

What you do isn’t exactly legal, but it isn’t personal either.

It’s just numbers, systems, patterns. Open a gate, slide in, take what they want, get out.

This time, the client was a well-known mob boss from Mokpo. Mid-tier. No empire, but enough blood on his hands to make you consider turning it down.

Until you saw the pay.

And then—who the target was.

Jeon Jungkook.

You’d heard the name before, mostly in whispers. Stories passed between syndicates like ghost tales—of a man who ran Seoul’s underworld while smiling in boardrooms under the name of CEO.

No one dared touch him.

But you did.

You trusted your skills. Trusted the invisible fortress you’d built around your identity.

The job went smoother than you expected—he never even saw it coming.

A short window, less than eight minutes inside the firewalls. Long enough to copy fragments of a black ops program buried deep in a restricted zone.

You didn’t ask what it was. You never ask.

You took the payment in cash. No trace. No digital link.

And you hoped—God, you hoped—it wouldn’t come back to bite you in the ass.

Now you’re here again.

Mireu. Your Friday sanctuary. The one constant in a sea of chaos.

The place is loud tonight—laughter, music, the dull thud of fists connecting in the basement below. Some fresh meat is probably getting torn apart in the ring while the suits above cheer like they’ve earned it.

You’re not in the mood to watch tonight.

You sit at the bar, hood down, hands wrapped around a cold cocktail glass that sweats against your fingers. The ice clinks softly. You stir it once. Slowly. Like you’ve got nowhere to be and nothing to prove.

The bartender gives you a nod. He knows not to ask questions.

You scan the room out of habit. Not paranoia—just survival.

Drunken heirs. Off-duty guards. A few faces you recognize from past clients. None of them make you nervous.

But then—

A shadow enters.

It doesn’t walk. It arrives.

You don’t have to turn around to feel the shift. The air sharpens. Conversations dull. The bartender pauses in the middle of drying a glass. Even the floor seems to listen.

You glance at the mirror behind the bar.

There, framed in reflections and low light—him.

Jeon Jungkook.

╭──╯☽◯☾ . . . . .

⋮

Prologue :

Seoul’s skyline glittered like diamonds scattered on black velvet.

From the 62nd floor of NOX Industries, Jeon Jungkook watched the city through bulletproof glass. His reflection stared back at him: sharp eyes, slicked-back hair, the faint curve of a serpent’s tail coiling up the side of his neck from under his shirt collar.

Behind him, the boardroom buzzed with harmless chatter—directors talking projections, new contracts, foreign expansion.

But his mind was already elsewhere.

His phone buzzed twice. A silent code.

Breach confirmed. Internal. Level Red.

The glass in his hand cracked under the pressure of his grip, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even turn around.

He simply walked out.

[Time skip]

In a hidden office beneath one of his Itaewon clubs—far from cameras, journalists, and investors—Jeon Jungkook slammed a laptop shut.

His jaw was tense, knuckles white.

“Tell me exactly what was taken,” he said, voice low and calm. The kind of calm that meant something was about to bleed.

Across from him, Jinho, a former NIS agent turned enforcer, ran a gloved hand through his hair.

“Parts of Project Arès,” he said. “The core algorithm. Not the weapon itself, but enough to replicate or trace its existence. Whoever it was, they were fast. In and out before the system even pinged. We didn’t catch a signature, not even a shadow.”

Jungkook leaned back, expression unreadable. “So we have a ghost.”

Jinho hesitated. “Boss... what if it wasn’t just a hacker? What if this is a warning? Someone testing how deep they can cut before you bleed.”

Jungkook smiled without warmth. “Then we show them. I don’t bleed.”

One Week Later...

The city was quieter, but tension simmered beneath the surface.

Jungkook’s men had torn through every dark corner of Seoul’s underground: club basements, black market networks, illegal data vaults. He’d burned favors, paid off informants, even pulled strings in Busan.

Still nothing.

The breach had left no trail.

Until now.

In Jungkook's penthouse office, at midnight.

Rain pattered softly against the glass walls. Seoul stretched below him—neon, wet, alive.

Jungkook sat at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened, a dossier open in front of him. Strings of code and names, most of them crossed out. A glass of whiskey untouched beside his hand.

The door opened. Taesan entered, unannounced but expected.

“We found something,” he said.

Jungkook looked up slowly. “Speak.”

Taesan placed a photo and a slip of paper on the desk. “Anonymous hacker. No digital trace. No online identity. Operates offline only. Word is, they take contracts from mob bosses and underground syndicates—for a price.”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “Do they know what they stole?”

“No idea. But they don't work for free. Someone paid them—someone who knew what to ask for. And we found this.”

He slid a surveillance photo across the desk: a bar, low-lit, rustic. In the background, a figure leaned against the counter, hood up, face turned just enough to disappear into shadow.

“The hacker visits a bar called Mireu, every Friday. There’s an underground fight arena in the back. Rich gang leaders and private enforcers go to flex their power. But this one?”

Taesan tapped the figure. “They never fight. They just watch. Drink. Wait.”

Jungkook leaned forward, eyes on the image.

“Then that’s where I’ll go.”