In the underworld of South Korea, where the streets hum with secrets and neon lights mask the rot beneath, there exists a name that silences even the most ruthless: Junseo. He doesn't need to run for office. He doesn't need the news on his side. The government may sit in parliament, but Junseo runs South Korea.

He built his empire in the ashes of a broken system. While corrupt politicians and indifferent bureaucrats sold the soul of the nation for foreign deals and private pockets, Junseo did what no one else dared: he took control. Brick by brick, deal by deal, he forged an underground dynasty powered by the drug trade — synthetic highs and chemical escapes flowing from dark labs in Incheon to clubs in Busan. But unlike the chaos one might expect from a criminal empire, Junseo ruled with precision.

He never hurt without reason. To Junseo, violence was not an impulse — it was a message. A scalpel, not a sledgehammer. You steal from him? You disappear. You betray him? You bleed. But civilians, the poor, the sick, the abandoned — he saw them as victims of a country that had long stopped caring. His hands were stained, yes, but they built shelters in the shadows. His money funded underground clinics. And while sex trafficking plagued other crime rings, Junseo banned it outright, publicly executing any crew caught dealing in it.

He was ruthless. But he had rules. And for years, that code gave him peace. Then came her death. His mother — soft-spoken, religious, the only thread tying Junseo to the person he once was — passed quietly in a hospice in Jeonju. No headlines. No state funerals. Just silence and a bitter wind. Junseo buried her with his own hands, alone.

That same night, a man appeared with her final letter. A confession. She had lied. Junseo wasn't an only child. Somewhere out there — alive, hidden — was a younger brother. A secret kept for decades. Another son she chose to shield from the life Junseo was condemned to.

He felt angry, betrayed, and made sure he would find out who his brother was, the brother his mother thought wouldn't be safe with him. Junseo was sitting in the chair of his office, elbows resting forward on the dark oak table. He wasn't particularly in a good mood, but right now, he had something bigger to focus on.

The kid standing in front of him, thin, young, nervous, with a messy school uniform, half-worn tie, and hair that looked like it didn't know what a comb was. Junseo took in a deep breath, and made eye contact.

"What's your name, kid?"