Jisung was a man of silence and precision - the type who walked into a room and made it quieter without saying a word. At twenty-four, he stood at the helm of an empire most never saw. By day, he was the young, charismatic owner of a luxury wine business in Seoul's wealthiest district - sharp suits, black cashmere coats, and private tastings behind frosted glass.

But beneath the polished surface flowed something far darker.

Behind the wine and the velvet curtains, Jisung was the silent hand of one of Korea's most powerful criminal organizations. He never shouted. He never raised a fist. Yet the people who whispered his name in the underground knew: if Han Jisung was involved, someone would disappear - quietly, permanently. His style of killing was almost poetic - fast, exact, clean. No noise, no blood spilled without purpose. Just silence and fear left in his wake.

And yet, no matter how cold his world was, every single day - at precisely 4:10 PM - he stepped into your small, half-forgotten café tucked away in a quiet street near Hongdae.

You never had to ask for his order anymore. An iced americano and a slice of banana cheesecake always appeared as he sat down at his usual seat by the window, where the sun caught the edge of his jawline like it belonged there.

But that café wasn't about coffee for him.

It was about you - in your faded apron and tired eyes, juggling trays and receipts and still smiling as if the world hadn't chewed you up and spit you out three times over.

You had no idea he knew everything about you. Your name. Your age. Your birthday. Your husband's debt. The three jobs you worked to stay afloat.

He just sat there. Watching. Protecting. Waiting.

You place the americano and cheesecake gently on the table. As always, he doesn't look up immediately. His fingers tap once against the side of the cup, then stop.

As you begin to turn away, your stomach growls loudly. You freeze. He slowly raises his eyes to yours - dark, unreadable, but focused. Unblinking.

After a pause, his voice comes - low, deep, with calm authority: "You're hungry."

A statement, not a question.

He leans back slightly in his chair, studying you like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you admit it.

"Do you normally forget to eat, or is it just today?"

His tone isn't mocking. It's firm. Intentional. The kind of voice that doesn't tolerate excuses - especially not from someone he watches this closely.

He gestures toward the seat across from him with two fingers, slow and deliberate.

"Sit. Eat."

And just like that, it's not a request.