Rain hammered the asphalt in Incheon, neon lights fragmented across puddles. Lee Jae‑min exited the sleek sedan with deliberate control, dark hair plastered to his forehead, suit crisp despite the downpour. No hesitation as he approached the Velvet Orchid. Three shots—quick, precise—ended Sung‑woo’s betrayal. Blood pooled beneath the shoelight while rain washed it away. Silence swallowed his footsteps. The funeral hush of inaction remained as Lee returned to the car. Choi Soo‑jin leaned forward. “Hyungnim, it’s done.” Kim Dong‑ho stared ahead, expression unchanging. “No loose ends.” Their voices were quiet, professional. Loyalty sealed by violence, hierarchy absolute.

A few blocks away, beyond chaos, the alley breathed. Under a malfunctioning lamp was a boy curled on cardboard. Blonde hair, soaked and tangled, plastered to his face. His gaze was sharp, alert; his shoulders stiff with tension. Lee’s car slowed. He stepped out into the rain and didn’t wait. He knelt, extending a gloved hand. “Walk.” Linh rose without flinching—lean frame, coiled energy. The crew watched as their boss guided the boy into the car. A silent statement made. Inside, footsteps echoed.

Dong‑ho whispered, “Boss’s new bodyguard?” His tone asked whether this was mercy or madness. Soo‑jin answered, voice flat: “Street kid survived this long. That means strength.” Linh said nothing. His silence spoke louder than any words. The car moved on through flickering lights. Lee looked at Linh seated across from him—boy from dust, child of survival. No pity; only mutual recognition. That moment marked the fragile alignment of power and vulnerability. Inside the Velvet Orchid, music throbbed through stained glass. Lee and his men entered the smoky interior. Laughter and drunken song collided from private booths.

Soo‑jin approached the barkeep, collected the blinds, and scanned the room: a show of dominance. Lee followed without words, the staff parting like the sea. Linh watched from a corner—wide-eyed, silent, unseen yet present. Linh observed the boss with careful eyes: the way Lee’s fingers tapped the mahogany bar rail, the tension in his jaw as he surveyed the room, how his posture shifted when someone disrespected his men. Lee noticed Linh’s gaze. Their eyes briefly met. Linh looked away first. Later, when Soo‑jin offered Linh a drink—just water—Linh nodded. Their hands brushed. Linh’s grip tightened on the cup. It was nothing, yet it felt like something. Soo‑jin cleared his throat: “You were out there in the storm.” Linh’s reply was simple: “Rain doesn’t kill me.” That earned quiet respect. Soo‑jin relayed it later to Lee: “He’s quiet. Strong.” Lee’s only response was sharp, unreadable. In the back office, Lee removed his gloves. The tattooed lines on his forearms—the Chil Sung Pa emblem—glimmered under soft light. He leaned back, listening as Linh came in. No recognition of status, only presence. Linh stood behind: tall, silent. Lee’s pulse quickened—not with affection, not yet—but at the possibility of connection. He spoke: “Linh.”

No honorific. Linh bowed his head. Lee added: “Watch.” Two words. Linh understood. Their bond began on those syllables. As dawn approached, the sedan cut through neon shadows. Lee reviewed dossiers, territory lines, the threat matrix. Linh sat quietly. In a different world, Linh might have seen privilege or ownership around the long polished table. But here, power was silent. Still. Calculated. Linh leaned back, rainwater dripping off his collar. Lee glanced his way. A flicker of something new: curiosity, maybe something unspoken. In silence they traveled. Rain battered the windows. Outside submerged world melted into sheets of droplets. Inside, something fragile glowed between them—recognition, not redemption; necessity, not instant trust.

The morning light filtered weakly through the rain-streaked windows of the Velvet Orchid’s back office. The storm had passed, but the air still hung heavy with damp and tension. Lee Jae-min sat behind his desk, the faint scent of cigarette smoke curling around him like a second skin. Across from him, Linh stood rigid, his damp blonde hair still clinging to his forehead, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Lee’s dark gaze measured the boy. “You’ve been quiet.”

Linh’s voice was calm, steady. “I listen.”

A thin smile ghosted Lee’s lips. “Good. That’s the first thing you need here.” He paused, fingers tapping lightly on the mahogany surface. “Strength alone won’t keep you alive in this world. You need more—patience, control, loyalty.”

Linh shifted his weight but remained silent.

Lee reached into the drawer and pulled out a small black handgun. He slid it deliberately across the desk. “Learn to use this.”

Linh’s eyes flicked to the weapon, then back to Lee. Without hesitation, he reached out, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. His grip was steady, but there was something tentative in the way he held it—a mix of respect and curiosity.

“This isn’t a toy,” Lee said, voice low and hard. “It’s a tool. A means to protect yourself—and me.”

Linh nodded slowly, eyes never leaving Lee’s. “I understand.”

Lee leaned forward, the room narrowing to the space between them. “From this moment on, you’re not just a stray kid from the streets. You’re my bodyguard.”

The words landed with weight. Linh’s jaw tightened, but his posture didn’t falter. “Why me?” His voice was quiet but direct.

Lee’s eyes sharpened. “Because you have something the others don’t—discipline. You watch, wait, and when it’s time, you act. That kind of control is rare. You survived alone for a reason.”

Linh’s fingers tightened on the gun. “I won’t fail you.”

A flicker of something—approval, perhaps—passed through Lee’s eyes. “Good. Failure in this world means more than losing a fight. It means death. For you, for me, for everyone who follows this path.”

At that moment, Soo-jin knocked lightly and entered, his eyes curious but respectful. “Boss, the men are ready.”

Lee stood smoothly, the faint outline of his tattoo visible as he rolled up his sleeves. He gestured toward Linh. “Come. It’s time you meet the crew.”

As they moved through the Velvet Orchid’s smoky interior, Linh’s senses sharpened—the low hum of whispered conversations, the heavy scent of whiskey and cigarettes, the sharp glances from men who understood the weight of power.

The crew parted with a respectful nod as Lee and Linh passed. Soo-jin leaned toward Linh and whispered, “This is where you step up. Where you show them who you are.”

Linh nodded, feeling the weight of the moment settle into his bones.

Lee glanced back at him. “Stay close. Watch, learn, protect.”

Linh’s sharp eyes met Lee’s, no words needed.

Outside, the city breathed on—neon flickering through puddles, the quiet after the storm. Inside, a new chapter had begun. Not born of mercy, but necessity; not trust, but respect.

Linh was no longer just a survivor. He was part of something greater. A bodyguard. A soldier in the silent war that shaped shadows.

And as the rain dried on the streets of Incheon, Linh understood one thing clearly: this was only the beginning.

The night outside was dark and still, but inside the Velvet Orchid, the air was thick with smoke and quiet tension. Linh stood near the window, watching the rain begin again, soft drops tapping the glass. His eyes didn’t leave Lee Jae-min, who sat alone at the bar, his face calm but sharp, like a statue carved from stone.

Linh didn’t want to admit it, but every time he looked at Lee, his heart skipped a little. It was confusing. He wasn’t used to feeling this way. Back on the streets, feelings were dangerous — they made you weak, made you easy to hurt.

But here, with Lee, things felt different.

Lee was strong and cold, a man who ruled with power and control. Yet Linh saw moments that no one else did. The way Lee’s eyes softened when he thought no one was watching. The quiet way he said Linh’s name sometimes, without the usual respect or distance. Those little things made Linh’s chest tighten.

One night, after a long day of meetings and plans, Linh was by Lee’s side as usual. Lee handed him a folder filled with papers. Their fingers brushed for a moment — just a quick touch, nothing more. But Linh felt it deeply, like a spark in the dark.

He looked away quickly, heart pounding.

Linh told himself it was nothing. Just a touch. But the truth was hard to ignore.

When Lee wasn’t looking, Linh studied him. How he moved, steady and sure. How his jaw tensed when something upset him. How his eyes could be sharp like a knife, but also hold quiet sadness.

Linh kept these thoughts locked inside. He didn’t want anyone to know. In this world, feelings were dangerous. They could be used against you. But Linh couldn’t stop his mind from wandering to Lee, even when he tried.

One evening, Linh stood guard outside the Velvet Orchid, rain falling hard now. He saw Lee step outside for a moment, looking up at the sky. For a second, Lee’s usual strong mask slipped. His eyes were tired, almost soft.

Linh wanted to say something, anything. But the words caught in his throat.

Instead, he stayed silent, standing close like always, ready to protect him.

Linh knew Lee didn’t ask for this. No one did. But Linh was learning that protecting Lee meant more than just fighting enemies. It meant being close, watching, understanding.

And maybe, just maybe, it meant feeling something new and dangerous—something he couldn’t name.

Linh swallowed hard. He had no idea what would happen next. But one thing was clear: his loyalty ran deeper than duty. It had become something personal, something he kept hidden like a secret flame.

As the rain washed the city clean, Linh promised himself he would guard that secret, no matter what. Wind, hail or storm, I will never let him find out…I love him, he saved me.