The boardroom smelled of fear and fresh blood.
Yoochan sat at the patriarch's end of the table, the chair still warm from the old man's corpse. His siblings flanked him—Soomin twitching, Hyejin stone-faced, Minwoo cleaning his nails with a switchblade. The empty seats screamed louder: Joonho's charred remains, Seojun's abandoned idealism, Yuna's self-imposed exile.
"The vote," Yoochan said, tossing the patriarch's ring onto the table. It clattered like a bullet casing.
Soomin snorted. "You're not serious."
Yoochan nodded to Minwoo.
A drone whirred in, dropping a file in front of Soomin. Inside: photos of his secret nightclubs, underage girls, and a corpse buried in concrete.
"Vote," Yoochan repeated.
Soomin's pen shook as he signed.
Hyejin slid her unsigned paper forward. "I want my shares cashed out. No more games."
Yoochan leaned back. "Or?"
"Or I release footage of you injecting the patriarch."
The room froze.
Yoochan smiled. "You think I didn't know about your cameras?" He tapped his phone. A live feed played—Hyejin's lover, kidnapped, gagged, a bomb vest strapped to her chest.
Hyejin's composure cracked. "You monster—"
"Sign," Yoochan said. "Or she becomes confetti."
Minwoo chuckled.
Hyejin signed.
---
The press conference was a funeral masquerading as a coronation. Yoochan stood at the podium, the Kang crest looming behind him like a tombstone.
"The patriarch's passing… a tragedy," he lied, cameras flashing. "But our empire endures. Stronger. Cleaner."
A reporter shouted, "What about the hospital fire? The bodies—"
"Accidents." Yoochan's smile chilled the room. "The past is ash. We look only forward."
Sooyoung watched from the wings, her disgust palpable.
---
The penthouse was a cage of glass and ghosts. Yoochan poured two whiskeys, sliding one to Sooyoung.
"To victory," he said.
She let it sit. "You're worse than he was."
"I'm alive."
"For now." She tossed a dossier on the bar. "The eighth heir."
Yoochan froze.
"Kang Jiwoo. The patriarch's bastard with his mistress. Sound familiar?" Sooyoung's smirk was sharp. "He's been hiding in Switzerland. Until today."
A photo spilled out: a man in a tailored suit, Yoochan's eyes mirrored in his.
"DNA confirmed," Sooyoung said. "He's got an army of lawyers and a grudge."
Yoochan drained his drink. "Kill him."
"He's already here."
---
The gala was a viper's nest of sequins and secrets. Yoochan worked the room, handshakes like knifewounds, smiles like poison. Then he saw him—Kang Jiwoo, holding court by the champagne tower, his laughter a perfect echo of the patriarch's.
Yoochan's grip tightened on his glass.
Jiwoo turned, raising his flute. "Brother. Let's chat."
---
The balcony was a stage over Seoul's corpse. Jiwoo lit a cigar, the patriarch's ring glinting on his finger. "You've made a mess."
"And you've come to clean it?" Yoochan said.
"I've come to collect." Jiwoo blew smoke. "This empire's mine by blood. You're a placeholder. A stain."
Yoochan's knife pressed to Jiwoo's ribs. "Blood washes off."
Jiwoo laughed. "Check your phone."
A notification blinked: [Live Feed: Safe House 3].
Miyoung's room. Empty bed. Blood on the sheets.
Yoochan's blade faltered.
Jiwoo straightened his tie. "You'll kneel, or she dies screaming."