Threads of Deception
The elevator hummed, a sleek, slow-moving cage ascending to the 45th floor of Golden Media Group's headquarters. Lee stood at the center, the clipboard clutched so tightly his knuckles were white. He was breathing the recirculated, sanitized air of the tower, yet he felt the gritty texture of the peonies, the sting of Leejoon's words, and the heavy weight of the disguise clinging to his skin.
They are all closing in, he thought, watching the floor numbers crawl. The moment of exposure is now a clock ticking, not a distant threat.
The elevator doors slid open with an almost theatrical hush.
"Lee," came a deep, familiar voice that instantly raised the alarm bells in his mind.
Han Doyun, the CEO, stood waiting. His suit was impeccable, but his gaze was sharp, fixed, and utterly invasive. Lee immediately registered the danger: the CEO wasn't just summoning him; he was claiming him the moment he stepped off the elevator.
"I've assigned you to assist me directly today," Han Doyun stated, his voice devoid of warmth. "You will not only shadow me; you will anticipate my movements. My calendar is yours to memorize."
Lee bowed stiffly, his spine aching from the forced composure. "Sir, I'm afraid I have deadlines for the winter campaign."
"I don't recall asking for your scheduling advice," the CEO cut in, his eyes narrowing slightly, a subtle warning. "Your prior duties are now secondary. Your primary role is to learn how to master the chaos of power. Now, follow."
Lee obeyed, walking into the vast office that felt less like a workspace and more like a fortress. The air was rich with musk and the metallic tang of hidden ambition.
Han Doyun walked to his crystal decanter, pouring a glass without looking at Lee. "Eight months. That's how long you've been here. And in that time, I have been trying to decipher you."
He turned, the glass held loosely in his hand. "Tell me something, Lee. Do you enjoy the performance? The way you minimize yourself, always the observer, never the star? Why do you voluntarily seek out the shadows?"
Lee fought to keep his breathing even. "I am focused on my career, Sir. I believe professionalism requires discretion."
"Discretion? Or fear?" Han Doyun walked around his desk, moving slowly, deliberately, forcing Lee to hold his ground. "Most of the young men here are like hungry dogs. They trip over themselves for attention. You, however, move like a shadow. I admire the discipline. But when one possesses such sharp eyes, such refined taste, such a fascinating personal life, one should not be so shy."
Lee's chest tightened. He's talking about Lia.He knows.
"I can see how my daughter looks at you," the CEO continued, his voice dropping slightly, now fully intimate and inappropriate. "She thinks you are a conquest. She thinks you are hers to possess."
Lee swallowed hard. "Sir, Miss Jisoo is my supervisor."
"She is a spoiled child. I, however, am a collector." Han Doyun stopped inches away. "And you, Lee, are a particularly complex piece. You hide behind other people's beauty, yet you inspire a fascination that is highly distracting to my staff. Including myself."
He reached out, his fingers brushing the fabric of Lee's shirt near his shoulder, a proprietary touch that sent a shiver of revulsion down Lee's spine. "Don't mistake my interest for mere professional patronage. I see the ambition beneath the politeness. I see the need. And I intend to satisfy it, and control it."
Before Lee could articulate a defense, a loud, sharp knock on the door broke the tension.
"Dad! I need the revised expense reports. You can stop grooming Lee for five minutes, the boy looks terrified," Minah (Jisoo) declared, sweeping in with her characteristic high-drama entrance. She paused, surveying the tense atmosphere. "Oh, did I interrupt something vital? Too bad."
Han Doyun's jaw tightened. "Get out, Jisoo. Now is not the time for your temper tantrums."
"It's always time for my tantrums when you start poaching my staff," she retorted, but she tossed the folder onto his desk. To Lee, she offered a sickly sweet, knowing smile. "Don't worry, Lee. I'll make sure my father doesn't work you so hard that you forget your other assignments. We can't have your talent wasted on his drab suits, can we?"
The veiled reference to Lia, to the high-fashion work Lee did in his other life, was a chilling reminder that the daughter was just as observant, if not as subtle, as the father. Lee felt suffocated by the competing demands.
He followed Han Doyun out, the promotion feeling less like an opportunity and more like a shackle forged in gold.
The Exhibition: The Scent of Danger
That evening, the transformation into Lia was not a release, but a burden. The crimson silk felt heavy, the heels precarious. He was scheduled for the underground art exhibition, a place he now knew was Leejoon's hunting ground.
The gallery was a symphony of modern texture and scent: rough concrete, smooth leather, the acrid bite of oil paint, and the dizzying mix of designer colognes.
Lia walked in, and her breath immediately hitched. He was there.
Leejoon was leaning against a pillar, entirely in black. He hadn't moved since she entered, but his eyes tracked her perfectly. He looked less like a guest and more like the inevitable conclusion to a bad decision.
Lia approached him, needing to break the silent surveillance. Her heels clicked with sharp purpose.
"You have terrible manners, Leejoon," Lia stated, her voice cool and steady. "You scare off the guests, and you stare."
"I stare because you require inspection," Leejoon countered, his voice a low thrum. "And I don't apologize for my manners. I apologize only for my mistakes. You are not one of them."
"Your presence here is a mistake," Lia insisted. "This is a legitimate art event. You are disrupting the atmosphere with your… scent."
He smiled, a flicker of genuine amusement that was rare and deeply unsettling. "My scent? Are you referring to the tobacco, or the residual metallic note of justice?"
Lia met his gaze. "I'm referring to the chaos you bring. You promised me a private gig. You promised me separation."
"I promised you nothing but my attention," Leejoon corrected, stepping closer. "And here it is, undivided. Why are you here, Lia? Why do you risk exposure in places you know are monitored?"
"I have bills," she said, the lie feeling thin and ragged.
"The lie is dull," he said, shaking his head slightly. "You don't risk exposure for money. You risk it for the feeling of being caught. You want someone to confirm the danger you're in."
Before she could form a reply, chaos erupted. The shout, the glint of the weapon, the instantaneous eruption of panic.
Leejoon was gone. Lee watched, transfixed and horrified, as the man who terrified her moved with a grace that was beautiful in its lethality, resolving the entire crisis in under ten seconds. The weapon was taken, the man subdued, and the blood, this time, was minimal.
When Leejoon straightened, his eyes immediately found hers across the stunned, silent room.
Lia walked toward him, her crimson dress catching the emergency lights. She ignored the police and the onlookers. She only saw the small, shallow cut on his knuckles.
"You're bleeding," she whispered, her voice husky with concern.
"I've had paper cuts worse than this," Leejoon dismissed, his tone harsh, pushing her away emotionally. He was trying to be "hard to get," but the genuine weariness in his eyes betrayed him.
"You were protecting me," Lia accused, not asking a question.
"I was securing my investment," he lied easily. "You are valuable, Lia. Don't flatter yourself."
He reached into his jacket pocket. He didn't pull out the pouch; he pulled out the necklace itself, the silver geometric charm cool against his skin.
"Take it," he commanded, his voice suddenly rougher. "It's a tracker. A simple, encrypted frequency. Wear it. If you ever leave this city without telling me, I will know."
Lia stared at the silver. The command was brutal, the reason terrifying. He wanted to own her movements.
"Is that all this is?" she asked, her voice trembling. "A leash?"
Leejoon let the necklace dangle for a second, then his face softened, the mafia heir mask dropping to reveal the troubled man beneath. "Lia, everyone else will see a beautiful model, or a pretty boy assistant, or an asset they want to break. I see the pain. I see the burden of two lives. I am giving you a tether, not a leash. Wear it because I don't know how to stop watching you."
He pressed the cool silver into her palm.
"I don't care what your secret is," he finished, his eyes boring into hers. "I care that you keep running from the only person who can keep you safe."
Lia felt the metal warm against her skin. It was an impossible choice: a killer offering protection, or safety through continued lies.
"I have to go," she whispered, unable to breathe. "I can't be seen with you here anymore."
Leejoon nodded, accepting the boundary. "Go. But call me when you take the armor off. Let me hear the boy speak."
She fled the exhibition, the necklace clutched in her hand. Back in her apartment, as the disguise came off, Lee looked at the silver chain. It was an object of surveillance, an instrument of fear, and yet, the first sincere promise of protection he had ever received.
He didn't put it on. Not yet. He placed it on his nightstand, a constant, glowing reminder of the deadly choice he was falling into.
The silence of his apartment felt like a momentary reprieve, but Lee knew the peace wouldn't last. The cold war between the CEO's possessive claim and Leejoon's dangerous protection had officially begun.