Morning light filtered through the grand windows of the Kang mansion, illuminating dust motes dancing over polished marble. The quiet hum of efficient servants preparing breakfast was shattered by a heavy thud and a groan from the hallway.
Dr. Kang Taewoo, stumbling from his room with sleep still clinging to him, found himself pinned against the wall by a muscular arm.
"Yah, Taewoo! Look at this face! Perfect for a morning greeting!"
Taewoo blinked, vision clearing to reveal his older brother, Doyoon, grinning down at him. "Brother… you're heavy," Taewoo mumbled, pushing at the solid chest. "Get off."
Doyoon, entirely unbothered, grabbed Taewoo's face with both hands, squishing his cheeks. "No, no, stay still. This expression… the exhausted, 'I-hate-the-world' glint in your eyes… it's perfect. My new webtoon villain has a tragic doctor backstory. You're my muse."
"I'm not your muse, I'm your brother who needs coffee," Taewoo grumbled, finally shoving him away. He tried to sidestep, only to freeze.
Leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, was his father. Kang Jaesung, a man whose "retirement" did nothing to soften the air of lethal calm around him. A slow, devilish smile spread across his face.
"Father?" Taewoo's sleepiness evaporated, replaced by instinctual wariness.
"Yah, kid," Jaesung's voice was deceptively light. "It's a holiday. You know what that means."
A cold sweat broke out on Taewoo's neck. Without a word, he dropped to the floor in the middle of the hallway.
"One hundred push-ups! One hundred sit-ups! One hundred squats!" Taewoo announced, his voice tight, already beginning the punishing routine their father had instituted in their youth for "disciplinary maintenance."
Jaesung watched, that same terrifying smile in place. Another brother, Junseo, emerged from a room, smelling faintly of coffee beans. "Ah, just got off my early cafe shift. Morning, Dad. Morning, muse." He nodded at the suffering Taewoo.
The family butler, an elderly man with an immaculate suit and an unflappable demeanor, appeared. "Master, breakfast is ready."
"We'll be right there," Jaesung said, his eyes still on his youngest son, now sweating through his exercises. "Don't slack off, Taewoo. Your form is pathetic."
A third brother swooped in, helping a dramatically weary Taewoo to his feet once the count reached one hundred. "Come on, Dad, he's done. Let the doctor eat."
The grand dining hall table was a study in controlled chaos. At the head sat Kang Jaesung, ex-mafia legend, whose presence commanded silence. To his right, his wife, Kang Yoonhee, a CEO fashion designer with the elegant poise of an ice queen and a gaze that could dissect a Paris collection—or a misbehaving child—in seconds.
Flanking them were their children:
Kang Junseo (3rd son), 28, cafe owner, pragmatic and calm.
Kang Doyoon (5th son), 25, a wildly successful but perpetually distracted manhwa artist.
Kang Taewoo (6th son), 26, doctor, and currently the focal point of paternal disappointment.
Servants laid out an elaborate spread, but the real meal was the conversation.
"Taewoo," Jaesung began, spreading jam with deliberate slowness. "I told you to open your own clinic. A private practice. Something with your name on it."
Taewoo poked at his eggs. "I don't need that."
Doyoon snorted, not looking up from his sketchpad. "He doesn't need it because he's perfectly happy being the lowest-ranked attending at Seoul General. It's almost artistic, the level of wasted potential."
"I told you all," Taewoo said, his voice low, "I don't want to play the career ladder game. The politics, the sucking up… it makes me sick."
Their mother, Yoonhee, reached over to pat his hand, her expression one of delicate sorrow. "My poor boy. The hospital doesn't appreciate your gentle soul."
Jaesung's knife clinked sharply against his plate. "Gentle soul? Where the hell did this one come from?" he grumbled, gesturing at Taewoo with the butter knife. "Look at the rest of you. Ambitious. Driven. This one acts like he was raised by forest spirits."
Yoonhee arched a perfect eyebrow. "He came from my stomach, obviously. And he has my sensitive artistic temperament."
"Aham," Jaesung muttered, unconvinced.
Junseo, ever the mediator, chimed in. "But I've heard from my customers at the cafe near the hospital. They say Dr. Kang is the best. Hardworking, kind to patients. A truly good person."
Taewoo's head snapped up, a flicker of genuine annoyance in his eyes. "A good person? My foot. I just do the job so I can come home and be left alone."
"See! That grimace!" Doyoon exclaimed, his pencil flying across the page. "That 'the-world-is-a-trash-fire' look! I'm using this. My villain's monologue is writing itself."
"Stop using my life for your comics!"
The dining room doors burst open with a flourish. Two new figures entered, trailing glamour like capes. Kang Yura (2nd child), a renowned actress and model, and Kang Jiho (4th child), a globally famous K-pop idol, both wearing designer travel clothes and large sunglasses they removed in sync, revealing beautifully emotive, slightly tearful eyes.
"Mother! Father!" they chorused.
Yoonhee was out of her seat in an instant, enveloping them in a scented hug. "Oh, my babies! My stars! I've missed you both terribly!"
The reunion was a whirlwind of exaggerated kisses, dramatic sighs, and compliments. Taewoo watched, his earlier annoyance settling into deep, profound second-hand embarrassment. "They're overreacting," he muttered to his eggs.
His father, still seated, received his hugs from behind his chair. A genuine, soft smile touched the old man's stern features. "Yura. Jiho. It's been a while."
"We missed you, Dad!" Jiho said, his idol smile radiant.
Yoonhee held Yura's face. "And my grandchildren? How are my angels?"
"They're perfectly fine, Eomma. Still in Canada with their father for the school term. They send their love."
As the new arrivals settled and breakfast resumed, a heavier silence descended. Jaesung cleared his throat, commanding attention. "An old friend of mine informed me he will be visiting today. From Italy."
Yoonhee's spoon stilled. "He's coming here?"
"Yes. With his middle son."
Junseo brightened. "Do they like pastries? I can prepare a selection from the cafe."
"That would be good," Jaesung nodded.
Jiho leaned forward, starry-eyed. "Is this the man you always mentioned, Dad? The one who was with you when you were… you know… the 'business guild' leader?"
A flash of pride, fierce and wild, passed over Jaesung's face. "Yes. In our prime, no one could touch us. Side by side, it was…" He clenched a fist, the knuckles white. "Things had a way of getting done. Permanently."
"What happened?" Junseo asked, the question simple and blunt.
The pride vanished. The dining room plunged into cold quiet. Jaesung's gaze drifted to his wife. Yura, Jiho, and Junseo instinctively followed his look.
Yoonhee's beautiful, icy composure didn't crack, but the temperature around her seemed to drop ten degrees. "Why is everyone looking at me?" Her voice was dangerously soft.
Jaesung sighed, a rough, tired sound. "It was… good to step away from certain things. For the family."
Yoonhee met his gaze, her eyes holding a complex history of fear, relief, and steely resolve. "Yes. It was."
They looked at each other for a long moment, a silent conversation passing between them—one filled with memories of gunfire and silk, of danger and hard-won safety.
"Let's just forget about it," they said in unison, turning back to their plates.
The children—Taewoo, Junseo, Doyoon, Yura, Jiho—exchanged a loaded glance. Some family stories were written in whispers and shadows, not in manhwa panels or on film reels.
As Taewoo stood to escape, Doyoon's hand clamped onto his shoulder.
"Ah-ah, not so fast, my dear little brother. We have a collaboration session. My readers need to see the depth of the villain's torment." His grip was surprisingly strong for an artist.
Taewoo looked at him with the hopeless expression of a man being led to his doom. "Doyoon, no…"
"Doyoon, yes!" his brother sang, steering him firmly out of the dining room and toward his studio.
Back at the table, Jaesung watched them go, his earlier softness gone, replaced by a calculating look. His old friend was coming from Italy. The past wasn't just visiting; it was knocking on his door, and it had brought the next generation with it. He had a feeling his most stubborn, secretive son was about to be thrust from the sidelines directly into the heart of a storm he didn't even know was brewing.