The headquarters of Lian Logistics, a subsidiary that had once been the backbone of the family empire, stood like a gray monolith in the heart of the financial district. Today, it was a tomb. For years, the branch had been hemorrhaging money, its board of directors siphoning funds into private accounts while blaming the "economic climate."
Feng had given Lian this specific branch as a test—or perhaps as a way to bury him. It was a "gift" meant to humiliate. If he failed, he would be forced back into the role of the obedient, fragile son.
Lian stepped out of the car, the morning sun glinting off the sharp lines of his charcoal-gray suit. He wore black leather gloves—a necessary shield against the world. Every person he passed was a potential source of contact, a potential trigger for the psychological static that hummed in the back of his mind.
He walked through the lobby with a stride that made the security guards straighten their ties. He didn't look at them. He didn't smile. He radiated an aura of such absolute, crushing authority that the air seemed to thin around him.
The board meeting was already in session.
"He's eighteen," a voice boomed from behind the heavy oak doors of the conference room. This was Director Kang, a man who looked like a bulldog in a bespoke suit. "The Chairman is sending us a child to play house. We'll sign his papers, give him a candy bar, and send him back to his piano lessons."
The room erupted in muffled laughter.
The doors didn't open; they were slammed back by a force that made the hinges groan.
Lian walked in. The laughter died instantly. He didn't go to his designated seat. He walked straight to the head of the table, where Director Kang was sitting.
"Stand up," Lian said.
The words weren't loud, but they carried the weight of a guillotine blade.
Kang scoffed, though his hands were sweating. "Now look here, Young Master Lian. We have seniority here. You can't just—"
Lian didn't wait for him to finish. He leaned down, placing his gloved hands on the table. The proximity made Kang flinch, but Lian didn't touch him. He simply stared into the man's eyes.
"In the last three fiscal quarters," Lian began, his voice cold and clinical, "you've redirected four hundred million won into a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands under your mistress's maiden name. You've also been skimming five percent off the fuel contracts for the shipping fleet. You think because I was 'sick,' I was blind?"
The color drained from Kang's face. The other directors shifted in their seats, their eyes darting toward the exits.
"I am not here to 'play house', Director Kang," Lian continued, straightening up. "I am here to perform an amputation. This branch is infected with parasites. And I am the surgeon."
He tossed a thick stack of folders onto the table. They slid across the polished wood, stopping perfectly in front of each director.
"Those are your resignation letters," Lian stated. "Sign them, and I might forget to hand over the evidence of your embezzlement to the prosecution. Refuse, and you'll spend the next twenty years in a cell small enough to make you miss this boardroom."
"You can't do this!" another director shouted, his voice cracking. "The Chairman won't allow a mass resignation! It'll tank the stock!"
Lian turned his gaze to the man. "The stock is already dead. I'm here to resurrect it. As for the Chairman... he gave me this branch to see if I could survive. He didn't realize I was the one who was going to make him pray for his own survival."
One by one, the pens began to move. The sound of scratching ink was the only thing heard in the room. Lian watched them with a detached, cruel boredom. He felt the old body's heart racing—the social pressure and the proximity to these men were clawing at his nerves—but he channeled that energy into a terrifying, still mask.
When the last paper was signed, Lian gestured to the door. "Get out. Leave your badges on the table. If I see any of you on Lian property after today, I will consider it trespassing."
As they filed out, defeated and terrified, Lian finally sat down. He was alone in the massive room. The silence was heavy. He pulled off one glove, his hand shaking slightly. He stared at his pale skin, the blue veins visible through the porcelain surface.
'One step,' he thought. 'The logistics arm is the veins of the city. Once I control the veins, I control the lifeblood.'
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady his breathing. The "Extreme Loneliness" he felt wasn't softened by victory. If anything, it was sharpened. He had just cleared a room of people, and the emptiness left behind was a physical ache. He was building an empire, but who would stand beside a king who couldn't be touched?
Suddenly, the intercom buzzed.
"Sir? There's a delivery for you," his new secretary's voice came through, sounding hesitant. "It's... it's unusual."
"I told you no distractions," Lian snapped.
"I know, sir, but it's a single black orchid. And there's a note."
Lian frowned. He walked to the door and opened it. On the desk sat a flower that looked like it was carved from midnight. He picked up the small card tucked into the petals.
"A sharp move with the directors, Little Phoenix. But a surgeon should know that when you cut out a heart, you have to replace it with something. Otherwise, the body just stays cold. See you soon."
There was no signature. Just a small, hand-drawn sketch of a fox's head.
Lian felt a chill that wasn't from the Haphephobia. He crushed the card in his hand, his eyes scanning the empty hallway. Someone was watching him. Someone who knew his moves before he even made them.
He threw the orchid into the trash and turned back to his desk. His empire wouldn't wait for mysteries. But for the first time since his rebirth, a flicker of something other than pain or ambition stirred in his chest.
It was a challenge.