Han Minjae did not need to raise his voice to be feared.
Fear followed him the way shadows followed light—silent, unavoidable, absolute.
In the underground world of power, wealth, and blood-soaked loyalty, his name alone was enough to still breathing. Han Minjae. A name whispered in boardrooms and back alleys alike. A name that made grown men straighten their spines and criminals rethink their lives. People said he could end a life with the snap of his fingers—not because he enjoyed killing, but because he did not hesitate. Hesitation was weakness, and weakness had never survived long in the Han family.
Those who wanted his favor would trample each other without a second thought. Alliances shattered. Families broke. Brothers betrayed brothers. All for a single nod from Han Minjae, for the possibility of being seen by him.
And yet, no one truly knew him.
He was an enigma—cold, ruthless, distant. His power could not be measured in money alone, nor influence. It was something deeper, heavier. Something that pressed down on everyone in the room when he entered, like the air itself had grown denser.
The Han Corporation stood at the peak of the country's economy, a towering empire built on decades of merciless decisions and strategic cruelty. It had been founded by his grandfather, Han Taesung—the patriarch whose name was etched into history like a scar. Taesung was a legend, feared even in his old age, and for years the question of succession had hovered over the family like an executioner's blade.
Many had tried to earn the patriarch's recognition.
Only Minjae had succeeded.
From the time he was a child, Minjae had been different. Where others laughed, he observed. Where others panicked, he calculated. At twelve, he had calmly dismantled a rival family's business plan during a private dinner, exposing flaws seasoned executives had missed. At sixteen, he had negotiated a deal that tripled profits while quietly bankrupting the opposing side. At twenty, his grandfather had looked at him—not with affection, but with something far more dangerous.
Approval.
"You are the only one," Taesung had said then, voice steady despite age, eyes sharp as ever. "Who carries the blood properly."
That single sentence had sealed Minjae's fate.
Now, at twenty-eight, he sat alone in his penthouse office at three in the morning, the city lights stretching endlessly below him. Glass walls reflected his figure—tall, sharp-featured, dressed immaculately despite the hour. His black hair was neatly combed, his expression unreadable.
He had not slept.
He rarely did.
Insomnia was his constant companion, a quiet curse that no amount of money or medicine could erase. When he closed his eyes, his mind did not rest—it sharpened. Thoughts piled upon thoughts. Strategies, betrayals, expectations. His grandfather's gaze. His family's resentment.
Marriage.
The word tasted bitter.
The Han family rules were unforgiving. To secure the patriarch seat officially, the heir had to marry and produce a successor. Not just any successor. The standards had been laid out generations ago, carved into tradition like law.
The heir must be a dominant omega.
It was absurd, archaic, and yet unbreakable.
Minjae scoffed softly, fingers tightening around the glass of untouched whiskey on his desk. He did not need a partner. He did not need an heir born out of obligation. And yet, the family would never stop until the requirement was fulfilled.
They circled him like vultures, his own blood sharpening their knives.
His two sisters were masters of subtlety. Smiles that hid poison, concern that masked ambition. His older sister, Han Yura, played the role of the elegant diplomat, always by their grandfather's side, always gentle, always listening. His younger sister, Han Soyeon, was fire—reckless, outspoken, openly resentful of Minjae's position.
And then there was his brother.
Han Kanghyun.
The only son besides Minjae. The one who smiled too easily. The one who bowed too deeply. The one who had never forgiven Minjae for being chosen.
They all wanted the same thing.
The patriarch seat.
Minjae leaned back, closing his eyes briefly as a dull ache bloomed behind them. He was tired—not the kind of tired sleep could fix. He was exhausted from pretending, from playing the perfect grandson, the flawless successor, the unshakable weapon his family had forged.
He remembered the warning he had given them just weeks ago, during a family gathering that had felt more like a battlefield.
"I will be the next patriarch," he had said calmly, his gaze sweeping over their stiffened faces. "Grandfather has already decided. When he passes, this ends. Any further schemes will be treated as treason."
Silence had followed.
Not fear.
Hatred.
They had smiled afterward. Congratulated him. Raised glasses in false celebration. But Minjae had seen it—the way their eyes burned, the way their hands trembled with barely restrained fury.
They would not stop.
A knock echoed through the office.
Minjae opened his eyes. "Come in."
His secretary entered quietly, head lowered. "Chairman Han… your grandfather has requested your presence tomorrow morning."
Of course he has.
"Tell him I'll be there," Minjae replied, voice even.
When the door closed again, Minjae stood and walked to the window, resting his forehead briefly against the cool glass. Below him, the world moved endlessly—cars like veins of light, people like ants unaware of the wars waged above them.
He wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to live without expectation.
Without blood binding him to a destiny he had never chosen.
His insomnia worsened on nights like this.
When memories crept in uninvited.
His childhood had not been warm. Affection in the Han family was conditional, transactional. Love was replaced with usefulness. Praise was rare, punishment precise. He had learned early that emotions were liabilities.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, a quiet resentment festered.
Why him?
Why must he carry everything?
The company. The legacy. The marriage. The heir.
Why did being the strongest mean being the loneliest?
Minjae straightened, his reflection staring back at him—composed, untouchable, perfect. The mask slid back into place effortlessly.
Tomorrow, he would sit before his grandfather and listen to another reminder of duty.
Tomorrow, his siblings would smile and plot.
Tomorrow, the pressure to marry would tighten further.
And Minjae would endure.
Because that was what he had always done.
But as he turned away from the window, a rare crack appeared in his composure—a fleeting, dangerous thought that made his chest ache.
What if one day, all of this broke him?
The future loomed heavy and merciless, and Han Minjae—feared by many, envied by all—stood alone at its edge, trapped between blood and crown, sleep and sanity, power and the quiet longing to be free.
And the game had only just begun.