Prologue
SEOUL, 08:47 AM – SIHEON’S APARTMENT
The hangover was splitting his skull open.
Siheon lay face-down on the cold floor of his Hannam apartment, black graduation gown tossed over the chair like a discarded cape, soju bottles lined up against the wall from the night before. Twenty-three years old. Officially graduated. Officially free.
Until the key turned. His father didn’t knock.
Chairman Kang walked in with two men in black suits behind him, took one look at his son on the floor – hair a mess, white dress shirt half unbuttoned – and said nothing at first. He just opened the curtains and spread his arms wide in a messianic pose, welcoming the sunlight like it were a divine revelation. “Rise and shine," he said.
On the floor Siheon hissed, covering his eyes with his forearm. He rolled over his glasses, now bent on the floor. "Please, it's too early for this.“
“You went drinking with your college friends,” his father said calmly. “Cute. You think you’re done?”
Siheon sat up slowly, his jaw tight. Strong brows furrowed. No smile. “I just graduated, father.”
“Exactly. You’re grown now. It’s time.” He threw a file onto Siheon’s chest. Inside – Guns. Armored vehicles. Drones. Shipping routes: Vladivostok, Johannesburg, Damascus. And a photo with a red stamp: YAKUZA – DEAL PENDING.
“We move armory. Russia. Africa. Middle East. We’ve been their suppliers for twenty years. Strong alliances, but there's a problem."
“What problem?“ Simeon asked, running his hand through his hair.
"Tokyo won’t sign.”
“Why?”
“Yakuza only do blood alliances. They don’t trust contracts, they trust family.” Siheon’s throat went dry.
“So tonight, you're coming with me. Take it as orientation.”
By 8 pm, Siheon was in a black shirt, black suit, hair combed back. No tie.
“You look presentable," his father commented. He didn't reply and followed him to the car.
The drive through Cheongdam passed in silence. Siheon sat with one arm propped against the window, trying to be nonchalant, despite the knot growing in his stomach, as the car got closer to their destination. Beside him, his father, Chairman Kang, remained equally quiet, his face blank.
The city slipped past in a blur of glass buildings and bright lights, until the car slowed in front of The Cheongdam Crown. The sudden stop pulled Siheon from his thoughts. The driver pulled open his door and bowed. Siheon stepped out after his father and looked up the building.
The Cheongdam Crown.
The hotel was enormous. Forty stories of glass and steel rising into the Seoul city skyline. Luxury cars lined the entrance and the valet moved with practised precision, opening doors for politicians, celebrities, CEO's, and people who were wealthy enough not to be asked who they were.
Everyone knew this place, it wasnt simply a hotel.
It was a fortress.
A place where tycoons signed deals worth billions behind closed doors, and where politicians held private dinners and expected the staff to forget all they saw and heard.
The Cheongdam Crown was famous for a lot of things. Discretion was one of them.
Scandals were buried here.
Affairs hidden here.
Careers were saved here, through what means, no one will tell.
What happens at the crown, stays at the crown.
Atleast that was what people liked to believe. Siheon heard countless stories about the place, most of them from his friends. After nights of drinking they would brag about their encounters with famous celebrities — actors, models, and idols they've met in the hotels private rooms and lounges. The stories were sometimes exxagerated, others suspiciously detailed.
Eitherway, The Cheongdam Crown had become the stuff of legends among his peers.
A hand landed on his shoulders, he stiffened.
“Focus."
The single word snapped him from his thoughts. "Yes, Father.”
Together they crossed the lobby, Marble floors gleamed below crystal chandeliers, while hotel staff moved quickly. Not a single guest spared them a glance, but Siheon could feel a pair of eyes tracking their movements.
The massive double doors opened, conversation died instantly.
Siheon entered beside his father, aware that every gaze was on them. His father's men, stationed around the room bowed and stepped aside creating a clean path. The moment his shoes stepped through the threshold, he slipped into heir mode.
Observe. Assess. Remember.
It was the first lesson his father ever taught him. His eyes swept across the room. The heads of numerous syndicates occupied the tables and sofas throughout the suite.
At the far end sat Pakhan Viktor Sokolov, a broad shouldered Russian with silver peppered through his dark hair. A cigar rested between his fingers as he listened to a conversation unfolding beside him.
Nearby Chairman Chen Guowei of the triad sat in silence, slowly turning a jade ring around his finger.
Across the room, lounged the Japanese oyabun. Colourful irezumi tattoos disappeared beneath the collar of his suit and extended down to his knuckles, visible whenever he reached for his glass.
There were a lot others. Faces Siheon recognised from the countless files his father had him memorize.
Men whose influence stretched across ports, corporations, shipping routes, and governments. Dangerous men.
Powerful men.
His future allies and some, enemies. The thought sat heavily on his mind.
A booming laugh cut through the room. Pakhan Viktor Sokolov rose from his seat and strode towards them.
“Kang"
Not Chairman Kang or Mr Kang. The familiarity revealed the type of relationship they had. The older man clasped Siheon's father's forearm before turning his attention to Siheon. His sharp, silver eyes narrowed. Then he laughed.
"This your heir?“
Before Siheon could react, Sokolov gripped his shoulder. “He's grown."
Siheon bowed respectfully. "It's an honor to meet you, Pakhan Sokolov.“
The Russian clicked his tongue. “Too polite." The room chuckled. Sokolov have his shoulder a firm squeeze.
"Careful, boy. Be that polite and your enemies will mistake it for weakness.“
A few men around the room nodded in agreement.
Siheon merely smiled. “I'll keep that in mind."
His father grinned. “Don't encourage him," he said, shaking his head.
“He still has a lot to learn."
The amusement faded, replaced by quiet appraisal. The men weren't studying him because he was Kang's son. They were studying him because one day, he would inherit everything. And they wanted to know if he was worthy of it.
SAME NIGHT – 02:12 AM, TOKYO, JAPAN – REN & RIKU, 16.
The night was humid, cicadas screaming, the familiar streets of their hometown warm, bustling with life.
Ren and Riku, were supposed to be at the Successor's Council, an annual gathering where the heirs of Japan's most influential syndicates met under the watchful gazes of the elders.
But they were sixteen. What would they do – sit and listen to old men talk about territories and weapons they couldn’t touch yet?
So they skipped. Ran out with their friends to the back alleys behind the convenience store.
They drunk sake, stolen from the suites reserved for the guests attending the Successor's Council. The older kids – seventeen or eighteen, Ren couldn't remember — were drunk.
He took a swing of the beverage, and immediately regretted it.
He decided to take another sip and made a face.
“This tastes awful."
They laughed, their faces red from the heat and laughing.
“Truth or Dare!” Mika yelled, already wasted. It went around. Ren – black braid down his back, black shirt too big for him, beauty marks under his eye, catching the streetlight – was giggling, obvious to how everyone looked at him.
“Ren! Truth or dare?”
“Dare,” he said instantly. Riku, his twin brother, went tense.
Mika grinned “Get a tattoo. On your neck. Right here.” She pointed to his throat.
Silence.
Riku stood up. “No. Don’t be stupid. You know father’s rule – our bodies stay clean until we're worthy. Father said ink isnt decoration, it's a burden. If you don't understand that, you don't deserve it. You can’t mark your neck!”
Ren’s smile faded. He knew. Clean bodies. That was the rule.
“I won’t do the neck,” he said quietly. “That’s for later.”
He turned and lifted his shirt, bare back, spine thin and pale. “Do my back instead. That’s my punishment for refusing.”
Mika, the seventeen-year-old who’d dared him, panicked. “I can’t – I only have a shitty kit, it’ll be messy, your father will —”
Then she paused. “Wait. My eldest brother.”
She pulled out her phone. “He’s a horishi. A real tattoo artist. Very skilled. He does yakuza work. His work is clean.”
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Mika's brother's restaurant. They entered, climbed the stairs leading upstairs to the tattoo Parlor.
Ren, Riku, and the other guys observed the room with awe. Mika's brother introduced himself as Jiro, his arms covered in perfect irezumi.
He looked at Ren’s clean back under the light. “What do you want?” he asked.
Ren’s voice was barely there. “A dragon.”
The first touch of the needle against his skin made every muscle in his body tense. Ren sucked in a breath.
“Don't move." Jiro commanded.
Easy for him to say. The machine buzzed as it traced the first lines in his back. It wasnt unbearable agony Ren had expected, but it wasn't pleasant either. A hot stinging pain spread beneath his skin, dragging itself across his shoulder blade.
" You look terrified." One of his friends told him.
" I am terrified.“ nervous laughter erupted around the room.
Riku stood in the corner, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching every line.
He moved to hold Ren’s hand. The needle continued its path across his back, each line adding another piece to the dragon taking shape beneath his skin.
Minutes blurred into hours, his shoulders ached and his back felt raw.
Yet everytime Jiro paused to wipe the ink away, he would see the design in the mirror.
Black scales, curved claws.
And despite the pain he was in and the certainty that his father was going to lose his mind when he found out, a grin tugged at the corner of Ren's mouth.
After three hours, Ren's back felt as though it's been set on fire.
“We're not done?"
Jiro laughed.“Kid, this is a back piece. We're barely getting started."
That night, in two different time zones, on the same warm night:
Siheon was introduced to the world as the next leader of the Kang clan.
And Ren, sixteen, got his first mark – a half done dragon on his back, inked by a skillful hand, while his brother held his hand tight under the garage light.
