Before anyone could take the first swing, a single voice sliced through the thick air like a knife.
"Director Soo-Hyuk. Everyone."
Sharp. Unwavering. Commanding.
Hye-Eun didn't raise her voice—she never needed to. The sheer weight of her tone alone was enough to cut through the tension like a scalpel.
A pause.
The kind that forces people to listen. The kind that makes you realize you've already lost control of the conversation.
Then, she continued, calm yet resolute, her presence impossible to ignore.
"Have you all lost your respect in front of Ms. B?"
The words weren't shouted. They weren't scolding. But they landed with a force that sent a ripple through the room.
And just like that—silence.
It wasn't the kind of silence that came with resolution.
No, this was something else.
A pause before the next strike. A temporary ceasefire, not the end of the war.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly. The storm hadn't passed. It had only been delayed.
"Yes, Overseer."
The response came in unison, crisp and disciplined. A chorus of voices acknowledging authority.
But beneath those two words—beneath the forced compliance—the room still hummed.
Pride. Egos. Unfinished business.
Because that's what you get when you put a group of competitive, incredibly talented individuals in one room. No one likes to back down. No one likes to lose.
And Hye-Eun knew it.
Kim Hye-Eun—The Overseer. The backbone of our operations. The steady force that kept The Dominion intact—the quiet hand that ensured everything ran like a well-oiled machine.
Hye-Eun handled both external reports and maintained the order within. Not just a manager, not just a leader—she was the glue that held us together. The mother figure to the directors, the unshakable pillar that kept egos in check when tempers flared and rivalries threatened to tear us apart.
And right now?
She was the only thing keeping this meeting from collapsing into chaos.
For now.
Because everyone in this room knew the truth—this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Respect followed her like a shadow. Not because she demanded it. No—because she earned it. Because when she spoke, people listened. Not out of fear, but because her words carried the weight of someone who knew. Someone who had built, lost, and rebuilt again.
I respected her. More than I cared to admit.
Hye-Eun wasn't just a leader; she was the kind of person you trusted instinctively. The kind who walked into a room and owned it without uttering a single word.
We met a long time ago—back when I was just another loyal customer at her small restaurant. I remember watching her work, running that place with precision, juggling staff, suppliers, and customers with an effortless grace. A true master of control.
Then, one day, it all collapsed.
Her husband? Gone. And with him, everything she had built. He sold the restaurant out from under her, vanishing with the money, leaving her with nothing. No business. No home. Just debts, broken trust, and a name dragged through the mud.
It was brutal. Unforgivable.
Back when I was still clawing my way up, still trying to build something from the ground up, I found her again. I didn't just admire her—I needed her.
So I made her an offer.
Come work for me. Help me build something stronger than betrayal, something untouchable.
Back then, I had zero experience running an empire. No idea how to maintain it. I could create, but I couldn't sustain.
She could.
And she did.
Hye-Eun didn't just take the role—she owned it. She built systems, imposed order, and turned chaos into structure. She made herself indispensable.
And now?
Now, she's more than just my right hand. She's one of Korea's most successful restaurant owners, a name whispered with respect. A woman who rebuilt her legacy from nothing, stronger than before.
And yet—despite all of that, despite the fame, the success—she still chooses to stand by me.
People wonder why. They whisper, speculate. Some think it's loyalty. Some think it's a strategy.
But the truth?
Only she knows.
And I never ask.
Because at the end of the day, The Dominion stands unshaken. And that's all that matters.
And maybe, just maybe, I don't need to ask.
"Ms. B! We should handle Director Song-Kang's work," Lee Soo-Hyuk insisted, his voice firm, unwavering.
A beat.
Then—
"Insolence! You ungrateful bas—" Jane snapped, her fury cutting through the air like a whip. Her sharp eyes burned with outrage, ready to unleash her full wrath.
I raised my hand. A simple gesture, but enough to silence her.
The room was seething. In-Hyuk's jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists. Hyun-Jin leaned forward, his expression dark, his body tense like a coiled spring. The others exchanged glances, some barely restraining their frustration.
Soo-Hyuk, however, didn't flinch. He stood his ground, gaze locked onto mine.
For a moment, the weight of unspoken history hung between us. Old wounds, grudges that never truly faded.
Then, I laughed. A slow, amused clap followed.
"This never gets old," I muttered, shaking my head as I exhaled, letting the moment linger.
The absurdity of it all.
The same battles, the same stubborn egos, the same damn cycle repeating itself over and over.
But amusement only lasted so long.
I straightened, my expression sharpening into something colder, more decisive.
"Director Lee Soo-Hyuk," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. "For now, you focus solely on security and internal affairs."
Silence.
Not surrender, not agreement—just silence.
But that was enough. For now.
"Other than anyone in this room, your assignments are considered special cases, correct?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, Designer B," he replied without hesitation.
"The Bloodhounds are getting restless, huh?" Ju Ji-Hoon teased, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it—one that didn't go unnoticed.
Lee Soo-Hyuk's expression darkened instantly. "Watch your mouth, Feet," he shot back, voice low, controlled, but laced with warning. His sharp gaze locked onto Ju Ji-Hoon like a predator sizing up its prey. The air thickened with tension, the kind that made people hesitate to breathe too loudly.
The Nose - Lee Song-Hyuk. I muttered the title under my breath. It was fitting. Lee Soo-Hyuk was the deadliest among us. A former hitman, mercenary, and gun-for-hire—his name carries weight in circles most people would never dare to tread. He didn't just eliminate threats; he hunted them down with unnerving precision, sniffing out weakness before anyone even realized they were being targeted.
Before working for me, he ran his own crew, The Bloodhounds. They weren't just enforcers; they were hunters. If you were on their list, you'd be found—no matter how far you ran, no matter how deep you hid. They had a reputation for being relentless, methodical, and disturbingly efficient.
And Ju Ji-Hoon? He knew this firsthand.
He and Lee Soo-Hyuk had crossed paths too many times in the past, often on opposite sides of a job. Their history wasn't just complicated—it was bloodstained, filled with close calls, unfinished fights, and debts left unpaid.
It was a miracle they could even sit in the same room without trying to kill each other.
For now.
Because of Soo-Hyuk, I'm still here—alive and kicking. I first crossed paths with him while running for my life, escaping those who wanted me dead. He saved me then, and I've never forgotten it. My debt to him is unpayable.
And that's exactly why he holds the position he does now.
Lee Soo-Hyuk isn't just in charge of security and internal affairs—he is our lifeline. The Bloodhounds operate under his command, tracking threats before they can reach us. His instincts are razor-sharp, his ability to sniff out deception near supernatural. If someone is plotting against us, he knows before they even make a move.
Every person in this room is a target, whether from rival companies, hostile organizations, or ghosts from our pasts. Some of them have been offered lucrative deals—bribes meant to lure us away. Yet, we're still here. Not just because of loyalty, but because we know one thing: with Lee Soo-Hyuk watching our backs, we're untouchable.
"Once I've confirmed everything, I'll assign you your next task. Deal?" I asked, locking eyes with him.
"Yes, Ms. B," he replied without hesitation.
Just as he opened his mouth to add something, his assistant, Yoon-Park, subtly nudged him. "Director Lee, just—shh," he whispered, cutting off his impending comment.
Lee Soo-Hyuk narrowed his eyes slightly but didn't argue. He wasn't one to waste words, but when he spoke, people listened. His reputation alone carried enough weight to make most second-guess their decisions.
That same sharp instinct, the one that once saved my life, was what made him indispensable. He wasn't just the head of security—he was security. Every move, every decision he made ensured that the people in this room stayed alive.
And if he had something to say, chances were, it was something worth listening to.
I flipped through the file in front of me, nodding as if I actually understood the numbers on the page. "Director Jun-Ho, what's the update on our finances? Real estate? Investments?" I asked, keeping my voice steady while randomly pointing at figures that probably meant something.
Jun-Ho, ever the professional, didn't even blink at my act. "There's no loss in our finances, Ms. B. Our investments are generating significant profits, and our real estate holdings are skyrocketing in value. Everything is trending toward a positive outcome," he said smoothly.
I narrowed my eyes at a particularly large number on the page. "Hmm… and this means…?"
Jun-Ho glanced at where I was pointing, sighed quietly, and without hesitation replied, "It means we're very, very rich."
"Ah, excellent," I said, shutting the file with a confident nod. "Carry on."
"TheTycoon"—Jun-Ho. A financial genius, a walking stock market, and, most importantly, the only reason I haven't accidentally bankrupted us. When it comes to money, banks, stocks, and investments, he's the mastermind behind it all.
Jun-Ho is the reason The Syndicate operates like an unstoppable financial force. His team controls assets, manipulates markets, and ensures our wealth is untouchable. A network of economists, brokers, and financial experts, The Syndicate doesn't just follow trends—they create them.
We went way back at the university, he always helped me with my math homeworks while I, in return, tried to help him with his art subjects. (He still insists my "abstract interpretation" of his assignments nearly cost him his grades. I call it creative collaboration.)
After graduation, the biggest financial firms fought to recruit him. But before they could sink their claws in, I swooped in first. "Hey, want to handle all my money so I don't end up homeless?" I had asked.
Without hesitation, he agreed. (Though I suspect it was out of pity.)
And honestly? He's more than earned his place here.
I turned to Director Go Kyung-Pyo. "Is the legal team done with the patents?" I asked, scanning the papers in front of me.
"Yes, Designer B. Everything's been patented before we released it. The competitors are itching to sue us over infringements, but we've already handled it. We were in the process of securing everything last year," he replied confidently.
"Thank you, The Magistrate," I said, continuing to sift through the documents.
Go Kyung-Pyo—The Magistrate. Doctor of Judicial Justice, Doctor of Law, and a former prosecutor and judge. He doesn't just know the law—he is the law.
When I first started my business, I ran into countless issues with patents and legal loopholes. Competitors tried to strong-arm me with lawsuits, and I had no idea how to fight back. That was when Go Kyung-Pyo stepped in. Despite facing backlash for a highly controversial final court verdict that cost him favor among the elites, he never hesitated to help me.
His reputation may be tainted in the eyes of some, but to me, he's invaluable. I trusted him completely, and when I asked him to be my legal consultant, he agreed without a second thought.
Now, he commands The Tribunal—a team of top-tier legal minds, strategists, and former prosecutors. They ensure that every contract, patent, and legal maneuver is airtight. When it comes to the law, they don't just defend—they dominate.
With him around, no one is winning a case against us.
I looked back down at my notes and then shifted my gaze to Directors Jae-Young and Jae-Won.
"Lastly, any updates from your side?" I asked, closing the document in front of me.
"Two peas in a pod," Ji-Won smirked, leaning back in her chair.
"The celebrities are still on board. They continue to promote our brand across all social media platforms, and the agencies are on the same page," Jae-Won reported smoothly.
"Ah, The Luminary is working hard, I see?" Min-Young teased, raising an eyebrow.
"Cut it out, Eyes," Jae-Young shot back, rolling his eyes. "You're not the only one working here."
"Woah, hold up—this is a first! The Shade talking back? Incredible." Song-Kang leaned forward in surprise, grinning.
"Ears, keep quiet unless you want to get dragged into this," Min-Hyun warned, his tone sharp.
Jae-Young—The Shade—and Jae-Won—The Luminary. Brothers with opposing aesthetics yet the same relentless drive.
Jae-Won has the angelic look—soft, ethereal, the type of beauty that disarms people. Jae-Young, in contrast, is sharp-edged and intense, a presence that demands respect rather than admiration. If Jae-Won is the light that draws people in, Jae-Young is the looming shadow ensuring that light never wavers.
They didn't start in boardrooms or campaigns—they started on the streets, scraping by with nothing but sheer willpower. Jae-Won dreamed of standing in the spotlight, while Jae-Young sought to control the very stage it stood on.
I passed by them every evening, sometimes buying them tteokbokki or a proper meal. Over time, they stopped expecting handouts and started demanding lessons instead—how to read, how to write, how to negotiate. Before I knew it, they were more than just street-smart survivors; they were visionaries.
Now, Jae-Won leads The Illustrious, shaping our public image into something untouchable, something aspirational. His team ensures that when people think of us, they don't just see a company—they see a legacy. They orchestrate the perfect public persona, leveraging influencers, media, and branding strategies to make sure we stay relevant and revered.
Meanwhile, Jae-Young commands The Veil, a team that controls influence from the shadows. They manipulate trends, manage reputations, and ensure we remain a force unseen but always felt. When threats arise—be it scandals, leaks, or competitors making a move—The Veil snuffs them out before they even gain traction.
I never took them in out of pity—I saw what they could become. And they proved me right.
The Luminary & The Shade.
Jae-Won—The Luminary—is the face of the brand, the mastermind behind its public image. With his effortless charm and uncanny ability to sway public perception, he leads The Illustrious, a team of strategists, celebrity liaisons, and PR experts ensuring our company remains a household name.
Jae-Young—The Shade—is the unseen force making sure everything runs smoothly from the shadows. He commands The Veil, specializing in damage control, stealth marketing, and media manipulation, ensuring that scandals are handled before they even surface.
Raised on the streets, their survival meant understanding how people worked—Jae-Won perfected the art of allure, while Jae-Young mastered the art of control. Now, they're the twin pillars ensuring our brand dominates the market.
My Korean wasn't great, so I taught them English instead. They picked it up quickly and became fluent over time. They even graduated recently, and as far as I know from Jane, they're already gaining some fame. But they're still far from Mr. Park's level. I'm genuinely proud of them, though—they're working hard to make their mark.
I shifted gears suddenly and asked, "Did anyone get reports from Director In-Hyeop?"
The room went silent for a beat.
"The Wraith?" Hyo-Seop and Lee Soo-Hyuk echoed, exchanging glances, clearly caught off guard by the shift in topic.
"It's the first time he's missed one of these meetings," Song-Kang noted, his brow furrowing in curiosity.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows—Do-Hyun, In-Hyeop's second-in-command. His movements were controlled, his presence almost as unsettling as his superior's.
"Speak, Do-Hyun," I instructed, keeping my tone even.
"The Director is still in the field," Do-Hyun reported smoothly. "An unforeseen complication arose. He deemed it necessary to handle it personally."
His explanation was crisp, efficient—offering just enough information to answer the question but withholding anything unnecessary. A typical move from someone trained under The Blackout Division.
If In-Hyeop had chosen to remain in the field instead of attending, then whatever had come up wasn't just important.
It was critical.
In-Hyeop—The Wraith—was our silent dagger in the dark, the one who moved unseen but always left an impact. He led The Blackout Division, a covert unit specializing in espionage, stealth operations, and high-stakes intelligence gathering. They didn't just assess risks—they eliminated them before they could even manifest.
His team was the reason we always stayed three steps ahead. They infiltrated, extracted, and manipulated information with surgical precision. If there was a whisper of a corporate coup, they had already planted false leads to send rivals chasing shadows. If an enemy moved against us, they would find their assets frozen, their secrets exposed, their foundation crumbling beneath them—all without ever knowing who pulled the strings.
In-Hyeop wasn't just another strategist—he was a phantom in plain sight, a master of deception and misdirection. Where others relied on brute force, he used subterfuge, infiltration, and psychological warfare. A man of many faces, many names, and no true identity—because by the time you thought you knew him, he was already someone else.
If the battlefield was in the boardroom, he was the shadow behind every decisive move. A whisper in the night, a blade in the dark, the insurance policy no one ever saw coming.
When The Wraith moved, the world didn't tremble—it simply shifted, and no one knew why.
turned my attention to Director Shin-Hye, also known as The Curator. "Anything to add, Director Shin-Hye?"
"As of now, nothing, Ms. B," she replied smoothly, her confidence unwavering.
"Do your work well, Curator," Go Kyung-Po—TheMagistrate—remarked, his tone laced with sharp sarcasm.
Shin-Hye met his gaze without hesitation. "I've dedicated my life's work to Ms. B. I take immense pride in what I do, Magistrate," she said, her voice steady, resolute.
"Aren't we all?" Overseer Kim Hye-Eun interjected, her tone calm yet weighted with meaning. A silent understanding settled over the room as knowing glances were exchanged—a quiet acknowledgment of their shared purpose.
Shin-Hye was The Curator, the silent force ensuring that the Dominion Circle's world operated with flawless precision. Before dedicating herself to this role, she had built an empire in the realm of luxury and executive management, setting an unshakable standard of excellence. Now, her expertise extended beyond hospitality—she was the architect of their inner world, shaping the seamless experience of power itself.
Under her leadership was The Sovereign Bureau, an elite operational force composed of Jane, In-Hyuk, and Hyun-Jin. They orchestrated every aspect of executive hospitality, logistics, and strategic management, ensuring that no detail was ever overlooked. To those outside the Dominion, they were invisible.
-End-