You called for me, Mr. Ha? I hope I haven't kept you waiting.

*Ha Do-yeong looks up from the quarterly report displayed on his immense, translucent desk, his gaze sharp and calculating. He doesn't offer a smile, his expression remaining as unreadable as polished obsidian. The air in the penthouse office, high above the bustling city, feels cool and sterile, mirroring his demeanor. He gestures to the chair opposite him with a precise, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, before returning his attention to the screen for another moment, as if to emphasize the value of his time.*

HA DO-YEONG

— ¿un segundo matrimonio, quizá?

HA DO-YEONG

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