Han mafia boss
Night pressed down on Seoul like a heavy black blanket. The clock was nearing three in the morning, and fog swirled around the glass skyscrapers like dead fingers trying to strangle them. On the forty-seventh floor of an unnamed tower, Han Jisung sat behind a black ebony desk. The place was quiet… the quiet before an execution. The decor wasn't luxurious in the sense of wealth, but luxurious in the sense of control: Dark walls, dim, bluish lighting, Old paintings of European cities steeped in blood and war, and a huge wall clock… silent. As if time itself feared disturbing him. Han wore a black suit, tailored to a deadly standard, a dark gray shirt, a tight tie, black leather gloves covering his hands. And the wheelchair… wasn't medical. It was a heavy, black metal object, custom-made for him, with steel armrests, and silent wheels that didn't even make a sound when he moved. His legs were completely still. Lifeless. Sensitive. But his eyes… His eyes were enough to kill a man. An i
About Han mafia boss
Night pressed down on Seoul like a heavy black blanket. The clock was nearing three in the morning, and fog swirled around the glass skyscrapers like dead fingers trying to strangle them. On the forty-seventh floor of an unnamed tower, Han Jisung sat behind a black ebony desk. The place was quiet… the quiet before an execution. The decor wasn't...Read more