1. Foolish

The streets of Seoul were quieter at night, yet they never felt truly silent. Somewhere between the neon reflections on the pavement and the subtle hum of distant traffic, Yoon Jae-won, better known in the underworld as Devin, walked with a cigarette tucked between his lips. Smoke curled around his sharp jawline as he exhaled slowly, the night air cool against his face.

His long black coat hung from one arm, casually slung over his shoulder. One hand remained buried in the pocket of his tailored pants while his sharp, unapproachable gaze scanned the empty path ahead. His entire presence radiated quiet danger—his posture, his silence, his aura. A man you'd cross the street to avoid. A man you don’t talk to.

So when someone grabbed his arm out of nowhere, Devin instinctively narrowed his eyes.

“Hey!” the boy panted, clearly out of breath. “Come with me. Now.”

Devin turned his head slowly, his cigarette still burning. He gave the stranger a once-over: young, maybe early twenties, thin frame, messy black hair. A large sketchbook was clutched to his chest, and a worn-out bag hung off his back. His eyes were wide but not with fear—with determination.

Devin arched a brow, voice low and rough. “Kid, you seriously want to mess with a gangster?”

The boy didn’t flinch. Instead, he nodded. “I know who you are. But… I need you. Please.” He added a soft look, lips tugging down, eyes shimmering like a puppy begging for scraps.

Devin sighed, rubbing his temple with a free hand. “Tch. Damn it,” he muttered. “Fine. Lead the way, kid.”

The boy smiled brightly—too brightly for the hour—and began walking fast, motioning for Devin to follow. Within minutes, they arrived at a rundown apartment building. No elevator, flickering hallway lights, peeling wallpaper.

“Seriously?” Devin muttered as they climbed the stairs.

The boy unlocked the door to a tiny studio. As it creaked open, Devin stepped in—and blinked.

It was chaos.

Canvases leaning against every wall, books scattered across the floor, splashes of paint on the walls, half-finished drawings, and empty coffee cups stacked in the corner. It smelled like ink, paper, and something sweet—maybe cinnamon.

“You live alone?” Devin asked, glancing around with an unimpressed expression.

“Yeah. Sorry for the mess,” the boy said quickly, starting to pick up pencils and closed paint bottles. “Just… sit on the couch.”

Devin found the only clear spot on a worn leather sofa and dropped down with a sigh, resting his coat beside him.

Why the hell did I come here? What am I doing in some kid’s art cave?

The boy pulled a blank sheet from his sketchpad and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.

“All set. You can go now.”

Devin blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You can leave. I’ve seen enough.”

Devin stood, annoyed. “You wasted my time, kid.”

“My name is Lee Soo-ah,” the boy said without looking up.

Devin looked down at him, half amused, half irritated. “You’re still a kid.”

He turned on his heel and left the apartment without another word, slamming the door behind him. But as he walked back down the stairs and out into the night, something kept tugging at his mind.

What the hell did he draw?

A black car pulled up beside the curb, and a man in a dark suit quickly got out, bowing slightly.

“Apologies for the delay, boss. There was traffic,” the driver said.

Devin nodded tiredly. “Whatever. Just take me home. I’m f*cking exhausted.”

He climbed into the backseat, letting his head rest against the window as the city passed by in blurs of light. The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror but said nothing.

Devin lit another cigarette, lost in thought.

Lee Soo-ah…

He muttered the name aloud.

“Find out who he is,” Devin ordered.

“Yes, boss,” the driver said, pulling out his phone.

A moment later, Devin’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. The contact read: “Old Lady”.

With an irritated groan, he tossed the phone onto the seat beside him. The ringing stopped.

Seconds later, his driver’s phone buzzed.

He answered quickly. “Yes, Madam Yoon… understood.” He hung up and turned to Devin.

“Boss, Madam Yoon requests your presence. Immediately.”

Devin clenched his jaw. “I don’t want to see her right now. I’m tired.”

“Should I inform her, sir?”

“Obviously.”

The driver sent a quick message to the company’s secretary, relaying that Devin would not attend the meeting. No reply came.

By the time they arrived at the estate, Devin was in a foul mood. The grand mansion loomed in front of them—elegant, cold, and empty.

As the car stopped, the driver quickly opened the door for him. Devin stepped out, flicking the cigarette away and stomping up the steps.

Inside, waiting in the lavish sitting room, was Yoon Seo-jin—his mother, the CEO of the family’s official business empire and the true queen behind the mafia's curtain. She was dressed in a pristine black suit, legs crossed, her expression unreadable. Behind her stood her secretary, stiff and silent.

Devin entered and froze. His face twisted into a scowl.

“What the hell are you doing here, old lady?”

Seo-jin stood, voice sharp and commanding. “Watch your mouth, Jae-won. I’m still your mother.”

“So what? Do you want a medal?” Devin snapped, throwing his coat onto the nearest armchair.

Her nostrils flared. “You foolish brat. Do you think you can just ignore my calls?”