3. Unseen

The gallery was quiet except for the soft footsteps of visitors and the occasional murmur of admiration. The open art exhibition at Seoul National University had drawn in a small but engaged crowd.

Devin moved through the room silently, hands in his pockets, his sharp gaze scanning the paintings along the walls. He didn’t look like he belonged here, dressed in a sleek dark suit, his presence radiating danger and power. Most people instinctively moved out of his way.

But then his steps slowed.

A small painting, tucked between two larger canvases, caught his eye. At first, it seemed ordinary—a park scene, sunlight filtering through trees. But then… he saw it.

In the distance of the painting, near a tall tree, was a lone figure with his back turned. The way the coat hung off one arm, the posture, and the way his hand rested in his pocket were unmistakable.

It was him.

“What the hell…” Devin whispered, his brows furrowing.

He stepped closer, jaw tightening. The nameplate beneath the frame read:

Artist: Lee Soo-ah
Title: “Unseen”

“What the actual hell?” Devin muttered under his breath. “He made a damn painting of my back?”

His guard leaned in beside him, tilting his head. “What a beautiful piece,” he said honestly.

Devin didn't take his eyes off the canvas. “Yeah, it’s beautiful,” he admitted. “But that—” he pointed sharply at the figure, “—that person is me.”

The guard blinked. Then he squinted, eyes widening slightly. “Wait… oh. That is you.”

Devin’s expression darkened. “That brat’s going to pay for this. I should’ve known he was up to something.”

The guard tried to hide a smile. “You look good in it, Boss.”

“I am not joking,” Devin snapped. “And no, I do not look good.”

With a final glare at the painting, Devin turned on his heel. “We’re leaving. Now.”

The guard followed him silently back to the car. Devin got behind the wheel again, jaw still clenched. As the engine started, his phone buzzed in the guard’s hand.

The guard picked it up. “Yes? ...Understood.”

He ended the call and turned to Devin. “Boss, the man you asked about—he’s been found.”

Devin’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Where?”

“At the house.”

They drove fast. The city passed by in a blur of lights and shadows.

When they arrived at the estate, Devin opened the car door without waiting and marched inside. The guard followed close behind.

In the center of the entry hall, a man lay on the floor, bloodied and tied up. His face was swollen, beaten badly. Two of Devin’s men stood on either side of him, waiting.

One of them stepped forward and offered Devin a golf club—clean, polished, cold.

Devin took it without a word.

He walked slowly toward the man on the floor, his expression void of emotion.

“So,” Devin said calmly, voice low and dangerous, “you’re the one who thought he could mess with us?”

The man looked up, eyes wide with fear. Blood ran down his cheek.

“P-Please… let me go… I didn’t mean—”

Crack.

The golf club struck hard, cutting his plea short. The man gasped once and then went still.

Devin stood over him, breathlessly.

“Clean this up,” he said flatly.

“Yes, Boss,” the guards replied. They moved quickly, lifting the body and carrying it out while another man brought cleaning supplies to wipe the blood off the marble floor.

Devin turned and headed upstairs.

Inside his room, he noticed the dark red smear on the front of his shirt. He pulled it off, tossing it aside, and changed into a clean black one.

He walked back downstairs, lit a cigarette, and dropped into the sofa, the smoke curling around him.

No words. No emotion.

Only silence—and that damn name circling his mind.

Lee Soo-ah.

The guard entered the room, face slightly tense. “Boss,” he said, “we just received a call. It’s from the leader of the Mexico branch.”

Devin, lounging on the leather couch with one leg thrown over the other, rolled his eyes. “Tell him I’m not here.”

The guard gave a silent nod and answered the phone again, his voice steady. “The boss isn’t available right now.”

Suddenly, the voice on the other end blasted through the speaker, loud and sharp. “Tell him to talk to me! Now!”

Without a word, the guard handed the phone to Devin. Devin snatched it with an annoyed grunt and placed it against his ear, already irritated.

“Yeah? What the hell happened now?” he barked into the phone.

The leader’s voice came through, clearly frustrated. “We need you. Things are spiraling, and you're just sitting there doing nothing.”

Devin's face contorted into a look of pure annoyance. He scoffed and replied coldly, “Go deal with my mother. Don’t drag me into this shit.”

Without waiting for a response, he ended the call and flung the phone toward the guard, who caught it swiftly.

“I’m fucking sick of him,” Devin muttered, rubbing his temples as if the conversation had given him a headache.

The guard, choosing his words carefully, said, “Honestly, you should say that to your mother. He’s a fraud, and you know it.”

Devin exhaled sharply, his expression dark. “That old lady won’t listen to me, no matter what I say. She’s made up her mind, and that’s it.”

The guard remained silent for a moment, studying his boss. Devin looked exhausted—not physically, but mentally worn out by all the politics, the lies, and the fake alliances his mother kept entertaining. He knew she was powerful, respected, and feared, but sometimes… she was just too stubborn for her good.

“Let her do whatever the hell she wants,” Devin finally said, leaning back into the couch. “But when everything falls apart, don’t come crying to me.”

The guard nodded again, stepping back. Devin stared at the ceiling, the weight of it all pressing down on his chest. He was done playing along. Let them all burn if they want to.

He wasn’t going to be their pawn anymore.