A Game of Masks

FOUR YEARS AGO

The ballroom shimmered under the golden light of a thousand chandeliers, casting a warm glow over the sea of finely tailored suits, elegant gowns, and practiced smiles.

A gathering of the elite.

Politicians, CEOs, foreign diplomats—all gathered under one roof, exchanging pleasantries with the same mouths that had ordered men killed, signed off on economic ruin, and sealed backroom deals worth more than most people would see in a lifetime.

The scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey mingled with the quiet hum of a live orchestra. Waiters in pristine uniforms moved between clusters of people, offering glasses of the finest champagne money could buy.

It was a night of power.

And deception.

Kang Minjae stood near the grand marble staircase, a glass of whiskey balanced effortlessly between his fingers.

His posture was perfect.

His smile was impeccable.

To anyone watching, he was the ideal businessman.

Kang Banking's young and brilliant CEO—an empire built on precision, strategy, and the kind of intelligence that made other men nervous.

A perfect heir.

A dangerous one.

Beside him, Joon stood like an immovable statue, broad arms crossed over his chest, his ever-present sunglasses perched on his nose despite the dim lighting.

Minjae tilted his head slightly, the corners of his lips twitching.

"Joon," he murmured, amusement lacing his voice.

Joon didn't move.

Didn't even blink.

Minjae took a slow sip of his drink before adding, completely deadpan—

"You look like a fucking hairless egg."

Joon sighed heavily, adjusting his suit jacket.

"Thank you, boss," he muttered, voice dry.

Minjae smirked.

"It's really quite impressive," he continued, eyes glinting as he tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself. "You could probably blind someone if you stepped under the chandelier."

Joon let out a slow exhale, dragging a hand over his smooth, freshly shaved scalp.

Minjae chuckled, lifting his drink in mock salute.

"Truly, a bold fashion choice," he mused. "A statement, even."

Joon said nothing.

Just stared ahead, unmoved.

Minjae took another sip of whiskey, savoring the moment.

It was rare to have even a fraction of amusement at these tedious political events, where every conversation was a well-rehearsed dance of false pleasantries and hidden agendas.

And if teasing Joon's freshly shaved head provided that amusement—so be it.

But then—

A voice interrupted.

"Mr. Kang."

Minjae turned his head slightly, the easy smirk still playing at the edge of his lips.

And just like that—the game began.

Minjae turned his head slowly, the smirk still resting at the corner of his lips.

Ah.

Mrs. Choi.

The wife of Assemblyman Choi Sung-min.

A woman wrapped in wealth and privilege, her designer gown hugging every curve, her dark hair styled to perfection, her jewelry subtle but expensive.

To the public, she was a symbol of elegance. A refined, graceful political wife, dedicated to charity, culture, and the quiet support of her husband's career.

To Minjae?

She was nothing more than a woman who had spent forty minutes with her dress hiked up in the backseat of his limousine last week.

"Mrs. Choi" Minjae greeted smoothly, his voice just polite enough to be appropriate.

She smiled, a careful tilt of her lips—polished, practiced.

"Mr. Kang" she murmured, voice soft, sweet, just for him.

Joon, still standing at Minjae's side, didn't move.

Didn't acknowledge her.

Didn't give a single shit.

Mrs. Choi's eyes flickered toward him for the briefest second before returning to Minjae, her expression not shifting.

She knew better than to acknowledge the right-hand dog of the Kang family.

Instead, she stepped just a fraction closer—not enough to draw attention, but enough for Minjae to notice.

A flicker of amusement passed through his gaze.

"Are you enjoying the event?" he asked, voice smooth, effortless.

A question so generic it meant nothing.

But Mrs. Choi smiled as if it did.

"Of course," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Charity is such a wonderful cause."

Minjae let out a quiet hum, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

A wonderful cause.

Right.

That's what they were all pretending tonight, wasn't it?

A charity gala.

A noble, philanthropic event where Korea's political elite gathered to discuss fundraising efforts for underprivileged communities, economic development, and social initiatives.

A perfect excuse to throw an extravagant party in a luxury hotel, dressed in designer brands, drinking vintage champagne, and whispering deals in the corners of the room.

This wasn't about charity.

It was about power.

It was about aligning alliances, debts, favors.

Every conversation in this room was an unspoken agreement waiting to be finalized.

The politicians, shaking hands, laughing, making false promises.

The corporate moguls, pretending to care about the economy while padding their own pockets.

The wives, playing their own game—who knew what, who had leverage over who, who could manipulate their husband into pushing which agenda.

And then there was him.

Kang Minjae.

The only man in this room who wasn't pretending.

He let them play their games, let them scheme and manipulate, let them feel important—

Because at the end of the day, they all owed him.

The bank loans, the hidden offshore accounts, the funding for their political campaigns.

Minjae had his hands in all of it.

And none of them knew just how deep those hands reached.

Mrs. Choi took a delicate sip of her champagne, her gaze flickering up at him over the rim of her glass.

"You seem… distracted tonight" she murmured.

Minjae smirked slightly.

"Do I?"

She tilted her head, studying him with quiet amusement.

"Your mind is elsewhere."

He chuckled, low and smooth.

"How observant."

She smiled, stepping a little closer—too close, but just enough to still be socially acceptable.

"I could help with that," she whispered, her fingers grazing his wrist just barely.

Joon shifted slightly beside him.

Not out of concern.

Out of disgust.

Minjae let his gaze flicker down to her hand—just for a second.

Then, he smiled.

"Tempting," he murmured. "But I'm afraid Assemblyman Choi might not appreciate that."

Mrs. Choi laughed, soft and knowing.

"Oh, Minjae-ssi," she teased. "Since when have you ever cared about what men like my husband appreciate?"

Minjae smirked.

Fair point.

Before he could respond, a new voice cut through the air.

"Mrs. Choi!"

The woman instantly straightened, turning with a perfectly curated expression of politeness as another woman approached—the wife of another high-ranking politician, no doubt.

Minjae took the opportunity to step back.

Mrs. Choi glanced at him one last time, her lips curving into something wicked and knowing.

Then, just as quickly as she had appeared—she was gone.

Minjae exhaled through his nose, turning back toward the bar, already bored.

But before he could take another sip of his whiskey—

Joon muttered under his breath, voice dry and unimpressed.

"She's gonna try to climb back into your car tonight, isn't she?"

Minjae chuckled, tilting his head slightly.

"Most likely."

Joon sighed, rubbing his smooth scalp.

"Remind me why you fuck married women again?"

Minjae smirked.

"Because they're efficient," he murmured, sipping his drink. "They don't fall in love. They don't expect romance. They just want to feel important for an hour."

Joon scoffed. "And you're doing charity work, huh?"

Minjae chuckled.

"Something like that."

He set his glass down, letting his gaze sweep the room.

Politicians shaking hands.

Businessmen whispering deals.

Women batting their lashes, curating their influence.

It was all so predictable.

So routine.

So boring.

And then—

A new movement.

A presence he hadn't noticed before.

Long waves of dark, honey-touched hair.

An elegant but modest dress—something expensive, but not ostentatious.

A delicate frame, moving through the crowd with grace but uncertainty.

Minjae's gaze sharpened slightly.

Then—

She turned.

And he saw them.

The eyes.

Big. Wide. Blue as the first frost of winter.

Familiar.

A memory from an elevator, a fleeting glance, a passing moment from a year ago.

Ah.

So the Minister's daughter had finally stepped into the real world.

Minjae exhaled slowly, his smirk deepening just slightly.

Interesting.

The glittering illusion of wealth and power continued around them—chatter, laughter, champagne flutes clinking.

Minjae had long since perfected the art of blending into this world.

He knew these people.

He knew how they thought, how they moved, how they schemed.

And he knew that despite their grandstanding, their carefully polished personas, their elaborate masks of sophistication—

They were nothing more than pawns waiting to be played.

And the biggest pawn of them all?

Han Tae-Won.

"Ah, Kang Minjae-ssi" a voice called from behind him, dripping with practiced charm.

Minjae turned, a slow, easy smirk forming at the sight of the Minister himself.

"Minister Han" he greeted, his tone polite, almost warm.

To any outsider, they looked like close associates. Two powerful men shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, standing shoulder to shoulder in an unshakable alliance.

It was a flawless performance.

But Minjae knew the truth.

And so did Han.

The older man grinned broadly, shaking Minjae's hand with just enough force to pretend that they were equals.

Minjae let him.

No need to break the illusion.

Not yet.

"It's been some time since we last spoke," Han said, his eyes glinting. "I trust business is well?"

Minjae tilted his head, just slightly.

"Thriving," he said smoothly. "And politics?"

Han chuckled, taking a sip from his drink. "As messy as always."

Minjae let out a quiet hum of amusement.

It was a dance.

A careful, rehearsed routine—smiles that meant nothing, words that meant even less.

And then—

Han's smile widened just a little too much.

As if he had thought of something amusing.

"You know," he mused, "I don't believe you've ever met my daughter."

Minjae's fingers paused slightly against his glass.

His expression, however, remained unchanged.

"Is that so?" he murmured.

Han nodded, turning slightly—gesturing for someone just beyond the crowd.

He saw her.

She stepped forward, moving carefully, gracefully—but with the kind of uncertainty that made it clear she wasn't used to this world.

The world of men like him.

The world of deals and deception, of whispered threats hidden behind polite smiles.

For just a second, Minjae didn't see her face.

He noticed the details first.

The long waves of dark, honey-brown hair, cascading down her shoulders, catching the golden light of the chandeliers.

The delicate frame, smaller than he remembered, like she barely took up space in the vast ballroom.

The soft curve of her dress, modest but elegant, carefully chosen for an event like this.

And then—

She lifted her head.

And he saw them.

The eyes.

The same ones he had caught a fleeting glimpse of a year ago.

Large. Wide. A blue so striking it almost didn't look real.

There was no hesitation in them.

No calculation.

No fear.

Just quiet curiosity.

Gentleness.

And perhaps… a hint of uncertainty.

The same uncertainty he had seen in people who were not yet aware of the world they lived in.

How naïve.

How… pure.

Too pure.

For a brief moment, Minjae just looked at her.

A little too long.

A little too intently.

And then, just as quickly, he smirked.

Han patted her lightly on the back, his voice proud and performative.

"This is my daughter, Yeijin."

She lowered her head slightly in a polite bow, her voice soft, sweet.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Kang"

Ah.

So polite.

So well-mannered.

So completely unaware of who the man in front of her really was.

Minjae tilted his head slightly, studying her.

"Likewise." he murmured.

Han beamed.

"She's still young," he said, his voice full of fatherly pride, though Minjae knew better than to believe it. "A quiet girl, always focused on her studies. Nothing like her old man, hmm?"

Minjae's smirk deepened.

"Is that so?"

Han laughed.

Yeijin smiled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She didn't speak much.

Didn't interrupt.

Didn't try to impress him, the way most people did when standing before a man of his status.

Minjae found that…

Interesting.

Han glanced between them, then turned to Minjae, his tone light, teasing.

"You know, Minjae-ssi, you're quite the catch yourself," he mused. "Handsome, successful, single—perhaps I should arrange a meeting between you two sometime, ah?"

Minjae chuckled.

"Minister Han" he said, voice smooth, "I wasn't aware you were trying to marry off your daughter."

Han laughed loudly.

Yeijin's cheeks turned a slight shade of pink.

"N-no, Father" she said quickly, shaking her head with a small, shy smile. "I don't think Mr. Kang would be interested in a university student."

Minjae watched her for just a second longer.

And then—he smiled.

Smooth. Unreadable.

"You never know." he murmured.

Yeijin blinked.

Her lips parted slightly, as if uncertain how to respond.

Han chuckled, completely oblivious to the tension in the moment.

"Well!" he clapped Minjae on the back. "Come, come! Let's get another drink, talk business."

Minjae's gaze lingered on Yeijin for just a moment longer.

She held his stare.Not with confidence.Not with defiance.Just curiosity.

She didn't know.Didn't realize.

Didn't understand what kind of man she had just met.

Minjae swirled the whiskey in his glass, his expression unreadable as Han Tae-Won sighed dramatically beside him."My wife couldn't be here tonight," the Minister said with the kind of casual indifference that only a man with blood on his hands and bruises on his wife's skin could manage.

Minjae hummed, pretending to care.

Of course, she wasn't here.

She was probably locked in a room, her face bruised, her ribs aching, nursing the aftermath of another one of Han's violent fits.A Minister who spoke of integrity and honor in front of cameras but treated his own household like a punching bag behind closed doors.

How predictable.

But instead of leaving his seat empty, instead of coming alone—

Han had brought his daughter.

"My sweet Yeijin," Han continued, his voice affectionate, warm. "She's my company for the evening."

Minjae lifted a brow.

Interesting.

How… touching.

The way Han's hand rested protectively on her shoulder. The way he looked at her with fatherly devotion, his expression full of pride, admiration.

How… theatrical.

To everyone watching, they looked like a perfectly united family. A loving father and his devoted daughter. Minjae didn't jump to conclusions. He had seen this game played before. Some men wore their sins on their skin—stains of blood, the scent of corruption, the weight of their crimes woven into every inch of their being.

And some?

Some hid it behind carefully curated smiles.They placed their daughters on display, not as people—but as symbols. Yeijin, in her elegant but modest dress, her perfect posture, her soft voice—she was a prop in her father's grand performance.

Minjae knew it.

He just wasn't sure if she did.

Yet.

Yeijin felt out of place. That much was obvious.Even as she smiled politely, nodded at the right moments, stood gracefully at her father's side— She was uncomfortable. The way her fingers twisted slightly against the fabric of her dress when she thought no one was looking.

The way her eyes flickered around the room, uncertain, detached, distant.

Like she wasn't really here. Like she didn't belong. Because she didn't. This wasn't her world.

This was a battlefield, and she had been forced onto the frontlines.

Minjae took another sip of his drink, his gaze sliding lazily over her as she held onto her father's arm. She looked small beside him. Fragile.

Yet something about her was oddly captivating.

Maybe it was the way she stood out in a room full of predators in expensive suits. Maybe it was the way she seemed to glow just a little differently under the golden lights.

Or maybe—

Maybe it was because, for the first time in a long time—

Someone in this room wasn't pretending.

Even if she didn't realize it.

For a while, Minjae simply watched.

Listened. Played his role. Then—A flicker of movement.

A sound. Soft. Small. A giggle.

Minjae barely caught it—so light, so fleeting, so quickly swallowed by the grand conversations around them.

But he noticed.

Yeijin had lifted her gaze just slightly, her blue eyes flickering toward something past his shoulder.

Minjae followed her line of sight.

And then—

Ah.

Joon.

Standing there like a monolith, impassive, arms crossed, his head freshly shaved.

Under the massive crystal chandelier, his smooth, bald scalp caught the light.

Just barely.

But just enough.

Minjae exhaled sharply through his nose, amused.

She had noticed it.

She had noticed, and for just one fleeting second, she had let herself laugh.

Barely. Quietly. But honestly. She covered it up quickly, straightening, recomposing herself.

No one else noticed. Not her father.

Not the other men engrossed in political discussions. But he did.

Minjae leaned back slightly, his gaze still lazily fixed on her, his smirk resting at the corner of his lips.

He had noticed many things about Han Yeijin that evening.

The way she wasn't comfortable in this setting. The way she wasn't pretending like everyone else.The way she had giggled—actually giggled— at Joon's freshly shaved, light-reflecting scalp.

Interesting.

Still, there was one thing he hadn't figured out yet.

And so— With the same smooth, unbothered tone he always carried, he asked, "How old are you, Yeijin-ssi?"

A pause.

Yeijin blinked, surprised by the directness of the question. Then, with a polite, quiet voice, she responded "Eighteen, Mr. Kang."

Silence.

Minjae raised a brow slightly, the smirk on his lips barely shifting.

But beside him—

Joon stopped breathing.

Stopped moving.

Because fuck.

He had, up until this very moment, been appreciating the view.

Not in a particularly disrespectful way—just… idly.

A professional observation, if you will.

Han Yeijin was, objectively, a very attractive young woman.

That dress fit well, the curves were there, and Joon had simply been existing near all that.

Until now.

Now, he was staring straight ahead, like a man who had just found out he had accidentally been lusting after a literal fucking child.

His stomach dropped.

His brows twitched.

And the first thought that shot through his mind was—

'Fuck, she's a baby.'

Disgusted.

With himself.

With life.

With everything.

He straightened immediately, shoving all improper thoughts deep into the abyss where they belonged.

Nope.

Not today.

Not ever.

Meanwhile, Minjae was still looking at her, studying her.

Eighteen.

Ten years younger.

Young, indeed, untouched.

Untainted.

Still… interesting.

Han Tae-Won beamed, resting a hand on his daughter's shoulder as he spoke with pride.

"My dear, you must know," he said, "Mr. Kang is one of the most important men in this room tonight. Wealthy, powerful, an empire in his hands."

Yeijin's expression was genuinely curious.

She turned to Minjae, her blue eyes sincere.

And then—she made the mistake.

She tilted her head slightly, her voice soft, unassuming—completely innocent.

"I've never heard of you before."

Silence.

For a second, it was as if the entire ballroom itself had paused.

Not because what she had said was insulting. Not because she had done anything wrong. But because…

Everyone knew Kang Minjae.

Everyone.

His name was whispered in political halls. His name was etched into business empires. Even the people who feared him most knew better than to pretend he didn't exist.

Yet here she was—Han Tae-Won's daughter.

A Minister's daughter.

A girl raised in privilege and politics.

And she had never heard of him?

Curious.

Minjae let the moment hang in the air, tension stretching just long enough to make Han sweat.

The Minister chuckled nervously, squeezing Yeijin's shoulder just a little tighter.

"A-Ah, you must forgive my daughter," he said, smiling too wide. "She's a sweet girl, always so focused on her studies. She rarely concerns herself with men of business."

Minjae hummed, taking a slow sip of his whiskey.

Then, he let out a quiet chuckle.

"Come now, Minister" he said smoothly, tilting his head. "Don't scold the child for being a child."

Yeijin blinked, processing his words.

The child?

Her lips parted slightly, about to respond—

But then, she saw it.

The way her father stiffened just slightly.

The way his smile froze, just for a second.

The way Kang Minjae was still smiling—but something about it felt…

Amused.

Like he had just found his new favorite game.

Yeijin had no idea why.

But Minjae did.

Because Han Tae-Won's perfect little daughter?

She was completely unaware of the world she had been born into.

And that?

That was very, very amusing.

༺♰༻

The limousine moved smoothly through the quiet streets of Seoul, the hum of the city settling into the background as the night wound down.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne, the lingering echoes of the evening still fresh in their minds.

The charity event had been a success.

The politicians had played their roles.

The media had taken their photos.

The facade had been maintained.

Minjae exhaled slowly, rolling his wrist as he leaned back into the leather seat, his head tilted slightly toward the window.

It was always the same.

These events, these people, these meaningless conversations.

And yet—

Something about tonight had been different.

He could still picture her.

Those wide, blue eyes.

That soft, uncertain smile.

That innocent mistake of not knowing who the fuck he was.

Minjae smirked to himself, barely noticeable, the thought still amusing.

Across from him, Joon stretched out, legs spread wide, arms crossed, sunglasses still perched on his face even though it was dark as hell inside the car.

The man never broke character.

A long sigh left Joon's lips, as if shaking off the entire evening like an old coat.

Then—he muttered, voice deadpan.

"Fucking politicians."

Minjae chuckled, tipping his head slightly toward him. "That's all you have to say?"

Joon scoffed, adjusting his sunglasses despite the fact that there was zero fucking sunlight anywhere.

"What else is there to say?" he muttered. "It's the same shit every time. Smiling bastards shaking hands, making fake promises, and probably jerking each other off under the damn table."

Minjae laughed quietly, swirling the last of his whiskey.

He wasn't wrong.

Joon exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his smooth scalp before muttering—

"And don't even get me started on the women."

Minjae tilted his head slightly.

"Oh?"

Joon clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

"Minjae, I swear to god" he muttered, "I had to sit there and pretend to be interested in Mrs. Park's second nose job story while her husband was too busy eyeing some intern's ass across the room."

Minjae chuckled, amused.

Joon wasn't done.

"And don't even get me started on fucking Mrs. Choi," he groaned. "That woman is obsessed with you. Did you see how she was practically humping your leg?"

Minjae hummed, barely reacting.

"She's efficient."

Joon stared at him.

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

Minjae smirked slightly, taking another sip. "No emotions. No expectations. She knows the game."

Joon sighed loudly.

"Yeah, well, she also knows how to trap a man into marriage" he muttered. "Wouldn't be surprised if she tries to make you husband number two."

Minjae chuckled but said nothing.

Then, silence stretched between them.

Comfortable. Unhurried.

The city lights flickered past the tinted windows, casting brief streaks of gold and blue across the dark interior.

And then—

Joon exhaled slowly.

Paused.

And then, out of nowhere—

"…Honestly, the Minister's kid was kinda cute."

Minjae lifted a brow, amusement flickering in his gaze.

Joon immediately held up a hand.

"—I mean," he corrected, shaking his head. "I had the thought before she said her fucking age."

Minjae smirked.

Joon scowled.

"Nah, man" he muttered, shaking his head. "The second she said eighteen, I wanted to wash my fucking brain out with bleach."

Minjae chuckled, taking a slow sip of whiskey.

Joon exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.

"What a fucking waste" he grumbled, shifting against the seat. "She's got a face like a goddamn angel."

Minjae didn't respond.

Didn't agree.

Didn't disagree.

Just sat there.

Listening.

Thinking.

Joon side-eyed him, scoffing slightly.

"Why the fuck are you so quiet?" he muttered. "Not even a comment?"

Minjae smirked slightly, tilting his glass.

"I'm just enjoying the conversation."

Joon muttered something under his breath, shaking his head.

The car slowed as they approached Kang Tower.

The city stretched around them—Seoul's beating heart, a skyline painted in neon and shadows, a city that belonged to no one.

Except, of course, to Kang Minjae.

Joon exhaled loudly, rubbing his scalp one last time.

"Never again" he grumbled. "Next time, I'm wearing a fucking hat."

Minjae chuckled.

The car pulled to a stop.

The night was over.

And as Minjae stepped out, letting the crisp air fill his lungs, he thought—

Tonight had been more entertaining than expected.

Not because of the politicians.

Not because of the deals.

Not because of the fake smiles and fake promises.

But because of one single mistake.

One blue-eyed girl who had no idea what kind of world she was standing in.

One girl who had laughed at Joon's bald head and told him to his face that she had never even heard of him.

Kang Minjae smirked.

Curious.

Very curious.

He adjusted his cuffs, rolling his shoulders before stepping into the towering building that bore his name.