The new apartment still smelled like paint and fresh sawdust. Light leaked through tall windows, tracing over two figures slouched in pajamas at the kitchen counter—Mirae, legs dangling, spooning cereal from a chipped mug, and Harin, hair a tangled cloud, stirring tea she hadn't tasted. Downstairs, the city was humming with rumors and venom. Up here, for a rare moment, there was a strange hush between them—something raw, neither peace nor war.

Mirae glanced sideways. "You always this tense in the morning?"

Harin tried to smirk but the effort fell flat. "Only when someone's sabotaged my building, my company's under attack, and I woke up in a new apartment that isn't home yet."

Mirae twirled her spoon. "Could be worse. At least the elevator's working today. I… I used to think you hated me, you know. Before all this."

Harin's laugh was brief, sharp. "I don't hate you. I just… I hate losing control. I hate when people get hurt and I can't fix it. You walk in with that unbreakable optimism and… I get jealous."

"Jealous?" Mirae blinked, surprised.

"Of course." Harin stared at her mug, voice low. "You've got fans who'd follow you into hell. You smile, and rooms light up. I feel like I have to earn every scrap of respect. Half the time I'm playing a part."

Mirae's mouth twisted. "It's not as easy as it looks. Most days I think I'll get replaced. I'm always the one they say 'doesn't belong'—the one with too much baggage. The gossip… It gets to me. I just want to fit somewhere."

For a moment, they let the silence settle. Harin nudged Mirae's foot under the counter, a little sisterly shove. "So what now? Are we supposed to work together and pretend we're not competing for the same guy's attention?"

Mirae's cheeks flared red, but she grinned, wicked. "Who said I'm pretending? Maybe we should keep a scorecard. First one to get a ring—or a baby—wins?"

Harin actually laughed, a true sound this time. "If you get pregnant first, I'm going to claim sabotage."

"Please," Mirae shot back. "You're the CEO, you'd probably negotiate shared custody."

The tension had changed—less bitter, more electric, as if two rivals had finally decided to enjoy the game. They lingered over their breakfast, plotting partnership for LUNE and a truce for Joon-ho's sake, both agreeing that no matter what, neither would let the other get crushed by the war outside.

Downstairs, the mood was anything but soft. The security room was a different world—gray walls, harsh light, two men cuffed to steel chairs, faces sullen and battered. Su-bin circled the table with measured steps, a dossier in her hand and no warmth in her eyes.

She started gentle. "Names. Who hired you?"

The taller saboteur scoffed, chin up. "You don't have shit. You think we're scared?"

Su-bin's smile was cold. "No, but you should be." She dropped a photo—one of the man at a cash drop, timestamped, undeniable.

The short one tried to laugh it off. "Coincidence."

Joon-ho entered without a word, the room shrinking around him. He didn't need to glare; his silence did the job. He took a seat at the table, leaned forward, hands steepled, gaze unwavering.

"Let's not waste time," he said, voice even. "Who paid you? How much? You're caught. Help yourselves."

The short man spat on the floor. "You can't prove anything."

Su-bin circled behind him, and without a word, slammed her fist hard into his kidney. He doubled over, gasping, face pale. "Wrong answer."

Joon-ho fixed his eyes on the taller one. "You want to be a hero? Or you want to walk out with your teeth?"

The taller man's bravado flickered. "We—we were just supposed to screw up the power, that's it. Some guy paid us cash. No names."

Su-bin pressed two fingers to a pressure point on the man's neck—he twitched, fear in his eyes. "You know more than that. We know you've done this before. Who do you answer to?"

A beat of silence. Joon-ho cracked his knuckles, then slammed his fist down beside the man's hand, making him flinch.

The shorter man finally broke. "We never see their faces, alright? Just burner phones, envelopes. All we know is the name—Hanzenith. That's the only thing written on the damn envelope. Hanzenith Capital."

Su-bin leaned in, close enough for him to smell her perfume and sweat. "What was the job?"

"Just—disrupt. Make things look bad. Power failures, stuck elevators, ruined equipment. Enough to get your name in the news. Said there was a bonus if someone got hurt."

Joon-ho's mouth twisted. "Who else is involved? EON? Anyone in entertainment?"

The taller man shook his head, sweating now. "We don't know. Middleman said the money came from finance—big company, not showbiz. That's all, I swear."

Su-bin pulled out her phone, recording their faces and confession. "If you run, we'll find you. If you talk to anyone, we'll know. And if you ever show your faces here again, you'll wish we had called the police."

Joon-ho glared, a silent promise of consequences, then nodded to the guards to haul the men away. Su-bin straightened, tension vibrating under her skin. "Now we have something to work with," she said quietly.

Far across town, in the haze of a private lounge, Baek Ji-hwan sprawled on a velvet banquette, drink in hand, laughter rolling from his throat. His suit was crisp, hair styled, eyes bright with a kind of angry joy. Around him, lesser men and girls desperate for power hung on every word.

He clinked his glass, voice loud. "Watch how fast it crumbles. LUNE is nothing. My ex-wife thinks she can build a new life—let's see if she still smiles when I'm finished." His smile was knife-sharp, bitterness poured into every syllable. The mention of her pregnancy, whispered in the background, made him grin wider. "You think it's Joon-ho's? Who cares? A bastard for a bastard."

He drank deep, rage hidden behind the mask of celebration. He was enjoying the chaos—enjoying the pain, knowing his hand was in the game.

Night brought a chill to the rooftop. The sky above Seoul was streaked with haze, the city's heartbeat pulsing far below. The rooftop bar glittered with soft lights, private, almost sacred. Joon-ho found Madam Ha-eun at her usual table, a lowball of whiskey before her, dress clinging to every curve. She watched him approach, an old wound visible in the way she stretched her leg, the smallest limp.

He bowed, respectful. "I need your help."

Her smile was sly. "Always so formal. Sit. Drink. Or is this a night for business?"

He didn't touch the glass. "Someone's backing a sabotage campaign. Hanzenith Capital. They've paid people to disrupt LUNE's launch, maybe worse. We're up against money, lawyers, connections. We can't do this alone."

She watched him, long and thoughtful. "You remember when you found me, that night? After the mess with my ex-husband's little mafia spat. Bullet in my thigh, blood all over my bar. You carried me down three flights and stitched me up with your own hands."

He nodded, silent. It wasn't something either of them talked about—her world, the violence that sometimes bled into it, the men who underestimated her until it was too late.

Ha-eun reached across, resting her fingers on his wrist. "You saved my life. That's not a debt I forget."

She leaned in, her voice a murmur. "You want a leash, or a collar?"

He blinked, the weight of her words settling. "What's the difference?"

Her laugh was low, dangerous. "A leash means you come when I call. A collar means you never leave my side. For this favor, I'll let you choose."

Joon-ho looked into her eyes and saw both kindness and warning. "A leash. For now."

She traced his jaw, her smile sharp as a razor. "Good boy. I'll have my people dig into Hanzenith, spread rumors, make them worry. But when I pull, you run. Understood?"

He nodded. "Thank you, Ha-eun. I won't forget it."

She let go, turning back to the city. "Go on, then. Go make your stand. Just remember—when the masters play, it's the pawns who bleed."

Back in the LUNE office, late at night, Harin hunched over her laptop. The others were gone; the silence was thick, heavy with anticipation. She drafted a confidential project proposal—just enough truth to make it tempting, but loaded with false leads and fake numbers. She passed it through a trusted, carefully monitored channel, the bait set for any watcher hungry for secrets.

Before hitting send, she whispered, "Let's see if the master's hand gets greedy."

With a click, the message was gone—LUNE's next move in a war they refused to lose, a trap set for an enemy who thought he owned the board.

The game, finally, was on.

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