The Daebak office was hidden behind a row of innocuous doors on the basent level. Jonas keyed it in with the kind of ease that ca from routine. This was the chamber where he stripped the masks off people, one by one, until their true forms bled through.
The office was dark when he entered, but with a snap of his fingers, the lights ca alive. A long table stretched across the room. Screens covered one side of the wall, waiting to be filled with images. Rows of steel cabinets stood locked on the other side, housing years of footage, files, and surveillance data. And in the middle, seated like a machine awaiting its task, was Assistant Byun.
Byun did not look up when Jonas entered, nor when he poured himself a glass of whiskey from the shelf in the corner. The man's posture was immaculate.
Jonas smiled. This was why he kept him. Byun wasn't a person in this office; he was an extension of Jonas' will.
"Compile everything," Jonas said as he sank into the chair at the head of the table. "From the beginning of his career until now."
Byun's fingers moved imdiately, not even a nod of acknowledgent. Jonas watched him type, the rhythm echoing in the enclosed space. He tipped back his drink, savoring the burn, letting it fuel the fury simring beneath his surface.
Byun had never failed him.
Minutes later, Assistant Byun straightened, pushed his glasses up, and said, "It's ready, sir."
Jonas gestured. "Sit."
Byun obeyed, pulling out the chair beside him, folding his hands neatly on the table. The first screen flickered to life, an empty black awaiting the play button. Jonas stared at it for a long mont, then turned to his assistant.
"How's the old man?" he asked casually.
Byun's reply was equally steady. "Still speaking."
Jonas clicked his tongue in irritation. "Of course he is. The bastard's wrapped in bodyguards like a damn fortress. I can't even poison him if I wanted to. Too many people on his side."
He leaned back, swirling the liquid in his glass before downing it in one swallow. Then he pressed play.
The first video opened with an unremarkable scene—a cri show set, washed in the pale light of late-night television. There, almost lost in the background, was Zeno Han. An extra. Zeno's face was younger and plainer, and there was nothing noteworthy.
Jonas narrowed his eyes. "Not good. Not even good-looking."
The footage changed. A new title flashed across the screen: Stars in my Ordinary Sky. He improved, but again, nothing special.
Then, it showed his first appearance in a variety show.
Sing or Sync. He was on stage, holding a microphone, singing calmly.
Jonas's jaw tightened when the screen filled with scenes from The Forsaken Prince. Zeno was no longer forgettable. His performance was already significant. Even in his latest variety show guesting, Lucy's Ga, he was the most notable contestant.
And then, finally—The Ninth Circle. It hasn't aired yet, but Zeno managed to change everything in the set, even trampling Victor PD.
Jonas sat forward. "Half a year," he muttered. "From an invisible extra… to this. Half a damn year."
He turned his head slowly toward Byun. The assistant had been watching the footage with the sa steady neutrality as always.
"Tell ," Jonas said softly. "Do you think it makes sense? That he's like that?"
Byun began to type, though he answered the question. "He improved at an astronomical pace," he admitted. "But it's not impossible. Considering how he carries himself now. His looks have changed, but the core features are the sa. However, with the support system he has, it should be more challenging."
Jonas's eyes narrowed. He leaned closer. "So you agree it's not possible."
Byun hesitated.
Jonas spoke before he could respond. "Then he must have had so kind of help."
Byun's eyebrow twitched. "Then, sir, are you insinuating…"
"Yes," Jonas snapped. His hand hit the table. He drew in a deep breath, lowering his voice. "I know it. I feel it. He's one of us."
Byun said nothing.
Jonas' gaze burned into the screen, where Zeno's face was frozen mid-performance, still handso and charismatic. "I can't believe they clamped us together in this country," he said bitterly. "The balance of the universe is truly fucked up."
He shook his head slowly, eyes locked on the boy's frozen image. "That charisma. I know that. Twenty-five," he whispered.
"How could I not have noticed sooner?"
The room was silent except for the hum of the screens. Jonas turned back to Assistant Byun.
"You know what will happen, right?"
Byun nodded.
"My ti is nearly up," Jonas muttered, fingers clenching around the empty glass. "Zeno Han is twenty-four. And if he really is twenty-five… then he cannot stay here the sa ti as . Only one of us can survive."
His voice lowered. "If he's improving at this pace, then he must have already transcended his system. And he has the sa objective as I."
"To make it to the top. For him to beco a superstar."
Jonas leaned back, his smile venomous. "You also know what that insinuates, right?"
Assistant Byun nodded again.
"Destroy him before that happens."
***
Zeno scratched his nose. It suddenly felt itchy.
Was sothing thinking about him? he thought, brows knitting together.
He gave his head a quick shake and scoffed at himself. "What a nace. I don't have ti for nonsense."
He stood up from the couch in the viewing area, tugging lazily at his cardigan sleeves.
"Master, where are you going?" Hero called imdiately.
Zeno clicked his tongue in annoyance, turning slightly.
"Bathroom," he muttered, not even glancing back. "And don't call that."
"The show is starting soon!" Ian's voice rang out from across the room.
"I'll be quick," Zeno replied without much concern, already slipping out before they could nag him further.
He walked down the familiar hallway, hands tucked into his pockets, but when he reached the restroom on their floor, he stopped. The janitor was already inside, mop swishing across the tiles. The yellow caution sign stood tall and unbending in the doorway, barring his path.
"Tch. Perfect," Zeno muttered, already spinning on his heel. His eyes shifted toward the stairs. He hadn't been higher up in this gigantic house before. Still, the thought of climbing one floor just for a bathroom didn't bother him. At least it ant a bit of quiet.
So he did. His footsteps echoed as he ascended. The upper floor felt colder sohow, emptier, like it had been abandoned by the constant stream of staff and contestants.
Zeno slipped into the bathroom, washed his hands quickly, and ca back out—only to freeze in his tracks.
In the hallway, just a few ters away, sat a man in a wheelchair.
Zeno frowned imdiately.
The man hadn't moved when Zeno erged. His thin body seed swallowed by the chair, his head tilted to one side, slack and unsupported. His hands lay motionless on the armrest.
Even from a distance, Zeno could tell sothing was wrong.
He didn't hesitate and walked toward him.
"Sir?" Zeno called out carefully. No response.
He stepped closer, crouching slightly so his face could co into view. That's when he realized—the man was disabled.
His eyes turned to Zeno, his lips parted, but he was incapable of forming words. His breathing was shallow, and a thin line of saliva clung to the corner of his mouth.
"Are you alone?" Zeno asked, the question falling softer than he intended.
Zeno straightened, hands sliding back into his pockets, his brows furrowing. He'd never seen anyone like this here before.
And again—don't make him admit it—but he had a soft spot for old people. Sothing about having to live too long on Earth made him pity them. This man, sitting here in a wheelchair with no one to watch over him, hit him square in that hidden spot.
He clicked his tongue, stepping closer. "Your chair isn't even supporting your head properly," he muttered. The tilt looked irritating and painful. With a sigh, he slipped off his cardigan, folded it neatly, and placed it against the side of the man's head, propping it up gently.
"Better," he said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a tissue, and carefully wiped away the saliva at the corner of the man's lips. "Seriously, who would leave you here? Humans are cruel."
The man made a faint groaning sound. Zeno's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Hey, old man," he muttered, his tone turning into that familiar scolding cadence. "Don't let your relatives bully you. But that's hard, right? You can't even move."
The man groaned again, struggling.
"See?" Zeno said quickly. "You even have a hard ti groaning. What a sha."
He crossed his arms as he leaned casually against the wall beside the chair. "Still, you're here, so you must have a rich relative. People don't just dump folks like you in fancy buildings without a reason. Make use of that. Money isn't everything in the world, but it's what we need."
The man blinked slowly, finally listening.
Zeno exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.
Just then, footsteps echoed down the hall.
A man in a crisp suit appeared, holding a tablet in one hand. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Zeno standing there.
"Si—" he began, almost in shock.
Before he could finish, Zeno cut him off with a sigh. He straightened and stepped back. "Don't leave him all alone," he said firmly, his gaze flicking toward the man in the chair. "And get him a better wheelchair."
Without waiting for a response, Zeno shoved his hands back into his pockets and turned, walking away.
The suited man stared after him. His brows furrowed as he watched Zeno's figure retreat. "Who is that guy?" he muttered under his breath. Then he shook his head, brushing the thought aside as he quickly moved to the old man.
He bent down slightly, adjusting the controls on the wheelchair. "Sir, I've disinfected your electronic chair already. You're ready for transfer," he said respectfully. "Would you like to escort you to Oska Sr. right after?"
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