(ONE WEEK BEFORE THE STORM)
The midnight glow of the crescent moon poured through the tall windows of Haseul's office, casting pale silver light across the polished surfaces and neatly stacked files. The moonlight kissed her sharp features, making the shadows dance along her cheekbones, sharpening her already striking presence. It gave her an aura-dangerous, untouchable.
Her slender fingers moved with steady precision, flipping through thick files that smelled faintly of fresh ink and aged paper. Each page was dense with charts, blueprints, and dense paragraphs outlining the Song Group's latest real estate project. Her eyes scanned the numbers and notes, absorbing the complexities as if decoding a secret language only she could understand.
A fine line of concentration crept between her brows as she paused to underline a critical point, the tip of her pen gliding smoothly over the paper before scratching quick annotations in the margins. The soft glow of the desk lamp cast a halo around the scattered papers, highlighting the neat stack of previous reports she had already dissected.
Though the room was silent, the weight of her lineage pressed down on her shoulders. The years of her father's insistence echoed in every task she undertook—drafting proposals, reviewing deals, and preparing reports with relentless exactitude. Her hands, so calm now, had been entrusted with leading major international meetings, where her voice had cut through layers of tension and diplomacy. Behind every decision was the invisible presence of her father's expectations—a silent guardian watching, ready to step in but trusting her to carry the empire forward.
The week had passed in a blur for Haseul, consumed by her responsibilities at the South Korea franchise. She had made rounds through various warehouses and operational bases, spending the majority of her time with her girls—the other five women—at their main base. All key personnel in her syndicate had begun working with heightened dedication and vigilance, unwilling to risk incurring the Queen's wrath.
Viktor, as he often did, appeared intermittently to monitor the delicate balance of her triple lives. She did not fully trust him—how could she?—but he remained the only one who knew more about her than anyone else. He alone was aware of all three of her identities. At times, the weight of that knowledge tempted her to eliminate him, to erase the risk entirely. Yet, paradoxically, there was a strange comfort in having someone before whom she did not have to feign being anything less than all she truly was.
Of course, she maintained her cold, ruthless demeanor even with him. But unlike with Areum, Soyeon, Hana, Minji, and Harin, she did not have to constantly guard against revealing that she was Ms. Song. Nor did she have to monitor every word, every glance, every silence the way she did with her father and the business elite, lest they catch even a flicker of Helena beneath the surface.
And she constantly reminded him to stay within his bounds—reminded him, with chilling precision, of just how cruel his boss could be.
Like just an hour ago, she had done so again—by pressing a gun coldly against his temple, a silent, ruthless reminder of the boundaries he was never to cross.
He had left after a brief rundown of the requirements for all three of her versions and a few important details about what was to come. Once Viktor was gone, Haseul sank back into her usual facade of indifference and relentless work.
Her fingers paused above the keyboard, mid-sentence in a sharply worded email to Mr. Song's secretary—a detailed list of faults and areas needing fix. The soft buzz of her phone against the desk broke the silence.
The screen flickered to life, the name 'Dad' glowing bright against the dark.
For a brief moment, the cold line of her lips softened, a faint curve barely touching the corners—so slight it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else.
She tapped the screen and leaned back, the chair's smooth swivel carrying her away from the glow of her laptop. Her back turned to the cluttered desk, she faced the vast window, where the night sky glittered with countless stars, silently watching her in return.
She answered the video call and leaned back in her chair, spinning slightly until her back was to the desk. She now faced the floor-to-ceiling window, allowing the star-studded sky to take her in.
The screen flickered, and then Song Sehun's face appeared, framed by soft light. His smile was wide and boyish, eyes twinkling with mischief, though his nose crinkled in a playful scowl.
"One whole day since you left New York," his voice teased, low and gentle, "and her majesty hasn't even thought to send word she landed safe."
Haseul's eyes rolled with exaggerated impatience, lips twitching in a smirk. Her voice, usually sharp and cold, softened just enough to betray a hint of warmth. "Why is the man known as the fiercest titan in business acting like a drama queen?"
Sehun's eyes locked onto hers through the screen, sharp and unyielding—enough to make most falter—but then his lips cracked into a booming laugh that filled the quiet room.
"That's not how you talk to your father, sweetheart." His tone softened. "So, have you settled in? Don't worry, I made sure your identity's airtight. Every guard signed NDAs. You can move around without that mask now."
Her chest tightened—a cold knot twisting between gratitude and guilt. The silence after his words pressed heavy, like a shadow folding over her heart.
Sehun's face glowed with warmth and trust, eyes bright with love that didn't see the cracks beneath the surface.
She forced a small, shaky smile. "Thanks, Dad."
His grin widened, lighting up the screen like sunlight breaking through clouds.
""You know," Sehun said, voice light, almost conversational, "I just came across this article. It mentioned that syndicate—Black Panther." He leaned back slightly, the casual tone at odds with the tightening line of his mouth. "Nothing confirmed, of course, but there's talk they orchestrated the foreign minister's assassination."
A shadow of revulsion flickered across his face. "And the journalist who wrote it? Disappeared. No trace. Like he'd been plucked off the earth."
The silence on Haseul's end stretched. Her hand tightened around the phone, fingers turning pale against the metal edge. The glow of the screen lit her face, but gave away nothing—no twitch, no shift. Still as ice.
Beneath the surface, her stomach twisted, coiling in on itself like something wounded.
She had worn the names before—monster, beast, merciless. They slid off her like water.
But coming from him, even unknowingly, they didn't slide. They sank.
"The finance minister was a corrupt man," she murmured, eyes fixed on the night beyond the window. "He stole wages from starving workers—"
"You think that justifies murder?"
Sehun's voice, usually a measured cadence of power and precision, broke like glass. "There are laws for men like him!"
His face was taut on the screen, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. "That Helena is not God!"
The name hung between them like a gunshot.
Haseul's lips parted, but no words followed. A flicker crossed her gaze—pain, guilt, something older. And deeper.
Their talk meandered into gentler topics—project updates, minor logistics, harmless chatter—but the earlier exchange lingered, like a bruise beneath fabric. His words echoed in her chest, etching quiet welts no one could see.
A soft knock sounded from his end, followed by a voice off-screen—his secretary, reminding him of a meeting. Sehun exhaled, the sound heavy with reluctance.
He looked back at her, a fond smile softening the edges of his usually commanding expression. "You've always stood beside me," he said, voice warm. "Sharing the weight like it's yours. I'm proud of you. And you know—whatever happens, I'm here."
The screen went dark a moment later, his image vanishing as if he had never been there.
But the silence that followed rang louder than anything he'd said.
The phone slipped from her fingers onto the desk with a soft thud with a slight tremor in her hand. Whatever trace of a smile had lingered vanished, dissolving like mist at dawn.
Her shoulders slumped. The warmth in her eyes drained away, leaving only the dull sheen of exhaustion. Slowly, she bent forward, pressing her forehead to the cool wood of the desk. Her breath left her in a quiet exhale, as if releasing something she could no longer hold.
'Would he still say those words if he knew?'
Her dry laugh, sharp and low, broke the silence.
The memory of the day she killed for the first time crept back—cold and relentless. The day she donned the mask and claimed the name Helena. The day her innocence was irrevocably shattered, and the moment she surrendered to the darkness.
'His 'sweet' daughter... Haseul. Turned into Helena.'
She straightened gradually, movements heavy, as though gravity pulled harder on her than anyone else. Her arms hung limp at her sides. Her face was unreadable now—no sadness, no regret. Just the stillness that comes after a storm too long endured.
She hadn't cried in years. The tears had dried up when she accepted the inevitable.
One day, he would find out.
And on that day, his eyes—those kind eyes—wouldn't recognize her at all.
For just a little longer, she let herself pretend. Pretend she was still his daughter—untouched, untarnished, the girl he believed in.
She turned away from the desk and made her way across the quiet expanse of the penthouse. Her footsteps were slow, measured, as if delaying the moment the illusion might break.
At the bar tucked into the corner, she opened the cabinet doors—expecting glass, amber, and escape.
Nothing. Just bare shelves and the faint scent of new wood.
Her shoulders sank and nails bit into her palms, tiny cresents of pain to ground her. Of course. Everything hadn't even been unpacked yet.
She let the doors swing shut with a muted click. "Perfect," she muttered under her breath, the word dry as dust and full of sarcasm. "Why not?"
The city lights outside blinked on like distant stars, too far away to matter.
She was surrounded by lights, but none reached her.
Meanwhile, across the city, another predator prepared to strike.
A young woman with light brown hair tied in a sleek high ponytail sat sprawled on a rooftop. A playful smirk danced on her soft, plum-colored lips as she positioned the sniper rifle on its stand, blending effortlessly into the hotel's lavish rooftop—her tank top the exact same shade as the iron railing beside her.
"All set?" Areum's deceptively warm voice filled her left ear.
"Yes. Ready," Soyeon replied, touching her earpiece with one hand while checking the gun's magazine one last time before the showdown.