Beom's fingers tightened on the tray as he processed Sasha's words. Paul Petrovich... The name rang a bell, but seeing the man in person sent a shiver down his spine. There was something about Paul's presence—something cold and calculating—that unsettled him.
"He's not just close to Mikhail," Sasha continued, taking another glass from Beom's tray. "He's also the founder of AUCC. That organization's reach is no joke. It's practically a powerhouse."
Beom nodded slightly, his thoughts racing. The AUCC... An organization with ties to Vyshnevsky? That complicates things even more.
"Oh, and," Sasha added with a sly smirk, "he used to date one of the twins. But they broke up. Guess even someone like him can't hold onto everything."
Beom shot Sasha a sharp glance, the weight of the situation settling on him. What am I supposed to do with all this information? These people... they're on a different level. Every move they make is calculated, every word spoken a part of some grander scheme. And here I am, playing dress-up, trying not to drop a tray of drinks.
As Sasha continued to sip his wine, Beom's mind churned with questions and doubts. How is Sasha so calm? Does he even realize what kind of room we're standing in? Or does he know more than he's letting on?
Beom clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus. It doesn't matter how overwhelming this feels. I have to stay sharp. I need to figure out who I can approach, what information I can gather. Because if I fail... there's no second chance.
Sasha's voice broke through the hum of chatter around them, his tone laced with intrigue as he gestured with his glass toward the grand staircase. "Ah, there he is," Sasha murmured, his lips curling into a smirk. "Maksim Vyshnevsky...the eldest and first son of the Vyshnevsky family."
Beom-ki's gaze followed Sasha's subtle indication, landing on a tall, imposing figure descending the grand staircase. Maksim moved with an air of authority, his every step deliberate and measured, as if he were surveying his kingdom. His sharp features were framed by dark, perfectly styled hair, and his piercing gray eyes swept over the room with a calculated coolness. Even from a distance, Beom could feel the weight of his presence—a man who commanded respect simply by existing.
"Maksim Vyshnevsky," Sasha continued, his voice carrying a note of dark amusement. "The heir apparent. Unlike his younger siblings, Maksim doesn't need to play games to prove his worth. He's the one groomed to take over everything—Mikhail's perfect successor. Sharp as a blade, ruthless as his father, and just as dangerous, if not more."
Beom felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he took in the sight of the eldest Vyshnevsky. Maksim's tailored suit hugged his broad shoulders and lean frame with precision, every detail meticulously polished. The kind of man who didn't make mistakes, or if he did, made sure no one ever found out. The way he carried himself, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, spoke volumes about the power he wielded.
"He looks like someone who's never been told 'no,'" Sasha added, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a sip. "And if he has, I'd bet it didn't end well for whoever dared."
Beom's thoughts churned as he observed Maksim. This is the eldest son? He doesn't just look like he belongs here—he is this place. Everything about him screams control, perfection, and danger. A man like that… you don't cross him lightly. He's the kind who doesn't just hold grudges; he buries them under six feet of concrete.
Maksim paused mid-descent, his gaze briefly locking onto someone in the crowd. Beom stiffened, even though Maksim wasn't looking at him. It felt as though the man could see right through people, dissecting them with a single glance.
And yet, here he is, mingling like everyone else, as if he's not the most dangerous person in this room. How does Sasha seem so calm? Beom thought, stealing a glance at his companion. Sasha's smirk remained firmly in place, as if Maksim's presence was just another piece on a chessboard he was playing.
"He doesn't make small talk for fun," Sasha remarked, leaning closer to Beom so his words wouldn't carry. "If Maksim's speaking to you, it's because he wants something. The trick is figuring out what it is before you give too much away."
Beom swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the tray in his hands. Great. As if this wasn't already overwhelming enough. Now I have to navigate this labyrinth of egos and power struggles with people like him in the mix.
Maksim reached the bottom of the stairs, his gaze sweeping the room one final time before he disappeared into the crowd, greeted by an entourage of equally polished individuals. Beom exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"I'd stay out of his way if I were you," Sasha added, finishing the last of his wine. His tone was almost playful, but there was a warning hidden beneath it. "Unless you're ready to play in the big leagues."
Beom-ki glanced at Sasha, his mind racing. Stay out of his way? Easier said than done. If Maksim is as important as Sasha makes him sound, avoiding him might not be an option. But if I do cross paths with him… how the hell am I supposed to handle someone like that?
Beom felt a sudden jolt of urgency ripple through him, his eyes darting back to the crowd as his mind scrambled for focus. I've wasted too much time just standing here, he thought, gripping the edges of the tray a little tighter. The grand hall was suffocating, every second that ticked by felt like an eternity. The opulence, the music, the clinking of glasses—it was all a distraction, pulling him away from what he needed to do.
"I need to go," Beom muttered under his breath, his lips barely moving as he glanced at Sasha. "I've wasted enough time."
His inner voice was sharper. I'm not here to play dress-up or sip wine. I need to find clues. Standing around isn't going to get us anywhere, and the last thing I need is someone getting suspicious. His gaze shifted to the stairs leading to the upper levels, a potential sanctuary of secrets waiting to be uncovered.
But Sasha, ever composed and maddeningly calm, tilted his head slightly, the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips. "Ah," Sasha drawled, his voice smooth and calculated, "I just saw Yaroslav ascending the stairs." He swirled the last remnants of wine in his glass before finishing it off. "Be careful. Some politicians are with him."
The name hit Beom like a cold slap. Yaroslav? The last son of the Vyshnevsky family. Unlike Maksim, Yaroslav was known for his slippery nature and tendency to lurk in shadows. He wasn't the type to engage directly—he played games from a distance, pulling strings where no one could see. What the hell is he doing here? Beom's stomach tightened with unease. If Maksim's the face of power, Yaroslav's the venom hiding behind it.
Sasha's next words broke through Beom's spiraling thoughts. "I got your back," he said casually, his smirk widening as he leaned against the bar, clearly unbothered by the heavy tension in the air. His demeanor was infuriatingly confident, like this was all just another performance for his amusement.
Beom cast Sasha a side-eye glare, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation. Got my back? he scoffed internally. Can I even trust this guy? He studied Sasha for a moment, trying to gauge the sincerity behind his words, but it was like staring into a mirror covered in smoke. Sasha's unpredictability made him both an asset and a liability. One second he's your ally, the next he's throwing you to the wolves. What's his game?
As Beom began to step away, he felt Sasha's gaze on him, sharp and unrelenting. The man didn't need to say anything; his smirk spoke volumes. It was as if Sasha enjoyed watching Beom squirm under the weight of his own thoughts. Is he testing me? Or is he just amused by all this chaos? Beom couldn't decide, but he didn't have the time to figure it out either.
Focus, Beom told himself firmly as he weaved through the crowd, his steps purposeful but not hurried. His senses heightened with every glance and whisper around him. I don't have time to question his motives right now. If Yaroslav is upstairs, that's where I need to be. But I'll be damned if I let Sasha's cryptic nonsense distract me from what I'm here to do.
His grip on the tray tightened as he reached the landing, his heart pounding in his chest. Alright, Vyshnevsky family. Let's see what you're hiding.
Beom's heart raced as he approached the door, the trash can in hand serving as his excuse. His mind buzzed with anticipation, crafting a plan that hinged on both improvisation and sheer nerve. I need to get to that room, but I can't just waltz in like I own the place, he thought, gripping the trash can handle tightly as he pushed the door open.
The sight of a guard standing there made him freeze for a split second. The man, tall and burly with a no-nonsense demeanor, frowned at Beom, his hand instinctively moving toward the holster at his hip. "What the—" the guard began, his voice laced with suspicion.
Beom didn't miss a beat, forcing a sheepish smile onto his face and hunching his shoulders slightly to appear non-threatening. "Oh, aigoo! Sorry, sorry!" he exclaimed, waving a dismissive hand as if to play off the tension. "I was just looking for the back door. Boss gets so mad when I use the main one. You know how it is, right? Don't want to get yelled at for something so silly."
The guard's eyes narrowed, scanning Beom from head to toe. His skeptical gaze lingered, making Beom's stomach churn. Don't overthink it, just act natural, he told himself, maintaining his smile even as his palms grew clammy. Guards like him are trained to sniff out nervousness. Show confidence, not fear.
The man grunted but didn't move, his skepticism evident. Beom kept up his act, shrugging casually as he pointed toward the trash can in his hand. "See? Just doing my job, cleaning up after the fancy folks. Can't risk anyone stepping on spilled caviar or whatever these rich people eat," he joked, letting out a light laugh to ease the tension.
After what felt like an eternity, the guard stepped aside slightly, gesturing toward the back hallway with a grunt. Beom bowed quickly, muttering a polite "Thank you," before slipping past him, his mind racing. That was too close. One wrong word and I'd be toast.
As he made his way to the back area, his eyes darted around, scanning for his next move. The hallway was dimly lit and quieter, a stark contrast to the buzzing grand hall. It was perfect for what he had in mind. Beom's plan wasn't to use the back door to simply sneak into the room—it was to climb the building and enter through the window, bypassing all guards and eyes altogether. But to do that, he needed to eliminate the lone guard stationed near the back door.
He peeked around the corner, spotting the man in question. He was tall and lean, holding a cigarette between his fingers as he leaned against the wall. This one doesn't look as tough as the guy up front, Beom thought, his mind working quickly. Good. That gives me an edge.