Sasha chuckled, clearly relishing Beom-ki's frustration. "Let me give you a little history lesson, something they don't teach in your files or your precious agency briefings. You see, Beom-ki, I didn't crawl out of some gutter with nothing. I was born into power. My mother? Just a prostitute. A common woman in every sense of the word—until she caught my father's eye. And my father..." Sasha's eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, his tone sharpening. "He wasn't just any man. He was a legend. A mafia king. The kind of man who could make empires kneel with a single word."
Beom-ki's breath hitched, his mind racing. So, he's always been like this—born into power and bred for destruction. No wonder he thinks he's untouchable.
"My father took my mother out of the slums and made her his queen," Sasha continued, his voice laced with a strange mixture of pride and disdain. "And I was born into their world—a world of blood, power, and loyalty. But my father... oh, he was a fool in the end. Too reliant on brute force, on tradition. He couldn't see that the world was changing. That real power wasn't in guns or territory. It was in information. Control."
Sasha's lips twisted into a cold smile as he poured himself another glass of whiskey, swirling the liquid lazily. "I saw it, though. Even as a boy, I knew I didn't want to follow in his footsteps, didn't want to inherit his empire just to watch it crumble under outdated methods. No, I wanted something more. Something bigger. So, while my father taught me the art of intimidation and my mother schooled me in manipulation, I found my true calling elsewhere—in technology. Coding. The future."
Beom-ki's fists clenched at his sides, his mind churning with disbelief and anger. He had everything—money, power, influence—and he still chose to create something like the Seraphim Code. It wasn't enough for him. Nothing ever is.
Sasha continued, his voice taking on a reflective tone. "I created the Seraphim Code as a teenager. At first, it was a game, a way to prove to myself that I could outsmart anyone. Governments, banks, militaries—they were all just pawns in my game. But the more I refined it, the more I realized its true potential. The Seraphim Code wasn't just a tool; it was a weapon. A way to control everything and everyone. And the name? Oh, I was quite proud of that." He chuckled, taking a sip of his drink.
"Seraphim. The six-winged angels of light and fire. Absolute beings. That's what I wanted to be, Beom-ki. Not just a man, not just a mafia heir, but something untouchable. Something unstoppable."
Beom-ki's jaw tightened, his body trembling with a mix of rage and helplessness. He's insane. Completely, utterly insane. And he's proud of it.
Sasha leaned closer, his dark eyes boring into Beom-ki's. "You want to know the best part?" he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Your precious agency spent years chasing ghosts, thinking they could stop me. They even thought they had me when they intercepted AK257. Fools. That missile was just a fragment of my arsenal, a distraction. The Seraphim Code is so much more than a weapon. It's an empire, Beom-ki. My empire."
Beom-ki's stomach twisted, the weight of Sasha's words pressing down on him like a vice. How many lives has he destroyed? How much blood is on his hands?
Sasha's smirk widened as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I knew sending you and your team after me would be entertaining, but I didn't expect to find someone like you. Resilient. Tenacious. Naïve, but… interesting. That's why I kept you alive, Beom-ki. That's why you're still here. You amuse me."
Beom-ki's eyes burned with fury, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "You're a monster," he spat. "Everything you've done—every life you've destroyed—it's all just a game to you, isn't it?"
Sasha laughed, a cold, hollow sound that sent shivers down Beom-ki's spine. "A game? Perhaps. But games have winners and losers. And in this one, Beom-ki, I always win."
Beom-ki's mind raced, desperate for a way out, a way to stop the man who had turned his life into a living nightmare. But all he could do was glare, his thoughts a storm of anger, pain, and despair as Sasha loomed over him, a twisted grin on his face and the weight of his empire bearing down.
Sasha leaned back, his sharp gaze fixed on Beom-ki's bruised, battered face. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, one that sent a shiver down Beom-ki's spine despite the fire of hatred burning in him. "Look at your face," Sasha said, his voice dripping with amusement as he reached out to cup Beom-ki's chin, tilting his head slightly. "So defiant, even now. It's almost… cute."
Beom-ki clenched his teeth, trying to jerk his head away, but Sasha's grip was unyielding. Don't react. Don't give him the satisfaction.
Sasha smirked, clearly enjoying Beom-ki's struggle. "You know, they don't call me Sasha in the circles that matter," he began, his voice softening, almost conversational. "No, to them, I'm Yaroslav. A name that echoes through the underworld, that makes even the most powerful men pause. Among the mafia, they call me Yaroslav the Phantom. A shadow that strikes when you least expect it. Silent, swift, and unforgiving."
Beom-ki's heart sank. Yaroslav the Phantom... I've heard that name before. Stories whispered in the dark, warnings given to agents about someone untouchable, unstoppable. The man they said you'd never see coming until it was too late.
Sasha's smirk deepened as he saw the flicker of recognition in Beom-ki's eyes. "Ah, so you've heard of me. Good. Then you know that in this world, names carry power. And mine? Mine carries fear. To the oligarchs, the politicians, the corporate titans, I'm known as Yaroslav the Architect. The man who can build empires—or tear them down with a single whisper. They come to me when they want results, when they want to win at any cost. And they pay dearly for my services. Money, power, secrets… they give it all willingly, because they know that I never fail."
Beom-ki glared at him, his breathing uneven. Architect, Phantom—whatever they call you, you're just a monster hiding behind a title.
Sasha let go of Beom-ki's chin and stood, pacing the room with the air of a man who owned it—and everything within it. "But you see, Beom-ki, I didn't choose those names. They were given to me, earned through blood and brilliance. Through victories no one else could claim. My father's mafia was powerful, but I surpassed it. I expanded beyond borders, beyond tradition. I became a legend, a myth even among the untouchable. While they fight for scraps, I sit at the top, looking down at them all."
He turned back to Beom-ki, his dark eyes glinting with dangerous amusement. "Do you know what the highest circles call me? The ones who think they're gods among men? To them, I'm the Puppeteer. Because every string they think they pull is one I've placed there. Every move they make is one I've orchestrated. They're nothing more than marionettes in my grand design."
Beom-ki's stomach churned at the sheer arrogance in Sasha's tone. This is what unchecked power looks like. A man who believes he's above everyone and everything.
Sasha crouched in front of Beom-ki, his smile cold and calculating. "And you, Beom-ki… you're just another pawn on my board. Another piece in my masterpiece. But don't feel bad. Even pawns have their uses."
Beom-ki's fists clenched weakly, his voice trembling with rage. "You think you're untouchable, but everyone falls eventually. Even you."
Sasha laughed, a rich, mocking sound that echoed through the room. "Maybe, but not today. Not tomorrow. And certainly not by the likes of you."
Beom-ki's thoughts swirled, a mix of fury, frustration, and helplessness. I swear, I'll find a way to bring you down, Yaroslav. No matter what it takes.
Sasha rose to his full height, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he gazed down at Beom-ki with a mixture of amusement and disdain. "Now, ask yourself, Beom-ki: What do you want to do? Fight me? Kill me? Or simply survive?" He smirked, tapping the ash from his cigarette. "Whatever your answer, remember this—no one crosses Yaroslav and lives to tell the tale."
Sasha's hand came down sharply, smacking Beom's ass with a loud crack that filled the room. Beom's body tensed, his fists clenching, but Sasha didn't give him a moment to recover. He slipped up onto the bed, shifting his weight as he settled above Beom, his presence heavy and commanding. Leaning down, Sasha took a deep breath, pressing his face close, almost burying his nose in Beom's neck, inhaling his scent as though savoring something forbidden.
"Mmm…" Sasha's voice was thick with satisfaction, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through his chest.
"Get your filthy hands off me," Beom hissed, his voice dripping with disgust. He attempted to push Sasha away, his shoulders rigid with defiance, but Sasha merely chuckled, the sound low and mocking.
"Oh, you still have a mouth on you, don't you?" Sasha murmured, his lips curling into a smirk. "Maybe it's time I show you what happens to people who don't know when to submit." Without warning, he thrusted into Beom with a swift, powerful motion, catching him off guard. The sudden force made Beom gasp, his defenses momentarily slipping as he struggled to catch his breath.
"Why…why…haven't you had enough?" Beom's voice was a mix of frustration and desperation as he twisted beneath Sasha, trying to wriggle free. But Sasha's grip only tightened, his expression darkening with something almost possessive.
"Hmm, not even close," Sasha replied with a calm, almost lazy confidence. His lips brushed against Beom's ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down Beom's spine. "You're going to learn to enjoy this," he whispered, his tone taunting and dangerously soft, as though savoring every word.
"I hate you," Beom spat, his words choked with anger and defiance, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.
Sasha laughed, the sound low and satisfied. "I know," he replied, his voice laced with amusement. "And that just makes this all the more…exciting." He released one of Beom's legs, but only to grasp it again, this time with renewed vigor, as he shifted his stance, increasing his intensity with a calculated, unrelenting pace.
Beom's breathing grew ragged, and despite himself, he couldn't suppress the sounds slipping from his lips. His hands clutched at the sheets, gripping them so tightly his knuckles turned white. Every inch of his body felt like it was on fire, and he struggled to hold back, but it was useless. Small, desperate sounds escaped him, each one betraying his resistance.
"Please…please…" Beom murmured, the words slipping out in a moment of weakness.