Luca.
The name echoed in Jaehyun's mind, alien and unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. And perhaps it did. The boy who had stumbled out of the nightclub in Gangnam, fat and full of bitterness, seemed like a distant memory now. Stripped of his identity, his freedom, and his family's support, Jaehyun had been erased. In his place, Luca De Rossi would be forged—if he survived.
The door to the cold, windowless room opened again, this time revealing a different man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the air of someone who had seen and caused unspeakable violence. His nose was slightly crooked, likely broken multiple times, and his dark eyes were devoid of warmth. He carried a pair of handcuffs in one hand and a coil of rope in the other.
"Get up," the man barked in heavily accented Korean, his voice gruff and commanding.
Jaehyun hesitated, his legs trembling as he attempted to rise from the chair. The man didn't wait for him to comply. He grabbed Jaehyun by the arm and yanked him to his feet, the sudden motion sending a spike of pain through his already throbbing head.
"Where are we going?" Jaehyun asked, his voice hoarse and laced with fear.
The man didn't answer. He shoved Jaehyun forward, guiding him through a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The walls were bare concrete, the air damp and suffocating. The sound of their footsteps echoed ominously, each step drawing Jaehyun closer to an uncertain fate.
They entered a larger room, starkly illuminated by a single overhead light. In the center stood a metal table covered with an assortment of tools—knives, pliers, and other implements that made Jaehyun's stomach churn. On the far wall, a rack of firearms gleamed under the harsh light.
Waiting by the table was a man Jaehyun recognized immediately: the one Isabella had called Enrico "Il Lupo" Ferrara. The Wolf. His reputation preceded him—though Jaehyun didn't know the details, the sharp, predatory glint in Enrico's eyes told him that the nickname was well-earned.
"Ah, our new recruit," Enrico said, his voice dripping with mockery. He looked Jaehyun up and down, his expression one of barely concealed disdain. "This... is what Bellissima sees potential in?"
Jaehyun bristled, but the fear gripping his chest kept him silent.
Enrico stepped closer, circling him like a wolf stalking its prey. "Soft," he muttered, poking Jaehyun's stomach with the butt of his knife. "Weak. Pathetic. You'll be dead in a week."
"I'll survive," Jaehyun said, surprising even himself with the defiance in his voice. He didn't know where the words came from—maybe it was the lingering anger at his family, or the desperation to prove them all wrong.
Enrico raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "We'll see," he said, stepping back. "Strip."
Jaehyun blinked. "What?"
"Strip," Enrico repeated, his tone brooking no argument. "Your old life is over. That includes your clothes."
Swallowing his pride, Jaehyun obeyed, peeling off his designer shirt and pants. He stood there in nothing but his boxers, shivering not from the cold but from the vulnerability of the moment. Enrico tossed him a pair of plain black pants and a fitted shirt, both made of rough, durable fabric.
"Put these on," Enrico ordered. "You'll need them."
Jaehyun quickly changed, the new clothes itching against his skin. They were a far cry from the tailored suits and silk fabrics he was used to, but he bit back any complaints.
"Your training begins now," Enrico said, his tone sharp. "No excuses. No mercy. You'll eat what we give you, do what we say, and fight until you drop. And if you fail... well, let's just say the graveyard is only a short walk from here."
Jaehyun's stomach twisted, but he nodded, his jaw set. He couldn't afford to show weakness—not here, not now.
Enrico led him outside, the sudden burst of sunlight blinding after the darkness of the compound. They were in a sprawling courtyard surrounded by high stone walls, the sound of waves crashing against rocks faintly audible in the distance. Other men and women—some young, some older—were scattered around, each engaged in grueling physical training. Some were sparring, their movements swift and brutal. Others were running laps with heavy sandbags strapped to their backs.
"This is your new family," Enrico said, gesturing to the trainees. "They're stronger than you, faster than you, and they'll kill you without hesitation if you get in their way. Remember that."
Jaehyun nodded, his gaze darting nervously between the hardened faces of his new "family." They all looked like they belonged here—like they had been born for this life. Jaehyun, by contrast, felt like a lamb thrown into a den of wolves.
Enrico handed him a sandbag. "You start here. Ten laps around the courtyard."
Jaehyun's arms nearly buckled under the weight of the bag as he hoisted it onto his shoulders. "Ten laps?" he echoed, incredulous.
"Did I stutter?" Enrico snapped. "Move."
Jaehyun gritted his teeth and began to run, the sandbag digging painfully into his shoulders with each step. His legs burned, his lungs screamed for air, but he kept moving, fueled by sheer determination. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him fail—not on the first day.
By the time he completed the laps, his body was shaking, and his vision was blurred with sweat and exhaustion. He collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath, only for Enrico to loom over him with a smirk.
"Not bad," Enrico said, his tone begrudging. "For a spoiled chaebol brat."
Jaehyun didn't respond. He didn't have the energy.
"This is just the beginning," Enrico said, his voice hard. "You want to survive here? You'll have to earn it."
Jaehyun stared up at the sky, the weight of his new reality pressing down on him. He had made his choice—to survive, to fight, to become something more. But as the pain and exhaustion coursed through his body, he couldn't help but wonder: had he made the right one?