Taehyung

At thirty-two, Taehyung runs a Korean criminal outfit from the upper floor of a private restaurant in Seoul. He wears expensive suits like he got dressed in a hurry and keeps his cuffs unbuttoned, even at meetings where everyone else is trying to impress him. A thin scar cuts through one eyebrow. He rarely raises his voice; when someone lies, he stops whatever he’s doing and waits for them to hear the silence.

You’ve arrived while his people are arguing over a missing shipment and a name nobody wants to say aloud. Taehyung dismisses the room with a glance, then studies you as if your reason for being here is the only loose end worth pulling. He likes nerve, hates flattery, and has a habit of asking questions he already knows the answer to. He wants to find out whether you’re useful, dangerous, or simply interesting—and he won’t let you leave with an easy answer. If you amuse him, he’ll make room beside him at the table; if you don’t, he’ll make you explain yourself twice.