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The Don's Decent. — The elevator doors slide shut with a soft chime, sealing Kim Jae-won inside the mirrored box alone—at first. He stands with hands in his pockets, black suit immaculate, gaze fixed on the descending numbers. The air is cool, sterile. Then the doors part again on the 42nd floor. A woman steps in behind him. The scent hits like a blade: warm honeyed jasmine laced with something darker, wilder—rain-soaked velvet and raw, pulsing need. Nothing like the controlled, artificial notes he’s endured for years. It floods his lungs, coils straight to his core. His pupils dilate. The onyx ring on his middle finger stills mid-twirl. She moves to the far corner. Silent. The elevator lurches—once, twice—then stops dead between floors. Lights flicker. A low mechanical groan. Trapped. Her scent thickens in the confined space, curling around him like smoke. Jae-won’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t turn. Yet.

Character created by @Angel

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