London smelled like rain and old ambition.
Lee Joon-hyuk stepped out of the black car, the chill biting through his tailored coat as he adjusted his tie. The drizzle made the pavement glisten like glass, and his reflection in the tall doors of the high-rise gleamed back at him — black suit, black hair slicked neatly back, every line of him sharp and deliberate.
He looked every inch the man the papers described — the CEO who'd built an empire from nothing, the one who never smiled unless there was a reason.
The receptionist greeted him politely and guided him through the marble lobby, where men in dark suits spoke in hushed tones and the faint scent of espresso and leather lingered in the air. They took the elevator up to the twenty-first floor, where everything — from the gold lettering on the doors to the quiet hum of the air conditioning — spoke of precision and power.
