Kang Dae-Hyun had never known suffering.

He had been born into a world shaped to his whims — a boy cradled in the golden silk of privilege, pampered from the womb by generations of wealth accumulated not through luck, but through calculated ruthlessness. The only son of Kang Tae-Joon, chairman and solitary owner of Kang Group International — a conglomerate so vast it held sway over sovereign economies, guided governments like marionettes, and moved markets with a single breath.

At twenty-five, Dae-Hyun's days passed like glass beads on a string — beautiful, curated, and ultimately without weight. Though obese from years of unchecked indulgence, and emotionally immature from a life free of consequence, he was not unkind. Merely soft. A child cushioned so thoroughly that even the winds of reality barely brushed his cheek.

He had graduated Harvard — legacy admission, family-endowed buildings, private tutors flown in weekly — and returned to Korea not with grand ambitions, but with a gentle diffidence. His father expected greatness; Dae-Hyun offered passivity. He preferred art galleries to boardrooms, Michelin tasting menus to strategy briefings, and most of all, the simple joys of his carefully secluded family life.

Because there was one thing in the world that truly mattered to Dae-Hyun.

Han Soo-Ah.

She had been the most dazzling creature he had ever seen — poised, ethereal, breathtaking. The only daughter of Han Global Holdings, a beauty as sculpted as she was strategic, heir to another of the world's top ten conglomerates. Their union was arranged, yes — a cold calculus between titans — but something warm had bloomed between them, something neither father could have predicted.

Soo-Ah had married him expecting to manage a boy. But she discovered, within his childlike dependency, a kind of innocence that soothed her own bitterness toward a life defined by performance. She found herself falling — softly, unexpectedly — and he, in return, adored her with the awe of a man worshipping a goddess.

And then, as if to cement that impossible happiness, came their son.

Min-Jun.

A perfect child. Jet-black hair, round cheeks, laughter like water in spring. A child born of titans, but untouched by their ambitions — a boy who gurgled joyfully as he crawled across the marble floors of the estate, who clung to Dae-Hyun’s neck and fell asleep to the thrum of his heartbeat. He was named after Soo-Ah’s grandfather — a legendary industrialist — but he was all warmth, all love.

Dae-Hyun would often sit on the veranda of their estate, a private compound nestled in the hills outside Seoul, watching the sunset while Min-Jun babbled beside him and Soo-Ah read in a lounge chair, one hand absently brushing through her son’s hair.

Those were the moments he felt alive.

They were a family unbothered by the outside world. Newspapers speculated about the merger this marriage would eventually produce. Paparazzi waited for scandals, but found none. The tabloids called them “The Golden Trinity” — father, mother, child — a generational convergence of wealth and beauty.

But inside the gates, they were simply the Kangs. They ate breakfast together. Dae-Hyun made it a rule — no business talk, no screens. Just Min-Jun dropping his spoon for the fifth time and giggling as Dae-Hyun picked it up again. Soo-Ah pretending to scold them both.

Their house, sprawling and modern, was less a mansion and more a sanctuary. Designed by Japan’s most reclusive architect, it sat carved into the hillside with glass walls that reflected moonlight and memories. There were koi ponds and zen gardens, private theaters and indoor pools, but the heart of the home was a sunlit nursery.

Walls painted with clouds. Stuffed animals collected from every continent. A digital lullaby system tuned to Min-Jun’s heart rate. Dae-Hyun had spared no expense. It was the one thing he had built himself — truly himself — not inherited.

He was no businessman, no prodigy. But he was a father.

And he loved like a man who had never been taught to protect anything before.

Soo-Ah used to tease him for how often he stared at Min-Jun while he slept.

“Do you think he’ll ever stop being magic to you?” she’d whisper as she lay beside him, her fingers laced with his.

“No,” Dae-Hyun would say, without hesitation. “Never.”

He believed that.

He believed he had found something beyond the grasp of tragedy — a sanctuary that money had purchased but love had made sacred.

Until that day.

Until the sunlight went out.

Until the gods, bored by his peace, took notice — and reached down with cruel, indiscriminate hands.