Chapter Text
If there’s one clear difference between Aurum and Black Diamant, it lies in their approach.
Aurum strictly follows the traditional bodyguard system. They wear the signature black suits—easily recognizable, openly signaling their role to protect their client. Their presence is visible, deliberate, and known to the public.
Black Diamant, on the other hand, operates with far more versatility.
The Hex members are not confined to a single identity. They have the freedom to become anyone—an ordinary civilian, a passerby, even a colleague of the client. The possibilities are endless, allowing them to move unnoticed and blend seamlessly into any environment.
This level of camouflage enables them to observe everything—the people, the surroundings, and the situation—without restriction.
They don’t worry about being recognized by enemies. Because those who have seen them, those who have come to know them as threats… no longer exist.
Their real identities are absent from any official record. They can assume new identities at will, slipping into roles as if they were born into them.
That is how precise, how thorough, and how flawless The Hex operates.
Nothing about them can be traced.
Nothing can be uncovered.
Another defining trait of Black Diamant lies in how their clients perceive them.
Some clients are fully aware that they are being protected—that a bodyguard has been assigned to them. Others, however, remain completely unaware of any protection at all.
It all depends on the nature of the contract, the type of service requested, and—most importantly—who initiated the request.
In some cases, protection is openly acknowledged.
In other cases, protection exists only in the shadows—or in entirely different personas.
Just like what happened to Mingyu.
“I’m really glad that you accepted the contract to be my son’s bodyguard. I feel much more relieved knowing that Wonwoo has someone beside him who can be trusted—especially someone from Black Diamant.”
Mingyu gave a quiet nod, seated stiffly on the long sofa inside Jeon Joon Seok’s office. His posture was composed, almost polite, but his attention remained sharp and observant, taking in everything around him without outwardly reacting.
“I’m even more ecstatic,” the old man continued, his expression bright with satisfaction, “that Mr. Lee was able to assign someone from The Hex. Your unit’s reputation in this line of work is exceptional. And you, Kim Mingyu, are clearly both capable and knowledgeable in our line of business, especially given your background.”
His smile had not faded since Mingyu arrived, as if the mere presence of the assigned bodyguard already eased a burden he had been carrying for some time.
From the moment he stepped into the building, Mingyu had already begun working.
The lobby, elevator routes, hallway intersections leading to the upper floors, and finally the CEO’s office itself—everything had been quietly cataloged in his mind. He didn’t just look; he measured. He didn’t just observe; he calculated.
Camera angles. Dead zones. Foot traffic patterns. Security rotation timing. Emergency exits. Every detail was absorbed and mapped into a mental blueprint of the entire structure.
And more importantly, he identified what the system failed to see.
Blind spots.
Not just physical corners where cameras didn’t reach—but procedural gaps. Moments in routine where attention loosened. Transitions where control briefly weakened.
Those were not weaknesses to be ignored. They were access points. Opportunities—either to protect or to infiltrate, depending on intent.
If necessary, additional surveillance could be introduced through those very gaps, blended seamlessly into existing infrastructure. Nothing obvious. Nothing traceable. Just quiet reinforcement that would tighten control without alerting anyone inside the system.
Because if Jeon Joon Seok’s concerns were accurate, then this was no ordinary precaution.
Corporate espionage within NOX Core Technologies would mean the threat was not outside trying to get in—it was already inside, moving through the same spaces, blending into the same routines, hiding behind familiarity.
Which meant no space could be considered neutral. No conversation could be assumed safe. No room could be trusted at face value.
And in that kind of environment, Mingyu’s role was no longer just to guard a client.
It was to turn the entire company into a controlled map of awareness—where every movement had meaning, every presence was accounted for, and nothing could exist outside his observation.
Mingyu’s thoughts came to a halt when a knock sounded at the office door. It opened moments later, and a man stepped inside. His attention immediately locked onto him.
Jeon Wonwoo.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t know you had a visitor. I’ll come back later,” Wonwoo said calmly, his voice controlled as he lingered near the doorway, neither fully entering nor leaving.
“No, stay,” Jeon Joon Seok replied as he gestured for his son to come over and sit with them. “I want you to meet him as well.”
Wonwoo hesitated for only a brief moment before stepping inside, his polished black-rimmed glasses catching the soft office light. The tailored gray three-piece suit he wore was immaculate, almost too perfect, as if every detail had been calculated rather than chosen.
“I’ve mentioned before that I wanted to hire a third-party specialist for your added security,” the CEO continued with visible satisfaction as soon as Wonwoo had settled on one of the sofas to his father’s right, directly in front of the stranger. “And I’ve found the right person for the job.”
He turned slightly toward Mingyu. “Mingyu. This is my son, Jeon Wonwoo—the only heir and future CEO of NOX Core Technologies.”
The room fell into a brief silence.
Mingyu’s expression remained unchanged. Controlled and unreadable. His eyes locked briefly onto Wonwoo, assessing him the same way he had assessed the building earlier—without urgency, without distraction, but with precision that felt almost invasive.
Wonwoo met his gaze.
There was skepticism in his expression, restrained but present, like a question he had not yet formed into words. Beneath it was something sharper—an instinctive unease he did not immediately acknowledge. The sense that something about this man did not belong in a simple category.
And Mingyu saw all those shifts in the man’s emotions but did not react. Despite reading the heir easily, pushed it aside and extended his hand. He was not really into this kind of thing—direct contact, introductions, unnecessary familiarity—but he needed to appear like a normal newly hired employee if he didn’t want his cover to blow up within even an hour of his arrival at the company.
He extended his hand in a calm, professional motion.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jeon,” Mingyu said evenly.
Wonwoo hesitated for only a fraction of a second before accepting the handshake.
The contact was firm, precise, and controlled, but something about it made the air between them feel heavier than it should have been. Not hostile, not friendly—simply unsettled, like two systems briefly detecting each other’s presence without fully understanding what they were processing.
Wonwoo’s fingers tightened slightly before releasing, as if trying to dismiss the feeling.
For a moment longer than necessary, neither of them looked away.
Then Wonwoo finally spoke, his tone returning to professional calm. “Welcome to NOX, Mr. Kim.”
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If there was one thing Lee Seokmin hated about his job, it was crowds. It wasn't the noise that bothered him, nor was it the people themselves. What he despised was the uncertainty that came with them. Crowds had a way of turning control into an illusion. One moment everything appeared normal, and the next, someone could pull a knife, throw an object, fire a gun, or vanish without a trace. By the time panic spread through the masses, it was usually already too late.
That was the problem with danger—it rarely announced its arrival. It blended seamlessly into its surroundings, hiding behind smiling faces, excited cheers, and harmless appearances. In a crowd, a threat could stand inches away from its target and remain unnoticed until the exact moment it chose to act.
For someone like Seokmin, whose entire career depended on recognizing danger before it revealed itself, vigilance had long since become second nature. Years of experience had sharpened his instincts into something almost unnatural, allowing him to notice the smallest irregularities others would overlook.
Unfortunately, his client happened to attract exactly that kind of environment wherever he went.
Seokmin stood near the front barricade with his hands tucked inside the pockets of his dark coat. To everyone around him, he looked like just another attendee hoping to catch a glimpse of the celebrity guest. In reality, he was doing what he did best—observing. His gaze swept methodically across the crowd, cataloging faces, movements, and behaviors within a twenty-meter radius.
In front of the crowd stood the newly opened flagship store of a luxury fashion brand, its glass façade gleaming beneath the evening of early autumn. Camera flashes reflected across the polished surface while reporters crowded near the entrance with microphones already prepared. Security personnel struggled to maintain order as more fans continued to arrive, filling every available space behind the barricades. The atmosphere was growing increasingly chaotic, and the noise alone was enough to test Seokmin's patience.
A scream suddenly erupted somewhere to his left. Then another followed. Within seconds, dozens of voices joined in until the entire street seemed to vibrate with excitement. Seokmin resisted the urge to click his tongue. The guest of honor had not even arrived yet, and the crowd was already bordering on hysterical.
The arrival of a black luxury sedan pushed them over the edge.
The vehicle had barely stopped before the crowd exploded into deafening cheers.
"JISOO!"
"HONG JISOO!"
"Look over here!"
The actor stepped out of the vehicle with the effortless grace of someone who had spent years living beneath public scrutiny. Dressed entirely in white, with a tailored suit accentuating his frame and a long trench coat draped casually over his shoulders, Hong Jisoo looked less like a man attending a promotional event and more like someone who belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine. Even from a distance, his presence commanded attention.
As expected, the fans immediately went even wilder, extending flowers, letters, and gifts in hopes of catching his attention. Jisoo handled the situation with practiced ease, greeting everyone with warm smiles and polite bows while gently declining every offered gift. There was nothing rehearsed about his demeanor. If anything, his sincerity only seemed to make the crowd adore him even more
Seokmin found himself watching the actor a moment longer than necessary. Well, it wasn't difficult to understand why people were obsessed with him.
Then something shifted.
A man wearing a black baseball cap leaned forward the barrier from within the crowd, holding out a bouquet of flowers. At first glance, there was nothing suspicious about him. He looked no different from the dozens of other fans hoping for a brief interaction with the actor.
The moment Jisoo politely declined the bouquet, the man's expression changed.
It wasn't dramatic. Most people wouldn't have noticed it at all.
But Seokmin did..
The smile disappeared first. Then the jaw tightened. His grip around the bouquet grew noticeably firmer, bending the stems beneath his fingers.
There it is.
That fleeting transition from admiration to resentment. The kind that often preceded poor decisions.
That’s the kind of threat that hid behind a smiling face and harmless appearance, blending seamlessly among innocent people until the exact moment it decided to strike.
The man moved, but Seokmin moved first. And without hesitation, he vaulted over the barricade swiftly, like the way the wind move. Just as he reached Jisoo's side, the man swung the bouquet with surprising force.
The impact slammed into Seokmin's back.
The crowd gasped because of what happened.
Reporters shouted over one another while security guards rushed forward. Realizing he had failed, the attacker hesitated for only a fraction of a second before turning and sprinting toward the open parking area. Several guards immediately gave chase, followed closely by reporters eager to capture the unfolding chaos.
Amid the confusion, Seokmin finally turned toward the person he had just shielded.
Hong Jisoo stood frozen in place, his face noticeably pale. His wide eyes followed the fleeing attacker before settling on the stranger who had suddenly appeared at his side.
"W-What just happened?"
The uncertainty in his voice was impossible to miss.
For the first time, Seokmin found himself looking at the actor up close. Jisoo appeared younger than he did on television. And completely bewildered.
"And who are you?" Jisoo asked.
A smile tugged at the corner of Seokmin's mouth. Not his usual dangerous smile. Just enough to tease.
"Your knight in shining armor, I guess."
The actor stared at him for a second before narrowing his eyes.
"I'm going to call securi—."
"Woah," Seokmin replied, raising both hands in surrender. "You're kind of hasty."
"If you don't tell me who you are right now, I swear I'm going to scream."
The threat nearly made Seokmin laugh. Cute face. Sharp temper. Interesting combination.
"Fine," Seokmin said with a sigh, placing a hand over his chest in an exaggerated gesture. "Lee Seokmin."
Jisoo continued staring at him expectantly, his brows already beginning to crease together.
A faint smile tugged at Seokmin's lips. "Your bodyguard assigned by Black Diamant, at your service.”
The change was immediate.
The tension in Jisoo's shoulders eased, not disappearing completely but enough for the panic to leave his eyes. He felt relieved after hearing the name.
Before Jisoo could respond, his manager finally reached them.
"Jisoo!" the older man exclaimed. "Are you alright?"
Seokmin stepped back, allowing the manager to take over while Jisoo's attention remained fixed on him.
Still curious and trying to figure him out which made Seokmin smirked.
"I'll be back," he said, gesturing toward the parking area. "Need to do some field work."
The threw a wink at the actor that earned him a look of complete disbelief, which somehow made the entire encounter far more entertaining than it should have been.
Then his expressions changed an instant when Seokmin gave a brief nod to Jisoo's manager, silently acknowledging the man. Judging from the lack of alarm in his expression, the manager had already been informed of his assignment and knew exactly who he was. There was no need for introductions or explanations.
Officially, Lee Seokmin was nothing more than a bodyguard assigned through Aurum, hired to protect one of the country’s most recognizable actors. That was how it looked on the surface. Unofficially, however, he worked directly under a private contract requested by Hong Jisoo himself—as a member of The Hex.
And judging from today's incident, the game had already begun.
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Jeonghan tried to sit up on the hospital bed despite the sharp pain spreading through his entire body. Every movement sent a dull ache through his ribs and shoulders, making it difficult to even breathe properly. The soreness was expected, though—after what had happened during the presidential convoy earlier that day, pain was the least of his concerns.
It had all happened so fast.
They were on their way back from an official engagement, the convoy moving through a secured route as usual. Jeonghan sat inside the same armored vehicle as his father, the President, positioned close to him under strict security protocol. The interior of the car was quiet, controlled, almost routine—nothing unusual, nothing alarming—until that fragile sense of normalcy shattered in an instant.
Gunfire erupted from multiple directions.
The sharp cracks of bullets echoed against the road barriers, turning the entire convoy into chaos. The driver swerved violently in an attempt to avoid the incoming fire, tires screeching against asphalt before the vehicle lost control completely. In seconds, the car slammed hard into the concrete divider, the impact violent enough to jolt everyone inside forward.
Metal twisted. Glass shattered. Sirens followed.
Jeonghan barely remembered the moment of impact—only the force, the dizziness, and the burning pain that came after.
When he finally regained awareness, he was already being pulled out by security personnel, voices shouting orders around him, the convoy reorganizing in panic and urgency.
His father, the President, had been quickly secured.
Despite the attack, he was safe.
A broken arm was the worst of his injuries, along with several bruises, already treated and placed in a cast. It was a relief—one that should have calmed Jeonghan—but his own condition made it difficult to feel anything close to peace.
Jeonghan had been on the side where the vehicle absorbed most of the impact. His body had taken the brunt of the collision, leaving him bruised from head to toe, his muscles aching with every small movement.
Earlier, his mother had been in his room, staying by his side for a while before being escorted to his father’s hospital room under strict security. The entire floor had been placed under heavy guard immediately after the attack, officers and agents stationed at every entrance, every hallway, every possible point of access.
It wasn’t unfamiliar territory for Jeonghan.
Ever since his father was elected president four years ago, danger had become a constant shadow over their lives. Threats, assassination attempts, and tightly controlled movements were no longer rare incidents—they were part of his reality. He had long lost count of how many times they had survived situations that should have ended differently.
Somehow, he had learned to live with it. To sit through it. To stay silent even when fear crept in.
But “used to it” did not mean unafraid.
Jeonghan could lie on cold concrete without flinching, could remain composed in front of chaos, but every time another attempt on their lives occurred, something inside him still tightened painfully. He never showed it, never allowed it to surface, yet it always lingered beneath the surface like an unspoken weight.
More than his own safety, what terrified him was the thought of losing his parents.
He had already lost one part of his family once before. And he could not endure losing both of his parents too.
His thoughts were cut off the moment the sliding door of the VIP hospital room opened.
“Who is that?” he asked, but no one answered.
Usually, if it were a nurse or a doctor, they would announce themselves first before entering. That was part of the protocol—strict, non-negotiable, especially in a secured floor like this.
Jeonghan strained his eyes toward the entrance, but from where he lay, he still couldn’t see who had come in. From the main door, there was a short connecting hallway, a buffer zone designed for security checks and controlled access. Guards were stationed outside his room, he knew that much, but right now, even that knowledge did little to settle him. Trust had become a fragile concept lately, and he wasn’t sure there was anyone left he could fully rely on except his family.
If there was one thing Jeonghan had learned over the past four years, it was this: never let your guard down. Never assume safety, and never let anyone predict your next move.
His hand slid beneath the pillow with slow, controlled precision.
From there, he pulled out a compact concealed handgun from its case—something he had insisted on keeping within reach, something his mother had reluctantly ensured was brought to him under the strict understanding that it would only ever be used as a last resort. In their world, even safety came with hesitation, but she had understood him without needing to ask further questions. After everything they had endured, none of them could afford blind trust anymore.
“I said, who are you?” he repeated, his voice firmer this time.
Still, no answer came.
Instead, he heard footsteps—slow, deliberate, growing closer through the narrow hallway beyond the door.
That was enough.
Jeonghan’s breathing steadied as instinct took over, overriding pain and exhaustion. His arm lifted despite the strain in his body, the weight of the moment narrowing his focus to a single point at the end of the corridor.
He raised the weapon toward the direction of the footsteps, his finger hovering near the trigger guard, not yet committing, but ready for whatever stepped into view next.
When the person finally appeared in front of him, Jeonghan didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. For a brief second, there was a flicker of relief—something close to happiness—but it vanished just as quickly, replaced by a sharp, overwhelming instinct to pull the trigger.
“What was the gun for?”
Came the deep, low, and cold voice of Choi Seungcheol, who stood in an immaculate dark outfit, his presence calm but suffocating in its intensity.
“For intruders and untrusted men like you.”
The words landed sharply in the room, cutting through the sterile silence.
“When did I become untrusted in your eyes, Jeonghan?” Seungcheol asked, his voice quieter now, but no less heavy.
“Since you let my brother die.”
The response was immediate, and for a split second, something in the air shifted.
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, a subtle flicker in his expression betraying the composure he always wore so well. His brow lifted slightly at the accusation, but he said nothing in return. Instead, he simply closed the distance between them, step by step, until he stood just beside the hospital bed.
Jeonghan did not lower his hand, the gun still trained forward, steady despite the numbness already creeping through his arm.
When Seungcheol finally stopped beside him, Jeonghan felt it—not fear in the way most people understood it, but something far more complicated. It wasn’t danger that made his grip tighten; it was Seungcheol’s presence itself. The kind of presence that filled every corner of the room without effort, heavy and commanding, impossible to ignore.
As always, Choi Seungcheol carried himself like power given human form—controlled, unshaken, and undeniably dangerous even in silence.
“If I’m really untrusted, just like what you’re accusing me of… then why haven’t you pulled the trigger yet, hmm?”
Seungcheol moved in a blur—too fast for Jeonghan to fully register. In one clean motion, he caught Jeonghan’s wrist with a single hand, steadying it just enough to stop any reaction. Without hesitation, his thumb pressed firmly against Jeonghan’s grip while his fingers slid in between his hand and the gun, applying precise pressure until the hold broke. The weapon was smoothly peeled free in one controlled pull, gone from Jeonghan’s hand in a single fluid motion before he could even tighten his fingers.
And Jeonghan, being Jeonghan, knew the best way to conceal embarrassment was to act like a brat and throw a tantrum.
“Why would you do that? Are you trying to make my injury worse?!” Jeonghan snapped.
Seungcheol didn’t react to the outburst. Instead, he calmly stepped closer and placed the gun on the table beside the bed with controlled precision.
“First,” he said evenly, looking at the man on the bed directly. “you wouldn’t be using that hand to hold a gun if it were actually injured.” His gaze flicked briefly to Jeonghan’s arm before returning to his face. “Second, no, Han. I’m not here to hurt you. You should know that.”
As expected, the man was always observant and highly attentive to detail, and it was exactly what Jeonghan hated most about Seungcheol—because it felt like he could read his thoughts and actions without even trying.
With his nose still flaring in annoyance, Jeonghan tried to cross his arms over his chest, only to immediately flinch when he remembered the cast on his other arm. The sharp pain that followed was enough to make him stop mid-motion, a quiet curse barely leaving his lips.
He knew Seungcheol was watching him. The man wasn’t even trying to hide it. In fact, it almost felt like he was deliberately making his observation obvious, as if waiting for Jeonghan to notice.
Taking a slow breath, Jeonghan steadied himself before speaking.
“What are you doing here? And why would the guards outside let you in? They’re not doing their job—it’s a breach of securi—”
“The President requested assistance from my agency,” Seungcheol interrupted. “You’ll be under my protection starting today, Jeonghan.”
Jeonghan slowly turned his head, eyes landing on the man standing beside him. For a moment, he just stared, disbelief flashing across his face. “No fucking way.”
This time, Jeonghan felt something sharper than annoyance—resentment, tangled with disbelief. How could his father still trust this man after what happened to his brother almost two years ago? How could he place Jeonghan under the protection of the very same person who was supposed to have protected his brother during that mission?
“I don’t know why my dad would choose you over anyone else to protect me when you clearly aren’t good at it,” Jeonghan said, the words slipping out like venom.
For a brief second, Seungcheol’s expression darkened—subtle, controlled, almost gone before it fully formed—before his face returned to that unreadable calm.
“If you’re still angry about your brother’s death, so am I,” Seungcheol said evenly. “If I may remind you, I lost a lot of good people because of what happened. And that mission wasn’t about me protecting your brother—so again, whatever accusations you’re throwing at me lack both support and detail.”
“It may not have been the aim of the mission,” Jeonghan said, his voice tightening, each word deliberately pressed out, “but you still failed to help your colleagues survive. You promised me you would return with my brother… but apparently, that never happened.”
His breath hitched slightly, the restraint he had kept for years beginning to crack at the edges. Jeonghan’s eyes held it all now—the buried anger, the grief he had never fully voiced, the resentment he had forced down for so long.
“Blame me all you want for surviving,” Seungcheol said coldly, as if deliberately steering the conversation away from where Jeonghan was trying to take it. “It won’t change the fact that I’m in charge of your protection now. If you choose to cooperate, that’s your decision. But as long as you’re my client, I will do everything necessary to keep you alive—even if it means pushing every possible limit. I hope I made myself clear.” His gaze held steady.
“You cannot make me follow you,” Jeonghan said flatly, his voice cold despite the tension still tight in his chest.
“Who said you need to follow?” Seungcheol replied without hesitation, his tone steady and unbothered. “I can use force if necessary.”
Jeonghan’s eyes widened at that, the words hitting harder than he expected.
“And I mean every fucking word, Jeonghan,”