The car rolled through Florence in silence. Outside, the city glowed with soft golden lights — couples walking hand in hand, laughter spilling from open cafés, the air rich with warmth and life. It all felt like another world — far removed from mine.

Inside the car, I could hear only the faint hum of the engine and the distant echo of my heartbeat. My reflection in the window looked hollow, fractured against the glass. My eyes were red — not from tears, but from exhaustion. I hadn’t allowed myself to cry. Crying meant accepting that they were gone. And I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

When the car stopped, I stepped out into the chilled night air. The black iron gates of a quiet villa — one of my father’s associates’ properties — swung open. My assistant moved to take my suitcase, but I waved him off with a single look.
“I’ll handle it,” I said, my tone as sharp as the cold.
He nodded, hesitated, then stepped back.

Inside, the villa smelled of polished wood and dust — untouched, impersonal. I dropped my bag near the door and walked straight to the room upstairs. The silence pressed against my skull like a physical weight. I sat down on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling until dawn began to wash the sky in pale gray light.

Sleep never came. Only flashes. My mother’s laugh echoing through the halls. My father’s hand gripping my shoulder as he said, “You’ll take over soon.”
And then — flames. Screams. Silence.

When the first rays of morning bled through the curtains, I stood. The man in the mirror wore a black suit — crisp, sharp, calculated. My tie, perfectly knotted. My shoes, polished to a shine. On the surface, I looked composed. Untouchable. But my chest… it felt hollow. Like something had been carved out of me and left bleeding in the wreckage.

The drive to the morgue stretched on forever. My assistant sat beside me, glancing occasionally my way but saying nothing. Smart man. The silence between us was brittle enough to shatter with a word.

When we arrived, the air hit me like a slap — cold, sterile, suffocating. The scent of disinfectant burned my throat.

A man in a white coat approached, his expression heavy with practiced sympathy. “Mr. Jeon… I’m very sorry for your loss. If you’re ready, we’ll take you to see them.”

My voice was low, even. “Show me.”

He led me down a corridor that seemed to stretch into infinity. Each step echoed like a countdown. My lungs tightened until breathing felt like drowning.

When we entered the room, the world fell silent. Two bodies lay on metal tables, covered by white sheets.

“Would you like me to—” the man began.

“No.” I cut him off. “I’ll do it.”

My fingers trembled once before I clenched them into fists. Slowly, I pulled back the first sheet.

My mother. Pale. Still. Too still. Her lips were the same soft curve I remembered, but her warmth was gone. I waited for her chest to rise, for her to open her eyes and smile — to tell me I was too serious, too much like my father.

But she didn’t.

“Mother…” My voice cracked like thin glass. The sound barely reached my own ears.

I leaned down, pressing my forehead to hers for a fleeting second, breathing her in — though the scent I loved had vanished. Only the cold remained.

Then I covered her again, my throat closing around the scream clawing to escape.

My father was next. His face was hard, dignified even in death. The man who had built empires from shadows and taught me to never bend. He’d said just last week, “Soon, it’ll all be yours.”

Now all he’d left me was a kingdom of ashes.

“I confirm,” I managed, my tone clipped, mechanical. “They are my parents.”

The man beside me nodded, jotting something down. “Again, my condolences, Mr. Jeon.”

I didn’t answer. My pulse thundered in my ears.

Back in the car, my assistant spoke softly, “Sir, about the funeral—”

“Private.” I didn’t look at him. “No press. No cameras. Only those who owe them their respect.”

He hesitated. “And the—”

“Handle it,” I said. My tone ended the conversation.

With that all, I turned away.

The funeral was held after two days in one of the villa my father own. The chapel was draped in white and gold — pristine, immaculate, like grief dressed in luxury. Chandeliers glimmered softly above, their light touching every polished corner of the marble hall, but somehow, it all felt dim.
Too dim for two coffins that should never have been there.

I stood at the front, black suit pressed to perfection, hands clasped behind my back, posture straight. Controlled. Composed. I had learned long ago that grief was a weakness best hidden behind elegance.

But even as the priest’s low, rhythmic voice filled the air, reading verses in Italian, my mind was elsewhere — watching their faces from this morning replay again and again behind my eyelids.

The marble floor glinted beneath the candles, reflecting the faces of men and women who had gathered. They weren’t here to mourn. I knew that. I could feel it. Their eyes didn’t hold sorrow — they held calculation.

They whispered behind veils of politeness, their lips curved in faint sympathy, their eyes sharp with greed.

“Such a tragedy,” murmured one man in an expensive grey suit, standing near the back.
“Yes,” another replied, his tone too casual. “But you know how fragile an empire becomes when its pillars fall. The son… he’s young.”

My grip tightened around the rosary I didn’t believe in.

They think I can’t hear them.
They think I’m too broken to see.

Fools.

I turned slowly, my gaze sweeping across the hall. The whispers fell silent for a brief second.

There they stood — the board members, investors, family ‘friends’. Men my father trusted. Men who had dined at our table, laughed at our jokes, toasted our victories. Now they looked at me like vultures circling fresh carcasses.

I could almost taste their hunger.

One of them — Mr. Romano, my father’s closest associate — approached with a soft smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“My deepest condolences, Jungkook,” he said, his hand reaching out.
I didn’t take it.

He hesitated but continued. “Your father was a great man. The company, the properties — it’s all… quite a responsibility for someone your age. If you ever need guidance—”

“I won’t,” I said, cutting him off. My voice echoed a little too sharply in the hollow chapel.

His lips twitched. “I only meant to help.”

“No,” I replied evenly, stepping closer, my tone lowering to ice. “I don't need help.”

The muscles in his jaw flexed, but before he could reply, another voice joined in — soft, condescending.

“Jungkook, grief makes us all paranoid,” said Mrs. Ricci, draped in black silk, her perfume drowning the air. “You mustn’t assume everyone is your enemy.”

I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You’re right,” I said. “Enemies at least have the decency to attack openly.”

Her smile faltered.

My assistant, Taemin, approached quietly, whispering in my ear. “Sir, the lawyer from Milan is here — he’s asking to discuss the estate division before—”

“Before what?” I asked, turning my head slowly toward him. “Before we bury my parents?”

He hesitated. “…Yes.”

My vision flickered red for a second.

Around us, polite murmurs began again, like a symphony of hypocrisy. They weren’t here to pray. They were here to profit. Every handshake was a transaction, every condolence a negotiation.

My father’s empire wasn’t just money — it was power, built over decades with blood and brilliance. And now, everyone wanted a piece of it.

I turned back to the coffins — my parents lying still beneath layers of carved mahogany and lilies. My chest tightened until it physically hurt to breathe.

My mother’s ring was on my finger now. My father’s watch rested beneath my sleeve. Their warmth — gone. Their scent — gone.
But their ghosts stayed.

And so did the wolves.

“Sir,” Taemin whispered again, hesitant. “Should I… ask them to leave?”

I looked at him, my jaw clenched. “No,” I said finally, voice low. “Let them stay. Let them see what it looks like when a dynasty doesn’t fall.”

He nodded silently.

The priest’s words faded into a blur as I stepped forward. Every eye in the hall followed me as I approached the coffins. My polished shoes echoed sharply against the marble floor, the sound slicing through the murmurs like a blade.

I stopped between them — my mother on the left, my father on the right. Two halves of my world, now reduced to silence and wood.

“I’ll carry it,” I whispered under my breath. “The name. The legacy. Every damn thing you left behind.”

A single candle beside my mother flickered — as if in answer. Or maybe I imagined it.

Behind me, Romano spoke again, his tone falsely cordial. “We’ll be expecting to meet soon, Jungkook. To discuss… the transition. For everyone’s stability, of course.”

I turned around slowly. “Everyone’s?”

He smiled. “Well, naturally. Investors are nervous. There are debts, accounts, partnerships—”

“Are you implying,” I said, stepping closer, “that my father left chaos behind?”

He hesitated. “Not chaos, but—”

“Then remember who you’re talking to.” My voice dropped lower, colder. “I’m not his shadow. I’m his blood. Everything he built — I now own. And if anyone here thinks I’ll let them tear it apart…” I leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Try me.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the priest paused mid-prayer.

Romano’s throat bobbed as he forced a thin smile. “Of course. Forgive me. Emotions run high.”
“They do,” I said softly. “Some of us just hide it better.”

When he finally stepped back, I faced the coffins again. My hand brushed over the cool wood, tracing the carved initials — J.H.J. and M.L.J.

I spoke so quietly even Taemin didn’t hear me. “They want your empire, Father. But they’ll have to go through hell to touch it.”

The room began to empty after that. Faces disappeared, whispers fading into the corridors until the chapel was quiet again — only the candles, the coffins, and me.

The air smelled of wax and lilies. My shoulders finally slumped, the exhaustion of the last 72 hours pressing down until it felt like gravity itself wanted me to break.

I slid to my knees between them, my fingers clutching the edge of the coffins. “Why now?” I whispered, the control in my voice finally fracturing. “Why both of you?”

My voice echoed against the walls, breaking apart like glass.

I bit my lip until I tasted blood, forcing the tears back. But one slipped through anyway, falling onto the wood — a small, soundless betrayal.

When I spoke again, it was to the silence. To the ghosts I could almost feel watching me.

“I’ll make them regret coming here for your ashes. I’ll make them choke on the empire they want to steal.”

My hand trembled, but I didn’t hide it anymore. “You said once, Father… strength isn’t in how much pain you can bear. It’s in how much you can bury and still walk.”

I looked up, straightened my back. “I’m walking now.”

The last candle flickered, then went out — plunging the room into half-darkness.

And that night, as the scent of lilies faded and Florence slept, I finally understood the truth I’d been running from:

Grief doesn’t end when the prayers stop.
It simply hardens —
into resolve.
Into vengeance.
Into power.

And from that night on, Jeon Jungkook, son of the empire, ceased to exist.
In his place was someone else — cold, deliberate, dangerous.
The man who would take back everything they tried to steal.
And make the world remember who the Jeons truly were.