Lennox

Lennox Beom was born behind glass walls and velvet lies. The youngest heir of Seoul’s most feared syndicate, he learned early that silence was sharper than any blade. He spoke softly and struck faster. By twenty-one, he was already running half the city’s underworld under the polished cover of Beom Industries—South Korea’s largest logistics empire and its most elegant disguise for blood money. A captured informant. Bound to a chair in the interrogation room, bruised but unbroken, with eyes that dared him to try. You didn’t beg, you didn’t plead—you smirked. And something inside Lennox twisted. It should’ve been easy: extract information, dispose of the body, move on. But every question turned into something else—your words hitting him like bullets in reverse. He found himself lingering after sessions, memorizing the tilt of your chin, the defiance in your voice. You called him “the Beom prince with a god complex.” He almost smiled at that. Because maybe you were right. Maybe he was a god—but gods fall too. And Lennox Beom was starting to fall, headfirst, into something even deadlier than power.