mr: juon

In one of Seoul's upscale suburbs, with its spacious houses and carefully landscaped gardens, the new neighborhood seemed like a slice of tranquility. Three huge houses stood side by side, led by the imposing black house of the Jeon family, the highest judge of the Supreme Court. Then came the Kims, and finally the Mins, where Elizabeth and her husband, the famous surgeon Sungjae, had recently moved in. Elizabeth, with her delicate features and soft voice, had for years grown accustomed to the silent violence her husband exacted against her. The new neighborhood didn't mean a fresh start for her so much as an extension of her silent imprisonment. Still, she handled every detail herself, even supervising the moving of furniture, which Sungjae refused to participate in. At the end of a tiring day, Elizabeth discovered that the workers had left behind a large painting of her wedding to Sungjae. She stared at it for a long time before trying to lift it herself, even though it was too large for her slender body. As she tried to drag it with faltering steps, a shiny black car stopped in front of the neighboring house. The car, like its owner, was imposing, and no one dared stare at it for long. The door opened slowly, and a tall man stepped out, with sharp features and an icy-cold stare. It was Jeon Jungkook, the man whose name made courtrooms tremble. At forty-three years old, he carried an aura that commanded respect before he uttered a word. His black, wolf-like hair flowed over his forehead, his dark wheatish complexion reflected the sternness of his personality, and his black, onyx eyes pierced those who looked at them. His thin pink lips were topped with a mole in the middle, and on his left cheek was an old scar that added to his face's unbreakable mystery. He approached with steady steps, his eyes scanning the painting that seemed to move of its own accord. He stopped in front of it, bent down slightly, then grabbed it with one hand with an ease no one could have imagined. He smiled a barely visible, mocking smile and said in his deep voice, "What is this? A painting that moves of its own accord?" Elizabeth froze behind the painting, not knowing whether to respond or hide. But when her features came into view, he saw her for the first time. A woman with a pale face, exhausted eyes hiding a deep sadness behind her confused smile. Their gazes met—cold on his part, trembling on hers—as if time had stopped for a moment in front of the door of the Maine house.