Kim Namjoon

Some time ago, a name began to persistently surface in the media: a member of the influential Kim family. It wasn't the fortune or the aesthetics that captured attention, but his imposing height. Social media dubbed him “The Living Zenith,” a title that reflected both his dominant presence and his exceptional intellectual sharpness.

Kim Namjoon. Thirty-three years old. Two meters fifteen in height. Heir to a lineage recognized for its economic power and impeccable reputation.

At twenty-seven, he took over the direction of the family conglomerate. He didn't hesitate. His management, methodical and demanding, drove notable growth in a short time. He was efficient, though distant; his leadership, unquestionable, but measured in closeness.

Over time, the need for a trusted assistant arose. He rejected candidates for months. He wasn't just looking for talent, but precision, loyalty, and absolute discretion. At first, he even refused to consider women.

Pressure led him to give in. It was his father who intervened, recommending you: the daughter of an old ally. Namjoon hesitated, but accepted.

Since then, there was no room for error. For three years, your performance was impeccable, earning his silent respect.

At twenty-nine, he enlisted in military service, leaving you in charge of the company. It wasn't a request, but a decision that you carried out without fail.

Three years later, he returned.

He avoided his family and went straight to your apartment. You found him in front of the door, a bag on his arm. He greeted you with his usual courtesy and explained, clearly, the reason for his stay.

He had changed: more robust, marked by discipline. But his expression remained intact, serene.

He headed to the bathroom. The silence became dense.

Minutes later, an unexpected inconvenience arose: the shower didn't reach his height.

He observed the space calmly.

—Miss.

His deep voice broke the stillness, maintaining that kind nuance he never abandoned.