"Some wounds bleed in silence. Others scream with thunder."
Inside the towering Kim Mansion, the walls trembled not from thunder, but from the storm within.
It was raining that night. The kind of rain that carried weight—not just water, but grief. Regret. Secrets.
Seven boys once called this place home. But home should never hurt like this. It should never echo with screams and shattered glass. It should never be covered with blood stains and weapons. It should never be full of an army of armed robotic guards, surrounding it.
Kim Jaehyun, head of the Kim Empire, was feared by the world—worshipped by some, obeyed by many. A man who wasn't respected out of admiration but out of fear. But to his sons, he was a monster dressed in silk suits. A father by title. A tyrant by choice.
And buried beneath his empire was a name they dared not speak—their mother.
She was light. She was fire in the frost of the underworld. She was everything he wasn't.
But fate decided to play a rather too cruel game through their father's cold hands.
One morning, ten years ago, as the boys sat at the breakfast table, the silence broke—not from a voice, but from a sound no child should ever hear.
A body hitting metal. A scream tearing through the air.
"MOM!" Junseo had screamed, rushing out with his brothers.
Their mother lay sprawled on the car roof, blood painting her white dress crimson. Her eyes… still open, still soft.
On the rooftop above, their father stood, expression unreadable, phone already in hand.
"Call an ambulance," he had said coldly.
But they knew it was too late.
And they also knew…
...it was no accident.
From that day on, their lives weren't just bound by blood. They were shackled by it.
She was the tenderness that they now weren't even allowed to remember.
And now, years later, on another stormy night, history threatened to repeat itself.
Junseo's voice cracked the silence. "Why can't we be happy? Don't we have the right to be? Aren't we humans?"
A chair shattered over his back in response to his defiance, harshly. His blood met the floor like rain meeting earth.
Taeyang, a little older than Junseo, couldn't take it anymore. His voice broke in a soft plea, "Please Dad, leave him, he would die!"
"Then let him die!" Jaehyun's cold indifference echoed.
"He doesn't deserve to live if he can't understand that-mafias don't feel. Better dead than disobedient"
Junseo's voice shook with rage. "You killed Mom. Just to claim a title that wasn't even given to her! And when her best friend got it instead—you killed her too! You call that strength?!"
That was it.
The ticking time bomb exploded.
Doors slammed shut. Screams rang out.
'Why not me instead? Why is it always the youngest?'
The thought haunted every hyung, a silent scream echoing in their hearts.
They tried.
They always tried.
But nothing they said or did ever seemed enough to shield him.
Haejoon fell to his knees, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation.
"Please… just beat me instead. Kill me if you want—but leave him alone, Dad!"
His words thundered through the halls, but the monster never flinched.
And Junseo… he just stood there. Wounded. Silent. Unmoving.
Like a porcelain doll that learned long ago how to survive in hell by not showing a single crack.
Blood splattered everywhere. The past clawed its way back.
Tears streamed down all their faces. Even Seungho, usually the coldest of them all, stood frozen, eyes glassy. Watching Junseo in pain felt like seeing a machine cry — a machine their father had built.
It felt just like that day.
But this time, Junseo refused to give Jaehyun the satisfaction.
No scream tore from his throat.
No tear welled in his eyes.
His silence wasn't weakness—it was defiance.
A quiet rebellion that said, 'You don't get to break me anymore.'
And though his body trembled from the pain, his gaze remained steady, empty of fear.
Jaehyun could strike.
He could taunt, sneer, punish.
But he would never again own Junseo's pain.
Not this time. Not ever again.
Crashes, roars, and the sound of shattering glass echoed from the room where their father held Junseo.
"Please… show some mercy. Just take your frustration out on me,"
Seungho's voice—usually sharp, cold, impenetrable—cracked.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't desperate.
But it was raw.
The kind of crack that doesn't come from weakness,
but from watching someone you swore to protect break again and again.
His fists were clenched. Jaw locked. Eyes burning—not with fear, but fury… and helplessness.
Yet even that plea, that rare shattering of Seungho's iron mask, was ignored.
Because mercy… was a word their father never learned.
The rest of the boys banged on the door, fists bruising, voices cracking.
Eventually, they slumped down in exhaustion, leaning against the door in tears.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. Their father stepped out, drenched in blood. Not his own.
All six brothers rose to their feet at once.
No words were exchanged. No signals needed.
Just a shared, simmering rage that crackled in the air like a live wire.
Their thoughts were a storm of fury—raw, unfiltered.
Haejoon imagined wrapping the chain he once trained with around their father's throat, watching the arrogance drain from his eyes.
Seungho thought of his dagger—cold, efficient—slipping it right beneath the ribs where it would hurt most, where it would silence him permanently.
Hyunsik envisioned poison. Slow, poetic justice, something bitter hidden in his favorite wine.
Dohyun saw fire. Flames consuming the monster who torched their childhood.
Hyunjae pictured a scalpel, surgical and precise—cutting out the cruelty like it was a tumor.
And Taeyang… Taeyang simply wanted to beat him until there was nothing left but regret in his final breaths.
Six boys.
Six shattered pieces of a promise they had made to each other:
Never let the youngest bleed alone.
Yet here they were.
They rushed in to find Junseo collapsed on the floor, barely conscious, soaked in blood.
And in that silence, none of them could meet his eyes.
Not because they didn't care—
But because they cared too much.
Because the guilt clawed at their chests like a living thing,
because each of them saw their own failure etched into the bruises on his skin.
Junseo stood still, head slightly lowered, expression unreadable.
Not angry. Not broken. Just… quiet.
And that quiet was worse than a scream.
So each brother turned away—
Haejoon—the ever calm one—clenching his fists,
Seungho—the indifferent one—biting the inside of his cheek,
Hyunsik— the one could laugh through pain—wiping his face as if something had gotten in his eye,
Dohyun—the most brightest of them all—staring hard at the floor,
Hyunjae—the flirty playboy—pacing with trembling hands,
Taeyang—the mischievous yet mysterious one—running his fingers through his hair until it hurt.
Because they all knew—
They were six kings in the making.
But they couldn't protect their youngest from the one monster they all feared.
After drinking some water, Junseo staggered to his feet, heading toward the main door.
Limping with great difficulty.
Haejoon stepped closer, eyes filled with pain—not just from his injuries, but from watching his little brother like this.
He reached out, arms gentle, voice softer. "Seo, let me—"
But Junseo just raised his hand, palm open in refusal.
A quiet command.
Hyunjae froze mid-step.
The message was clear.
Don't.
Not now.
Not like this.
Junseo didn't want pity.
Didn't want touch.
Didn't want anyone to feel sorry for him.
So Hyunjae watched, heart crumbling, as Junseo walked past—
bruised, bleeding, and silent,
yet carrying a weight none of them could bear.
Not even together.
None of them dared stop him, knowing their comfort would only make the father's (whom they called their father unwantedly) rage accelerate and the destruction faced would become insufferable.
And when Junseo ran into the storm, blood mixing with rain, he didn't run from pain—
he ran from becoming it.
He ran through unfamiliar streets—
just like he had ten years ago,
right after seeing his mother's lifeless body.
This time, his legs gave out.
He collapsed to the ground, curling into himself as the rain poured down, washing away blood, grime—
and the tears he could no longer hold back.
For the first time in years,
he cried.
Not silently, not secretly.
He cried like the child he'd buried deep inside.
He had always believed suicide was for cowards.
But tonight, if cowardice meant escape,
maybe it wasn't such a shameful thing after all.
Until—
she appeared.
An umbrella. A soft voice.
Eyes that had seen war. Hands that knew how to heal. Hands that knew how to kill.
"Cry, little one. Don't hold it in. Not this time." Her voice felt like the only ray of comfort in the harsh storm.
Her words weren't loud, but they struck like thunder.
He first caught her scent.
Vanilla.
Soft and warm. But beneath it—gunpowder.
Familiar. Dangerous. Safe.
Then he lifted his head,
realizing the rain no longer touched him.
He looked at her through his blurred vision—and remembered.
Another rainy day. Another time. The same words.
"I promise this noona will protect you, little bunny."
He hadn't believed her then.
But maybe—just maybe—he could now.
Because fate has a strange way of returning what was never meant to be lost.
And this time, the storm didn't just bring pain.
It brought hope.
Hope wrapped in a hidden crown.
By the name—Song Haseul.
But to truly understand the tale of the puppet brothers and the queen born in shadows,
we must go back—
two weeks before the storm.