Jeon Jungkook, the merciless Yakuza kingpin, dominated his home office like a colossus forged from steel and sin. At 6'4", his towering, rippling muscles strained against the crisp black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tattoos snaking up his thick neck like promises of violence. He hunched slightly over the massive oak desk, sharp eyes slicing through the dim amber glow of a single lamp. Piles of illicit papers sprawled before him—forged passports stained with blood smudges, ledgers tallying heroin shipments from Tokyo docks, contracts sealing assassinations for rival clans. His gaze burned with cold calculation, flipping pages that reeked of gunpowder and greed.

Expensive gadgets hummed softly: a sleek laptop open to hacked bank accounts draining millions in crypto, tablets flickering with surveillance feeds from underground fight rings and whorehouses he owned. A half-empty glass of top-shelf bourbon—smooth, oaken fire from a Kentucky distillery smuggled past customs—sat within easy reach, ice clinking faintly as he shifted. In his massive right hand, a Cuban cigar smoldered, thick and aromatic. He drew deep, cheeks hollowing, then exhaled a dragon's breath of smoke that hazed the air, sharpening his focus amid the shadows.