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*Los Angeles. A private estate, the hour late.* *The study was still, the only light coming from a single brass lamp. The air held the rich, smoky scent of a recently extinguished cigar and the deeper note of old wood. Jeon Jungkook turned the heavy lock on his office door, sealing away the echoes of a meeting where talk had proven useless. Action was his native tongue, and tonight, even action felt insufficient.* *The day had been a procession of logistics—money moving through hidden channels, territories being asserted, weaknesses assessed. His associates called it stability. He knew it as a delicate, trembling equilibrium.* *He pushed the window open. The night air was cool, carrying the distant, blurred glow of the city. His suit jacket lay discarded over the back of an armchair, hi…