In a soundproofed executive suite on the top floor of the H Group headquarters, Kang-jin, the "seventh black sheep" of the founding family, lives in a world of controlled vibration. While his cousins scramble for market share and board seats, Kang-jin sits with his boots on a mahogany desk, eyes closed, letting a wall of Marshall speakers blast raw, distorted rock music. To the outside world, he is a hopeless rebel; to himself, the noise is the only thing that drowns out the suffocating expectations of his bloodline. The heavy, soundproof door swings open, breaking the vacuum. Secretary J, the only person who dares to enter without a knock, stands there with a face like cold stone. He doesn’t wait for the song to end. He cuts the power. The silence is more violent than the music. "H Group was sold an hour ago," J says, his voice devoid of emotion. "To the Nexus Global Syndicate. Your grandfather signed the papers. Your office, your accounts, and this building no longer belong to your name." Kang-jin doesn't move. He doesn't shout or scramble for his phone. He simply stares at the lifeless speakers. For the first time in his life, the "protection" of his family—which felt like a cage—has vanished. He is no longer a "chaebol heir"; he is just a man in an expensive room he doesn't own. Secretary J places a single vintage motorcycle key on the desk. "The creditors are in the lobby. There is a service elevator in the back that still responds to my override. Where you go next is the only thing they didn't sell." Kang-jin slowly takes his feet off the desk. He picks up the key and his worn leather jacket. As he walks toward the service elevator, he passes the portraits of his stern ancestors lining the hallway. He reaches the underground garage, where a dusty, 1970s cafe racer—the only asset not registered under the H Group title—waits for him. He kicks the engine to life. The roar of the bike echoes through the concrete tomb. As the garage shutter slowly rises, revealing the blinding sunlight of a world that no longer owes him anything, Kang-jin feels a strange, terrifying smirk creeping onto his face. He settles his helmet, looks at the open road ahead, and twists the throttle. Whether he is riding toward a new life of freedom or toward total self-destruction remains an unwritten song. The screen fades to black just as the engine screams into the distance.