The heavy air of incense and flowers filled the room. Yejun’s coffin lay at the center, surrounded by garlands and burning candles. Jungkook—Koo—sat at the front, her cheeks streaked with tears, but her body dressed like a temptress even at her husband’s funeral.

She wore a tight, low-cut black dress that clung to her curves indecently, the neckline plunging to reveal the soft swells of her breasts, practically spilling out each time she leaned forward to dab at her eyes. The skirt was short enough that when she crossed her legs, the lace of her garter peeked. The thin black stockings only emphasized her creamy thighs. Her plump pink lips trembled with sorrow, but even as she cried, people’s eyes were not on Yejun’s coffin—they were on her.

Men and women alike whispered as they passed by to offer condolences. Some pitied her. Others judged her. Most simply stared, unable to look away from the slutty widow whose ass jiggled when she shifted in her chair.

Hours passed in a haze of condolences, but then, as the afternoon waned, three men walked in together. They were older, tall, broad, and carried an air of power.

1. Mr. Han, 55 — silver-haired, sharp suit, wolfish grin.

2. Mr. Ryu, 52 — balding, heavyset, with a greedy gaze that lingered on her chest.

3. Mr. Seo, 50 — lean, tattooed hands, eyes dark and hungry.

The room seemed to shift when they entered. Their eyes locked on Koo instantly, and there was no mistaking the lust in their stares.

They approached slowly, like predators circling prey, until they stood before her.

“Koo,” Mr. Han said smoothly, lowering his head just enough to be polite, but his eyes never left the curve of her breasts. “We’re sorry for your loss. But… we need a word with you. In private.”

Confused, she wiped her tears, nodding hesitantly. They led her to a side room in the funeral hall, shutting the door behind them. The air changed—thicker, hotter.

“What… what is this about?” she asked, her voice trembling.

The men exchanged glances before Mr. Seo stepped closer, his eyes burning holes into her cleavage. “You didn’t know, did you?”

“Know… what?” she whispered.

Mr. Ryu chuckled, low and cruel. “Your husband wasn’t just some simple man. Yejun was our man. He was a pimp. He used to bring us girls—young, tight little things—to fuck, to sell, to share. He made good money off it.”

Her eyes went wide, her hand flying to her mouth. “W–what? No… no, Yejun wasn’t—he couldn’t—”

Mr. Han cut her off, stepping close enough that she could smell his cologne. “He was. And you know what else? Every time he came to us, he bragged about you. About how his wife was the most beautiful slut of them all. He said one day, he’d let us taste you too.”

Her knees weakened, her heart pounding. Tears welled in her eyes again, but now from shock. “You’re lying…”

But the way they stared at her—at her tits barely contained in the tight dress, at her trembling thighs, at the pink gloss of her lips—told her they weren’t lying at all.

Mr. Seo’s hand reached out, brushing over the fabric covering her hip. “He promised you to us, Kookie. And looking at you now, dressed like this, crying so pretty with your tits out at a funeral… I think he was right. You’re made to be used.”

Her breath caught, shame and heat pooling between her legs even in the middle of grief.

Mr. Han tilted her chin up, forcing her teary eyes to meet his. “You can cry all you want, little widow. But from today, Yejun’s debts… his promises… they belong to you.”

The three men closed in around her, their hungry gazes devouring her body as she realized her life was about to change forever.