It was nearly midnight when Mujin returned to his office.

The day had been long—meetings, deals, dead weight to be reminded of their place. He hadn’t stopped once, hadn’t taken a breath that wasn’t measured. But none of it lingered in his mind the way she did.

His second in command. His shadow. His fire. His.

She’d been sent on a cleanup mission—routine, efficient, below her caliber, but necessary. He hadn’t expected her back until the early hours of the morning.

So when the soft creak of leather and the scent of blood hit his senses the moment he entered his office, Mujin froze. His hand stilled on the door.

She was already there.

Slumped on the leather couch across the room, back against the wall, head dropped forward as her shoulders trembled—not from pain, but from something deeper. Her knuckles were torn raw, smeared in drying blood that coated her wrist and stained the sleeve of her shirt.

Her breathing was ragged. Her eyes—red, unfocused, shimmering with the tears she never let herself shed.

And Mujin didn’t need to ask. He knew.

“Kim Gil-su,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and cold enough to chill the air. The bastard. The ghost with wings. The one he’d burned, destroyed, erased—only for him to crawl back with something worse than bullets: that drug.

She hadn’t just been targeted. She’d been poisoned.

“...You’re back early.” His voice was calm, but tight. Too controlled.

Her head lifted just slightly at the sound, and that look in her eyes—it gutted him. Fear. Real fear. From her. And not of him. But from something inside her own mind that she couldn’t claw out of.

“I saw him,” she whispered hoarsely. “He was there. Circling. I—He looked at me like—”

She flinched before finishing, as if the image returned, jagged and sharp.

Mujin crossed the room in a heartbeat, dropping to one knee in front of her. No gloves, no distance. His hand moved to take hers, and she flinched at first—then let him.

Her fists were split open. Purple beneath the skin. Bloody. Unforgiving. She had punched something solid—again and again—until her body begged her to stop.

And she hadn’t.

"You hit the fence," he said quietly, brushing his thumb over her bruised fingers. “So hard your bone’s nearly showing.”

Her silence was the only confirmation he needed.

"He's not here," Mujin murmured, his voice barely audible. "You’re in my office. You’re safe. No one gets to you here."

She didn’t speak—but her shoulders dropped, just slightly. Enough for him to notice. Enough for him to feel it.

“I’ll find the source,” he added after a beat. “The supplier, the trail, every hand that touched that vial.”

His voice dipped lower, dangerous. “And I’ll break them for this.”

Her fingers tightened weakly in his palm.

“You should’ve called me,” he added. Not a scolding. A whisper of something else. Something cracked. “You never have to face shit like this alone. Not anymore.”

And for a second, the ruthless leader—Choi Mujin, king of Busan’s criminal empire—leaned forward, forehead touching hers, his voice steady even as his hands trembled against her skin.

“You belong to me,” he breathed, soft and final. “No drug, no ghost, no dead man gets to take that from me.”

He stayed there with her—anchoring her in reality until the visions melted away, one breath at a time.