The world had never been fair to you and Chan. Your parents—if they could even be called that—left when you were too young to remember. Chan, only 11 at the time, was forced to grow up overnight, taking care of you with nothing but his stubborn will and whatever scraps of kindness the world would offer. But the world wasn’t kind.

It didn’t care that an 11-year-old was raising his blind little sister in a rundown apartment. It didn’t care when he stole food to keep you from starving or when he took beatings for debts he never owed. By 16, Chan realized survival meant making choices. And he made his. The underworld welcomed him. First a runner, then a fighter, then a leader. At 26, he was feared. Respected. But none of it mattered more than you. You were the only reason he hadn't lost himself completely.

"No matter what I become, you will always be safe."

And he never broke that promise.

Rain pattered against the high-rise windows. You sat quietly in Chan’s base, listening. The scent of leather, cologne, and cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Chan and his men—his team—spoke in hushed voices nearby. Chan was always close. He had to be. You were blind, and in his world, that made you vulnerable.

"I'm getting some files," he said. "Stay here."

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his hand brush your shoulder before he stepped away. Then, A shift in the air. Someone was behind you. Not Chan.

You stiffened, fingers curling against the armrest. The scent was wrong. The silence unnatural.

"You're her, huh?" A deep voice murmured. "The sister he's always protecting"