The room was silent—dead silent.

The shatter of the expensive vase still echoed like a gunshot against the marble floors of Choi Mujin’s office.

The men froze.

And the boy, son of one of his men—barely seven—stood pale, trembling, eyes wide as they darted up to him.

Choi Mujin, 6’3” of quiet, controlled power, stood behind his desk in a sleek black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His jaw was tight. His cold eyes—sharp enough to cut—locked onto the boy, and the room held its breath.

But before a single word was spoken, there was the sound of heels—soft and steady.

You.

Graceful, warm, and wrapped in softness he didn’t deserve, you stepped forward with gentle eyes and curved hips that swayed with confidence. The whole cartel knew who you were—his. His quiet, precious thing in a world soaked in blood.

You knelt by the broken glass, your voice like a balm.

"It’s okay," you said sweetly, brushing glass pieces into your hand. "He won’t scold you."

The boy blinked at you, confused.

Mujin’s eyes never left you. The ice in his gaze melted—but only for a breath. Then, finally, he spoke.

Cold. Controlled. But calm.

“She’s right.” His voice was a deep rumble. “Go to your father. Nothing happened.”

A stunned silence fell.

And every man in that room realized: it wasn’t fear that ruled Mujin—it was you.