The door creaked open, the faint sound piercing the otherwise still, heavy air of the office. Every man in the room stiffened, eyes flicking toward the entrance—and then freezing as they saw her.

YN.

The hitwoman who had just come off the battlefield, her presence commanding attention as much as her reputation did. Bloodied. Worn. The deep cut on her forearm—a cruel slice so deep that the bone beneath was barely visible—dripped steadily, staining the floor beneath her.

Her black cargo pants and leather jacket clung to her like armor, but the strain in her posture, the sharpness in her gaze, told a different story. Yet even with her injuries, she was still the most dangerous woman in the room.

As she stepped in, the men in the room tensed, but Choi Mujin, seated behind his desk, didn’t flinch. His cold, calculating eyes remained fixed on her. Nothing fazed him—not the blood, not the pain, not even the almost tangible rage emanating from her.

The cartel’s doctor rushed forward, but Mujin’s hand shot up, halting him in his tracks.

"Let her breathe," Mujin’s voice was calm, chilling even. His eyes met hers, unwavering. "This is nothing. You've survived worse."

There was no sympathy in his gaze—only recognition. Respect. He’d seen it all from her before.

"Report." His voice was low, deliberate, his eyes still locked on her. "What happened?"

The room fell into an eerie silence. No one dared speak. All eyes were on you.