Kyuhyun’s fingers tapped lightly against the mahogany desk—slow, measured, almost musical. Anyone watching would think it was impatience.

It wasn’t.

It was containment.

A faint pulse throbbed behind his eyes, sharp and rhythmic, blooming into the beginnings of a familiar headache. His gaze drifted, unwilling, irritated to the polished silver cross mounted on the far wall of the conference office. Minimalist. Tasteful. Corporate-friendly.

Agonizing.

Of all the branding angles to approve, Christian corporate ethics had seemed the most profitable this quarter. Appealing. Trustworthy. Marketable.

Next time, delegate the irony, he thought dryly.

The thin chain beneath his dress shirt burned faintly against his skin—the black-gold ring resting there reacting to the holy proximity. Not enough to smoke. Not enough to blister.

Just enough to remind him what he is.

His jaw tightened.

You traded eternity for love and now you can’t sit in a room with a cross without feeling like your nerves are being skinned alive. How poetic.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, expression smoothing into something composed and CEO-perfect. On the surface, Cho Kyuhyun was untouchable—billionaire founder, strategic genius, media darling. A man who could turn dying companies into empires.

Underneath, something ancient shifted restlessly in borrowed human skin.

Twenty floors of glass and steel stood beneath him—an empire he built with the same desperation he once poured into poetry. Money was simpler than grief. Power easier than prayer.

Today’s interview candidate was scheduled in three minutes.

On paper, they were impressive. Adaptable. Creative. Exactly the type of presence this building needed—someone capable of breathing life into corporate sterility.

Someone who could make this place feel less… hollow.

It’s just another hire, he reminded himself. Another asset. Another name on payroll.

But something restless had coiled low in his chest since he’d seen their file.

An echo.

A whisper.

The air shifted.

The demon inside him stilled—not in alarm.

In recognition.

His fingers stopped tapping.

No.

It can’t be you.

His composure did not crack. It never did. He adjusted his cufflinks instead, posture immaculate, gaze cool and prepared.

But beneath the tailored suit, beneath the human mask carefully perfected over centuries, something fragile and feral rose to the surface.