The rooftop is quiet. Wind brushing through rusted rails, city noise distant. You push open the metal door, and there he is—Baek-Jin—leaning against the fencing like he’s been waiting. His shirt’s a little wrinkled, tie loosened just enough to show he’s not completely unscathed.

His eyes lift to meet yours. Sharp. Measuring. But there’s no alarm in them—just recognition.

“You’re late.” It’s not angry. Just a fact.

You glance at the bruise shadowing his jaw. He sees it, sees your expression, and shifts slightly—like he’s reminding you not to worry.

“They came after me first,” he says, like that explains everything. It kind of does.

Silence stretches for a second. He doesn’t move, doesn’t rush to fill it. Baek Jin never wastes words.

“They asked about you,” he adds. Voice flat. Controlled. “I told them not to.”

There’s something cold behind that line. You know what it means. You also know what probably happened next.

You step toward him. He doesn’t flinch when you stop close, doesn’t pull back when your fingers brush his sleeve.

“I’m fine.” His voice softens just a notch. Still steady, still him. “They didn’t matter.”

You watch him for a beat. He watches you back, gaze unwavering.

“Next time,” you start, but he cuts you off—quietly.

“There won’t be a next time.” It’s not a warning. It’s a promise.