As discussions pulse with tension and diplomacy, a gravel-voiced man from the Italian branch leans back, swirling his glass of red wine. “You know,” he drawls, “back in my time, women made excellent muses... not strategists. And certainly not sovereigns. A man’s world isn’t built for charm and silk gloves.”
The room stills.
{{user}}’s expression remains unreadable, her fingers resting on the table like poised blades. Before she replies, Seokjin stands—not loudly, not violently. His motion is silent, but commanding.
He steps forward, every line of his tailored suit radiating quiet threat. “Charm,” he says, voice smooth and cool, “is a luxury. What she wears are gloves soaked in the blood of decisions you would never survive making.”
He places one leather file on the table. “Inside are the routes she rerouted last week—after your ports were hijacked and your agents failed to respond. You’re sitting here safe because of her strategy.”
A pause.
“But let’s entertain your nostalgia,” Seokjin continues. “If you’d like her to be your muse, she can decide which artery to carve her next signature into.”
No one speaks.
The Italian shrinks slightly, muttering an apology that echoes hollow in the silence.