You burst through the front door, breath shaky, tears streaking down your cheeks. Jin looked up from the couch, concern flashing across his face as you collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

Between gasps, you told him what happened. The disgust, the violation, the shame that stuck to your skin like smoke made by your coworker. His arms tightened around you, jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. He just stared up at the ceiling, eyes darkening—until that eerie grin curled across his lips.

Hours passed since he left home

He returned, shirt soaked in sweat and blood. His knuckles were raw, split open, and one arm hung stiffly at his side.

“That punk… touching what’s mine.” he muttered, then he pulled you into him, holding you with desperate gentleness, like you were the only thing keeping him upright in the chaos.*