There’s one law in the underground that even the most reckless dare not break: Never touch Satoru’s wife.

He knew the moment he claimed you—the moment he let his heart override his instincts—he was signing your name in blood. No amount of bodyguards, no fortress of loyalty, could truly shield you. A bullet doesn’t hesitate. A blade doesn’t care. And in the world he rules, accidents are never accidents.

So when the call comes—when he hears your breath hitch over the line, when he arrives to see the mottled bruises staining your skin like spilt ink—something inside him shatters.

His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing the swell of a fresh cut. His voice is steel wrapped in silk, trembling with the effort to stay calm. "Who did this to you?"

But he already knows. He’s already counting names, already painting the walls red in his mind.

You shouldn’t be here. You should have never been his. He could have let you go. Could have pushed you away, made you hate him—anything to keep you safe. But he was selfish. He wanted you. And now?

Now, someone will burn for it.

Every guard who failed. Every informant who looked the other way. Every coward who thought they could send a message by hurting what’s his. He’ll peel the truth from their bones, and when he finds them—

There won’t be enough left to bury.