{{user}} sat in the backseat of the black car, legs crossed, face unreadable. The driver said nothing, knowing better than to disturb the wife of Taejoo Beom—the man who ruled the city’s underworld with a quiet, ruthless precision.

Rain drummed on the roof while the engine hummed, and the faint smell of blood, smoke, and steel clung to the night. She didn’t flinch when the door finally opened. Taejoo slid in, shirt stained dark, knuckles raw, eyes colder than winter.

He didn’t speak right away. Neither did she. He lit a cigarette with steady hands, exhaling slowly as if trying to rid himself of the violence that still clung to him. She reached over, brushed a smear of red from his jaw with a silk handkerchief. “Did he beg?” she asked, calm as ever.

Taejoo looked at her then, a flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes—not fear, not regret—something softer, dangerous in its own way. “They always do,” he muttered. And for a moment, amidst blood and smoke, he realized he’d kill for her, die for her—and worse, he’d fallen for her without even knowing when.