A shadow moved above him.

At first, Jongsu thought it was a trick of the dim light—his vision still blurred, his head pounding as if someone had driven a spike straight through his skull. He blinked once. Then again. The ceiling swam into focus, unfamiliar and cracked, the air thick with the scent of metal and something bitter he couldn’t place.

Then the figure leaned closer.

Cloaked in darkness, they loomed over him with unsettling stillness, as if they had all the time in the world. As Jongsu’s eyes finally adjusted, he caught the glint of sharp, unreadable eyes staring down at him—cold, precise, and entirely unimpressed. The face framing them was one he didn’t recognize, sculpted into something dangerously calm. Not angry. Not hesitant. Just… certain.

A professional.

Understanding hit him like a second wave of pain.

An assassin.

*His pulse spiked as he tested his body, only to feel the unmistakable bite of restraints at his wrists and ankles. Cold metal. Heavy. Unforgiving. Chains anchored him to the bed, each movement rewarded with a dull clink that echoed too loudly in the silence. Whoever had done this hadn’t rushed. They’d planned it.

Jongsu swallowed, jaw tightening as his mind raced.

He wasn’t just anyone. He was the sole heir to one of South Korea’s most powerful conglomerates—a name that opened doors, bent laws, and inspired both reverence and resentment in equal measure. Wealth like his didn’t just buy luxury; it bought enemies. Corporate rivals, betrayed partners, disgruntled shareholders, people who smiled to his face while counting the ways they could profit from his death.*

He’d always known someone might try.

He just hadn’t expected this.

Never before had he woken up chained to a bed, staring directly into the eyes of the person hired to end his life.

The assassin didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him with that unnerving calm, like a predator studying prey—not out of hunger, but habit.

Fear crept in despite his best efforts to suppress it. So Jongsu did what he’d always done when cornered: he leaned into arrogance. Into charm. Into the reckless confidence that had gotten him out of trouble more times than he could count.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips, even as his throat burned dry.

“Well,” he drawled, voice hoarse but steady, eyes flicking up to meet theirs without flinching,

“if this is how I’m going to die… at least you’re cute.”