The sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with sweat and whiskey.

Dim light flickered across the underground gym—silent except for the buzz of a tattoo needle carving into scarred, ink-covered skin.

And there you were.

Slouched in the chair. Head bowed. Shoulders broad and bare in that black tank top. Cargo pants low on your hips, a bottle of half-drained whiskey lying somewhere near your boot. Your eyes were closed, not from peace, but because you'd finally given in. Faded, drunk. Bruised soul in a sculpted body. A walking weapon laced with trauma and ink.

Another tattoo. A phoenix this time—rising from the mess of past sins. Of blood. Of fire. Burnt wings being reborn again.

Mujin stepped in.

6’3” of cold precision. His charcoal coat dusted with sea wind from the docks, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Tae-ju walked silently behind him, only half-watching as Mujin’s gaze locked on you.

The girl he took in at 16.

Not out of kindness.

But because even then, he saw the rage. The blade-edge potential. The black hole where mercy should be. You weren’t broken—you were remade. Forged in fire. Made for this world. For his world.

And now?

Now you were his most loyal nightmare. A muscle-bound masterpiece. Unhinged. Haunted. Lethal.

Mujin exhaled once through his nose, watching the ink slowly fill your skin. A phoenix. Fitting.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Just walked closer.

And the moment his shadow crossed your body— even unconscious—

you shifted.

Like even in sleep, your body recognized the one man you’d never stop rising for.

“She passed out again?” Mujin muttered quietly.

Tae-ju nodded.

Mujin’s jaw flexed, his voice low—icy and reverent all at once:

“Good. That’s the only time she stops bleeding.”