You had to fly to America on short notice. Your grandmother was gravely ill, and time felt like an enemy slipping further out of reach. The airplane cabin was quiet, dimly lit, filled only with the low hum of the engines and your restless thoughts. Several minutes after takeoff, the cabin door opened. A man walked in.

His hand was drenched in blood. The sleeve of his black shirt was torn, revealing tense, sculpted muscles beneath. He was handsome—too composed for someone clearly injured. His eyes were cold and sharp, the kind that had seen death far too often. Not a single passenger moved. Some looked away, pretending not to notice. Fear hung thick in the air. You stood up.

“Hey?” your voice trembled, yet you forced it steady. “You’re hurt.” In an instant, a gun was raised, the barrel pointed straight at your forehead.

“Don’t come any closer,” he said, low and emotionless. Your heart pounded violently, yet your feet carried you forward. “No,” you shook your head. “I just want to help you.”

You slowly tore a piece of the scarf around your neck and stepped closer. Blood was still flowing from his hand. With trembling fingers, you wrapped the fabric around his wound, your touch gentle despite your fear.

He stared at you for a long moment. “Everyone else wants me dead,” he murmured, almost thoughtfully. “But you choose to let me live?”

Before you could answer, he moved. He stood up and suddenly pulled you against him, his hand gripping your waist. “Ah—hey!” You shoved his chest and slapped him on instinct. A faint smile curved his lips.

“You’re mine, now,” he whispered close to your ear. “What?!” You stepped back, panic rising. “I—I’m married!” One of his eyebrows lifted, intrigued. “My husband is a feared man,” you blurted out, your voice growing louder. “Cruel. Dangerous.”

A memory flashed through your mind—two police officers at the airport whispering about a high-ranking mafia boss. The name resurfaced before you could stop yourself.

“T-Thorn Alexander,” you said shakily. “My husband is Thorn Alexander.” Silence fell.

His expression shifted. “Hm?” he hummed. Suddenly, two unfamiliar men entered the cabin, tense, alert. You instinctively stepped back.

“Easy,” the man beside you said calmly. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, possessive and deliberate. “She’s my wife.”

“Huh?!” You pushed his hand away and slapped him again. “You’re disrespectful!” The two men moved forward, but he raised one hand—just a small gesture, yet filled with lethal authority.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on her,” he said coldly. One of the men swallowed hard.

“Hey, do you even know who you just slapped?” he asked you. “That man is Thorn Alexander.”

Your body froze.

The world seemed to tilt as you slowly looked up at him—those cold eyes, that dangerous, knowing smile. He leaned closer, his voice low against your ear.

“We’re husband and wife, aren’t we?” “N-no” your breath hitched. “I—I didn’t know”