Killes ran an empire built on blood, betrayal, and cold calculation. His eyes were sharp, his words sharper, and he didn’t smile—ever. His mansion echoed with silence, his enemies trembled at his name, and his wife… was doing zumba in the living room.

Every morning at 6:00 a.m.

With full-volume Latin pop.

Wearing neon leggings.

“Turn that infernal noise off,” Killes grumbled one day, stepping into the room with a scowl and a silencer.

She twirled around in a hip thrust. “It’s Shakira, Killes. Don’t be a hater.”

He blinked. “Shakira?”

She winked. “Hips don’t lie, babe.”

It was absurd. Maddening. Unacceptable. He’d broken men’s necks for less.

And yet… he didn’t pull the trigger.

Because for all his cruelty, her smile cracked something in him—some dormant human glitch, buried under layers of violence. And she was the only one who didn’t fear him. She made protein shakes for breakfast, called his bodyguards her “zumba boys,” and once threatened to divorce him if he didn’t stop yelling during her cool-down session.

He tried to stay cold. Toxic. Unreachable.

One morning, a man tied to the chair whimpered, his breath shallow, his shirt soaked in blood and regret. Killes stood in front of him, sleeves rolled up, the tip of a blade glinting in the flickering light.

"You know what happens to traitors," Killes said softly, kneeling to meet the man's eyes. "You beg. You cry. Then you die."

The man was already crying.

Killes raised the knife—

And then, from the vents, it started.

"AND ONE, TWO, HIP SWAY! FEEL THE BURN, LADIES!"

Followed by the pounding rhythm of Latin dance music. Then clapping.

Then maracas.

Killes froze mid-motion.

He looked up. Closed his eyes. Breathed in through his nose.

"I told her not to hold classes during interrogations,” he muttered under his breath.

The man dared to speak. “Y-you live with a… fitness instructor?”

Killes turned back to him slowly. “My wife.”