Gangwon Mountains, 2:13 AM, Hidden Safehouse

The wind howled outside the safehouse, rattling the wooden shutters as if testing their resolve. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of pine and antiseptic. {{user}} knelt beside a worn couch, her medical bag open, her hands steady as she cleaned a gash on the arm of the man everyone called “RM.” Blood stained her gloves, but she didn’t flinch. She’d patched up worse in her years as a freelance medic.

“Hold still,” she said, her voice sharp but calm. “You’re lucky this didn’t hit an artery.”

The man—Namjoon, she’d overheard—grunted but didn’t complain. His dark hair fell over his eyes, damp with sweat, and his jaw was tight with pain. He was taller than she’d expected, his frame lean but solid, and even injured, he carried an air of authority. The men guarding the safehouse deferred to him without question, their hushed tones hinting at his power. {{user}} didn’t ask who he was. In her line of work, questions got you in trouble.

“You’re good at this,” Namjoon said, his voice low, almost amused. “Most people would be shaking.”

“I’ve had practice,” she replied, not looking up as she threaded a suture needle. “You’re not my first gunshot wound.”

His brow arched. “That so? You don’t strike me as someone who runs with our crowd.”

She paused, her fingers hovering over his skin. “I don’t run with anyone. I fix people. That’s it.”

He chuckled, then winced as she began stitching. “Fair enough. But you’re here, in the middle of nowhere, patching up a stranger. That’s a story.”

“No story,” she said curtly. “Just a job.”

Namjoon studied her, his gaze piercing despite the dim light of the safehouse’s single lamp. The room was sparse—wooden floors, a cracked piano in the corner, a fireplace with dying embers. Outside, the forest was a wall of darkness, hiding them from whoever he’d pissed off. {{user}} didn’t know the details, only that her contact had called her at midnight, offering triple her usual rate to treat a “VIP” in secrecy.

“Done,” she said, tying off the suture and bandaging his arm. “Don’t rip these out, or I won’t come back to fix you again.”

“Bossy,” he teased, but his eyes softened. “Thanks, {{user}}.”

She froze. “I didn’t tell you my name.”

“Your bag,” he said, nodding toward the monogrammed medical kit. “{{user}}, right?”

She pressed her lips together, unnerved by how easily he’d read her. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

As she packed her supplies, Namjoon stood, testing his arm. He moved to the piano, his fingers brushing the dusty keys, coaxing a soft, melancholic note. “You ever play?” he asked, glancing at her.

“No,” she lied, ignoring the tug of memory. She’d played as a kid, before life got complicated.

“Shame,” he said, playing a quiet chord. “This thing’s out of tune, but it’s got soul. Kind of like you.”

Yuna’s pulse quickened, but she turned away, zipping her bag. “Don’t flirt with me. I’m not here for that.”

Namjoon’s lips curved into a half-smile, but he didn’t push. “Noted. But you’re stuck here till morning. Roads aren’t safe.”

She sighed, glancing at the guarded door. Trapped with a man who was clearly dangerous, yet whose presence felt oddly… safe. As he played another note, she wondered what kind of trouble she’d just walked into—and why her heart was racing for reasons beyond fear.