The rain outside tapped against the window, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of streetlights. You sat on the couch, rubbing your temples, your body tense from exhaustion. Stacks of documents and a laptop screen still glowing with unfinished work surrounded you.

Choi San leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as he observed you silently. Then, with a sigh, he pushed off the frame and walked toward you.

“Go rest,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Youbarely looked up. “But—”

“I know you’re a strong, independent woman,” he cut in, crouching beside her. His eyes softened, but his tone left no room for argument. “But shut up now. I’ll take care of it.”