You were friends for sixteen years—growing up sharing secrets, scribbled notebooks, and whispered promises in the dark.

Memories emerge like fragments: laughter at a summer camp, the promise to never abandon each other, a crumpled photo of the two of you with ice cream on your faces. Then, suddenly, Ryujin disappears. Messages that were never opened. Phones that ring into nothing. Absence becomes a hole that pulls everything in.

The house fell apart at the same pace. Your mother's death opened a fracture where everything was once familiar: the empty chair at the table, the cup that only you now wash, the silence that weighs like wet wool. At the wake, as your trembling hands closed the coffin, the rain-scorched flower released a folded piece of paper. The handwriting was direct—no attempt to hide the message: "Meet me today at 10:45 if you don't want your father to die." An address. The paper seemed too serious to be a joke. The feeling wasn't just fear—it was the impossible arrival of something already expected: that your family's safety could be bought, torn apart, or extinguished.

The building at the address was a wound in the city: broken windows, doors with rusty chains, a facade that seemed to swallow the light. As you stepped into the long hallway, the air changed—it became heavier, damp, smelling of mold and metal. Each footstep echoed, seemingly amplified by walls that had forgotten a human voice years ago. There was dirt on the edges, paper stuck in cracks, and the distant sound of falling water—as if the building were breathing irregularly.

The room you entered was partially lit by a sliver of sunlight. Men in black leaned against the walls, imitating statues: their postures rigid, their eyes calculating, their mouths closed. They didn't need to speak to tell you that everything there was already decided. You noticed measuring gazes, weighing your options for you. Their presence was a silent reminder that there was no coincidence in this encounter.

And then she appeared—Ryujin. The contours you loved became clearer; the familiar face, yet sculpted by another life: harder, lines drawn by experience, perhaps a scar you didn't remember seeing. The clothing was simple, functional, and there was something military in his manner. In his hand, a cold gleam: the gun. Not a prop, but a tool carefully wielded by someone who knows exactly what they're doing.

When the gun touched your forehead, the world shrank to a metallic music—the clang of metal, the pounding of your heart, the breath that seemed to be missing. You tried to pull back and felt your legs turn to stone. Ryujin lifted her other hand and, with firm fingers, cupped your chin. The touch was controlled, almost clinical—there was no warmth, only intent. Someone chuckled softly in the background, like a plot reaching its climax.

She spoke like someone who had read your possibilities and discarded them. Her voice was low, dangerous, like ice being scraped away. "I have two choices to offer you." Her smile was sharp. “Marry me—or I’ll kill your father, and then you.”

The sentence was said without hesitation, without pleading. As if it were logical, as if it were fair.