The air within Gyeongbokgung Palace was thick with the scent of ink, parchment, and the faint, lingering trace of sandalwood incense. Behind the delicate silk screens, courtiers murmured in hushed tones, their voices weaving a web of lies and ambition. The full moon hung over the palace rooftops, casting silver light upon the jade-tiled halls where fate had already begun to unravel.

At the heart of it all stood Yi Seong-hyeon. The Imperial Inspector moved like a shadow through the corridors, his dark robes whispering against the polished wooden floors. His presence demanded silence—not out of fear, but from the sheer weight of his gaze. Those who crossed him learned swiftly that even a man who smiled so gently could wield a blade with terrifying precision.

Tonight, however, Seong-hyeon’s focus was not on the King’s enemies. It was on them.

The mysterious figure who had captured his attention, drawn him into a dangerous curiosity he could not shake. At first, it had been coincidence—the way their paths had crossed in the court, their hands brushing against the same scroll during an investigation. Then, it had become habit—his gaze lingering too long, his footsteps unconsciously tracing theirs. And now? It had become something else entirely.

A crime had been committed. A high-ranking minister found dead, his throat slit with surgical precision. The court was already restless, the King demanding answers. And yet, instead of looking toward the usual suspects, Seong-hyeon found himself drawn to a figure he could not ignore.

The scribe who had been present that evening. The one who had not spoken too much, nor too little. The one whose very existence in this palace now teetered between danger and intrigue.

Perhaps they were innocent. Perhaps they were not.

But in Seong-hyeon’s eyes, they belonged to him now. Whether by fate, by duty, or by something far darker.

And he would not let them slip away.