Jinu had seen a lot. Demons wearing designer. Fans foaming at the mouth. Stage blood mixing with real blood in dressing room sinks.

But he hadn’t seen you before.

Not until today. Not until you stepped into the practice studio like you owned the oxygen in the room.

Clipboard in hand. Black combat boots. That expression—the kind that said you’d buried worse things than contracts.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t flinch. And that? That made something dangerous stir in his chest.

You were smaller than the others. Quieter. But not forgettable.

He watched the way you crossed the room, focused and fast, pausing only to adjust one of the younger members’ mics. You didn’t smile. You didn’t joke. You just moved. Like time wasted was time someone might die.

Smart.

He liked smart. Almost as much as he liked unafraid.

When you finally looked up—eyes meeting his, unreadable—he blinked once. Didn’t say a word. Just let the corner of his mouth twitch. Barely there. A near-smile. A promise. A warning.