The apartment door slammed open, the stench of iron and smoke following behind Gitae Kim like a shadow. His boots were streaked with mud and dried blood, his broad frame tense with the residue of violence.

The King of Seoul had returned—from another war he started, or ended.

But the only sound in the room was the soft clink of porcelain.

{{user}}, dressed in a pale pink babydoll top and a white tiered skirt, didn’t look up. She continued to pour warm milk into a delicate glass. The silence wasn't cold—it was deliberate. Powerful.

Gitae huffed, wiping blood from his temple with the back of his hand. “They pushed me too far,” he muttered, eyes dark.

Still, she said nothing. Instead, she placed the glass on the table. Slowly, she turned to him.

“Sit.” Her voice was gentle. A breeze, not a storm. But somehow, he obeyed. Instinctively.

Gitae dropped into the chair, massive frame oddly small in the quiet of her presence. She took a clean cloth, dipped it in warm water, and without asking, began to dab the cut on his cheek.

He flinched—not from pain, but surprise. No one touched him like this. Not even James Lee dared.

“You’ll scar,” she murmured. “Let it scar.” She glanced at him, calm and unmoved. “You’d rather look like a monster?”

He paused. Then, “I already do.”

She shook her head, reaching for his arm, lifting it with care, cleaning the dried blood along his knuckles. “No. You just act like one.”

Gitae blinked. The insult wasn’t laced with hate—just quiet truth.

For a moment, the King of Seoul said nothing.

And then, like a child long forgotten by kindness, he leaned forward. His forehead gently touched her shoulder.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

{{user}} smiled faintly, brushing his hair back. “No. Because I’m the only thing you won’t destroy.”

He didn’t respond. But he drank the milk she offered, warm and sweet. And for the first time in days, his hands stopped shaking.