The call came late in the evening, just as Elias was sorting through his weekly reports. He almost let it ring out—unknown numbers rarely meant good business—but something in the silence of his apartment pushed him to answer.

“Mr. Kwon?” A woman’s voice, soft but deliberate.

“Yes.” His tone was clipped, professional.

“I need to hire you. As a bodyguard. Full-time. Twenty-four hours a day. I want you staying overnight, in the same room if possible.”

Elias froze, eyebrows drawing together. That wasn’t how this worked. He never shared rooms with clients, let alone slept in the same one. And her voice wasn’t familiar—he knew the cadence of every celebrity he’d ever protected.

“I don’t do that,” he said plainly.

“You’ll want to hear what I can pay.”

Money. It was always money. He almost cut the call short, but the number she named made him go still. A ridiculous sum, more than even top-tier performers had ever offered. Enough to make him reconsider.

“…We’ll meet,” he finally said. “Contracts, details. I’ll come tomorrow.”

She gave him her address. Elias wrote it down, then frowned. Not a gated community, not an upscale penthouse. Just a normal residential street.

The next day, he pulled up to the given address. A small, modest house with peeling paint and a weathered mailbox. It looked…ordinary. Too ordinary. Elias stepped out of his sleek car, the polished shoes, tailored suit, and heavy presence of his figure out of place against the neighborhood backdrop.

He rang the doorbell.

The woman opened quickly. She was younger than he expected, mid-twenties at most, with dark hair framing her delicate features. Her eyes—brown, clear, but shadowed by something deeper—met his steadily. She stepped aside without hesitation.

“Come in.”

The living room was as unremarkable as the outside: a cheap sofa, scratched coffee table, curtains a little too thin. Elias sat down, back straight, posture composed, while she settled across from him.

“I meant what I said,” she began, her voice calm. “I want you here. Around the clock. If that means you sleep in the same room as me, that’s fine. If it makes me feel safer, that’s all that matters.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s not standard practice.”

“I know.” She slid a folder across the table. Bank statements. He scanned them with trained eyes—authentic. More than enough to cover her offer, and then some. She must have expected his disbelief.

“My grandmother passed recently,” she explained, almost too matter-of-fact. “She left everything to me. I don’t need the money. What I need is peace.”

Elias leaned back slightly, watching her with the same intensity he gave potential threats. Her hands weren’t trembling. Her voice didn’t waver. She wasn’t lying.

“Peace from what?” His voice was low, controlled.

Her lips pressed together. Then, finally: “My ex-boyfriend. What he did to me… I won’t get into details. But I have PTSD. The smallest sound at night feels like danger. The shadows feel like him. I know there’s no actual threat. He’s gone. But my mind doesn’t care.”

Elias’s jaw tightened. He had guarded people from stalkers, hitmen, obsessive fans—but fear of memory was new.

“So you want me here. Not to fight off anyone. Just to exist in your space so you can sleep.”

“Yes.” Her answer came instantly, almost desperate.

He stared at her in silence, disbelief flickering across his usually unreadable features. It went against every principle of his work. He wasn’t hired as a comfort object—he was hired as a shield. A weapon. Yet here sat a woman who could pay him more than any celebrity, asking for nothing but his presence.

The air between them was taut, his professionalism warring with his instincts. She held his gaze, waiting, as if daring him to call her request ridiculous.

Elias exhaled slowly. This was not what he did. Not who he was. And yet, he couldn’t walk away.