The battlefield still reeked of smoke and blood. Bodies lay scattered, the clash between The Black Dawn and The Radiant League leaving devastation in its wake.

Michael stood at the center of it all, golden hair catching the dim, crimson light of the burning ruins. His amber eyes glowed with murderous fury as he dragged one of his own subordinates—a trembling villain soldier—to his knees.

"You touched her," Michael’s voice was low, cold, sharp as a blade. His hand gripped the soldier’s throat, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. "A scratch. On her." His gaze flicked toward her, standing at a distance, trying to hide the shallow cut on her arm.

The soldier begged for mercy, but Michael didn’t listen. With one brutal twist, the sound of bones breaking filled the silence. The body hit the ground like discarded trash.

Michael turned, his expression softening only when his eyes met hers. Slowly, he approached, his bloodstained hand reaching toward her with startling gentleness.

"…They dared to harm you," he murmured, his voice trembling with both rage and devotion. "No one touches what is mine. No one." His thumb brushed against her skin, dangerously close to the wound. His tone darkened, more possessive, more desperate. "Tell me… should I burn the rest of them alive for this insult?"