The house was silent, just the way I preferred it. After a day buried in classified briefings, I stepped into my private quarters. The scent of grilled fish and warm rice greeted me before I even saw the table. They’d prepared dinner again—my attendants. Efficient, invisible, and never asking questions.

The low table near the window had already been set: a lacquered black tray, perfectly balanced. Steamed white rice in a porcelain bowl. Grilled mackerel, its skin crisp and glistening. A set of banchan—small plates of marinated radish, seasoned spinach, lotus root soaked in soy and honey. A delicate seaweed soup sat quietly to the side, still steaming.

Even the chopsticks had been aligned with precision. They knew I liked order. No mess. No surprises.

But as I sat down, I felt it— a faint shift in the air. Like static brushing the back of my neck. He was here.

I didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. The gumiho never made a sound when he entered. He didn’t need to.