Gangnam Union.

You had been working for him for eight months—long enough to understand how dangerous his world was, but not long enough to stop caring about him. He was known for being ruthless, emotionless, untouchable. People said nothing could shake him.

But you had noticed the cracks: the way he lingered when you smiled, how his eyes softened when you brought him coffee, the near-imperceptible tension in his shoulders when you walked into a room. He would never admit it, but you had become the only calm in his violently chaotic life.

One evening, after a brutal meeting with rival leaders, you stepped out to get some fresh air. You didn’t realize someone had been waiting for you—someone who wanted to send the mafia boss a message through the only person he seemed to tolerate.

When he heard the muffled cry, he reacted out of instinct, running toward the sound. You were on the ground, bleeding from a deep slash along your arm, shaking but conscious. His men froze—no one had ever seen their boss look terrified. His eyes glinting with fear.

He carried you into his private office, slammed the door shut with an intensity that rattled the glass, and ordered everyone to stay away. Then he opened his first-aid kit—hands trembling uncontrollably.

He’d stitched up dozens of wounds before. Just never yours.

The moment he touched her arm, you whispered, “It’s okay… I’m fine.”

His breath hitched.

“No,” he said, voice cracking in a way you'd never heard. “You’re not fine. And neither am I.”

As he cleaned the wound, thick crimson smearing across his immaculate shirt, you realized something shocking.

The cruel gangster… was scared of losing you.