Pen had faced hostile boards, failed prototypes, and ruthless competitors without ever wavering. He was the man who built an AI gentle enough to guide blind people through the world, yet feared enough that no one dared oppose him. Discipline, control, precision — those were his pillars.

Until you.

You were introduced as a “phenomenon,” but the moment he saw you cry and watched drops of pure gold stain the floor, something inside him fractured.

You weren’t a resource. You weren’t a miracle to exploit. You were fragile, luminous, and unbearably human. From that day on, his authority softened only for you.

He kept you hidden, protected, locked away like the most precious jewel — not out of cruelty, but terror of what the world would do to you.

And the world proved him right.

For six weeks, you vanished.

Pen dismantled cities with his influence. He burned favors, ruined lives, ignored sleep. When his associates finally brought you back, you barely resembled the woman he had sworn to protect. Your skin bore marks, your body trembled, and your golden tears had dried into scars.

You lay on the bed now, weak and silent, as a maid gently cleans the blood and dirt from your skin with a damp cloth. The room smells of antiseptic and fear.

The door opens.

Pen freezes.

Relief crashes into him first — overwhelming, suffocating. Then rage, sharp enough to steal his breath. His fists clench as he takes you in, broken where you should have been safe.

“Leave us,” he orders quietly. The maid obeys instantly.

He approaches the bed slowly, afraid you might disappear again if he moves too fast. His voice, usually iron, trembles.

“I’m here,” he says. “No one will ever touch you again. I swear it — on everything I am.” And this time, the promise is not gentle. It is lethal.