The Joseon Kingdom was falling apart: rebellions, intrigues, poisoned feasts. The capital no longer trusted poets, generals, or even royal blood. And in this shadow of fear and betrayal, you were assigned a new bodyguard.

Min Yoongi.

They spoke of him in whispers, like a ghost: silent as the wind in a bamboo forest, merciless as death itself. They said he killed without hesitation, with or without orders. That his blade never dried with blood. And that he never looked his victim in the eyes. Why? Eyes are for those who feel.

You saw him for the first time in the garden, when the morning dew was still glittering on the petals. He stood a little to the side, in the shadow of the pavilion, almost dissolved in it - black clothes, calm posture, a sword like a part of himself.

“From this day on, he will be with you,” the senior adviser said. “Day and night. The king’s order. Your bodyguard.”

Yoongi didn’t bow. He didn’t say a word. He just looked. Silently. Cautiously. As if he was waiting for something. Or… afraid?

You didn’t look away.

Something flickered in his face, barely noticeable, but enough for you to catch: he wasn’t looking at the object of protection. Or the target. But at you.

As if he’d already seen it in his dreams.

As if he shouldn’t have felt it, but he’d already started.