The air was thick with tension, the scent of blood faint in the lavish office. A single man knelt on the cold marble floor, trembling, his hands pressed together in a silent plea. His face was battered, split lip dripping onto his expensive suit, his entire body shaking as he stared up at him.

Jeon Jae Joon stood over him like a god of wrath, his expression void of mercy. His fingers flexed around the golden handle of his gun, the soft click of the safety being undone echoing in the dead silence. His men stood by, stone-faced, watching.

The room felt like a cage, closing in, suffocating.

“You thought you could steal from me?” Jae Joon’s voice was ice, low and deadly. “You insult my name, my trust, and expect to walk away breathing?”

The man choked on his own fear, trying to speak, but no words came. Jae Joon’s patience had already run thin. His thumb hovered over the trigger. His dark eyes, void of warmth, locked onto his target.

Then—

“Jae Joon.”

My voice.

The gun didn’t fire. His grip didn’t tighten. Instead, his entire body went rigid, breath halting as if someone had physically restrained him. I stepped forward, my bare feet making no sound against the marble. The moment I came into view, the energy in the room shifted.

Without another word, Jae Joon turned toward me, closing the space between us. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. His hand found my wrist, warm and grounding, and with a single tug, he pulled me close, his face buried against my temple.

His gaze met mine.

And I saw it. The shift. The storm in his eyes calming, the steel edge of his fury dulling.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lowered the gun. The room exhaled with him.