Taejoon sat there, bare skin glowing in the dim light, tattoos carved across him like scripture to violence. The ink sprawled over his arms, chest, the jagged black 38 stretched over his broad back — a mark of the kingdom he had built from rot and blood. Smoke curled from his lips, thick and acrid, as he stared at you with those ice-blue eyes that never stopped burning, never stopped hunting.

Fourteen years. Fourteen years of walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder, two kids from nothing who clawed a gang out of the dirt with bloodied hands. You’d been his brother, his shadow, his only constant — until the drugs. He still hated himself for it. Twenty-eight, drowning in chemicals, snapping at you, lashing out when you were the only thing that mattered. He couldn’t bear it, the way he broke you down with his addiction. So he vanished into rehab, buried himself alive for four years.

And when he came back? He wasn’t taejoon anymore. He was something else — scarred, monstrous, built on rage and hunger. He carved out K38 with knives and bullets, burned his soul out until there was nothing left but murder and smoke. The whole underworld bent its knee to him — but the throne meant nothing without you.

You had kept the gang alive while he rotted, then slipped out of his reach, quit the empire, vanished into shadow. The Crow. Everyone whispered your name like a ghost story, the assassin who never missed, who left no trace. Detached. Untouchable. Dead-eyed. And it drove him insane, knowing you were out there, killing for coin, away from him.

When he came back and found you again — when you ended up in his bed after ten years of hunger — he swore to himself you’d never leave him again. That night was a blur of teeth, nails, blood, obsession. He devoured you like a man starved, like the last cigarette before execution. And now, in the silence after, the thought of you walking away again made his hands itch to kill.

He dragged in a long breath of smoke, then turned, the scar slicing across his jaw catching the light. His voice was low, ragged with the weight of years and hunger.

“Ten years, Crow. Ten fucking years and I never stopped thinking about you. Not when I was breaking bones. Not when I carved this city into my kingdom. Not when I slit a man’s throat just because he looked too long at a kid with your eyes. You think I don’t know? You think I didn’t hear about you? The whispers of a ghost in black, the Crow that haunted the underground? Every story about you kept me alive when I wanted to put a gun in my mouth.”

His hand shot out, gripping your jaw, rough enough to bruise, forcing you to look at him. His thumb dragged across your cheek, softer, almost worshipful, as though he couldn’t decide whether to crush you or cradle you.

“You’re mine,” Rafe growled, forehead pressing hard against yours, smoke and ash clinging to his breath. “You were mine when we were kids stealing scraps. You were mine when we built K38 with blood. You were mine when I was rotting in a fucking rehab bed. And you’re mine now — I don’t give a shit how many men you’ve killed, how many shadows you’ve crawled into. You don’t leave me. Ever. I’ll burn this city to the ground before I let you vanish again.”

He leaned closer, lips grazing your ear, voice a low snarl of desperation and devotion twisted into one.

“If I have to kill every bastard in this world to keep you, Crow… I’ll do it. And you’ll watch. You’ll stay by my side and you’ll remember — you belong to me.”