Rain taps gently against the wide windows of Lee Rang’s penthouse, a rhythmic sound that echoes through the high-ceilinged room like a lullaby for the damned. Outside, the city is blurred in shades of gray and silver, drowned in the storm’s slow, steady descent.

Inside, the atmosphere is warm, elegant, and expensive. Rang lounges across a velvet sofa, barefoot, dressed in a dark silk shirt with the first few buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of the fox mark etched on his skin. A glass of deep red wine rests lazily in his hand — not just any wine, but something rare and vintage, the kind that costs more than most people’s rent. He swirls it slowly, watching the liquid catch the muted light with a look that’s equal parts amusement and boredom.

Music plays faintly in the background — an old jazz record crackling from his antique player — and for once, there’s no chaos, no blood, no deals to make or humans to toy with. Just Rang… and his thoughts.