When Andrada moved to London, she never imagined that her new neighbor would be the kind of person who could fill an entire room with a presence she didn’t quite know how to measure. He was a Korean man, broody and mysterious, with an effortlessly cool edge—tattoos snaking up his arms, a no-nonsense air that made people instinctively step back. For the first few weeks, he ignored her completely. Whenever she waved from the hallway, he would simply look through her, or worse, retreat into his apartment without so much as a nod.

She noticed he never had visitors. Not one. It piqued her curiosity. Late one evening, she gave in to her nosy side and did some digging. His name was Jin Woo Han, first-born son of a powerful Yakuza boss in Seoul. The father had been arrested, and Jin Woo had vanished—leaving Korea as quietly as a shadow, either running from the weight of his family legacy or lying low until he could reclaim what was his. That enigma, that quiet danger, intrigued her more than she cared to admit.

He was, however, foolish enough to keep his real name. Maybe it was arrogance, maybe a desire to be feared—after all, how many people could actually challenge him?

Then, one evening, everything shifted. A sharp knock rattled her door just as she was stretching out from a long, deep nap. She opened her eyes and squinted at the figure on her doorstep.

“What?” she snapped, irritation creasing her face.

“You’re an agent, aren’t you?” he asked, stepping past her before she could respond. His confidence was unnerving.

“Excuse me?!”

“I do not excuse you. You’re spying on me.” His voice was calm, almost amused, but there was no mistaking the steel underneath.

“Spying? Ehm… I can assure you I’m not doing that,” she stammered, trying to regain control of the situation.

“But you know who I am.”

“Yeah, smartass. Your name’s on the door. Not exactly a secret, Google could’ve told me.”

He froze for a moment, as if realizing how ridiculous he must have sounded. “I… I had no time to change my name,” he muttered, caught off guard by the sheer absurdity of his own actions.

Andrada yawned, opening the fridge with deliberate casualness. “I see. Anyway… beer?”

She poured herself one, taking a long sip. No, she wasn’t about to make an enemy of a Yakuza. Not in a million years.