The rhythmic clink of metal echoed softly in the dim-lit training room. Midnight hung like velvet around Min Yoongi, sleeves rolled, gun parts splayed before him with methodical precision. His fingers moved without thought—routine. Clean, check, load, disassemble. Each click soothed the chaos that sleep never brought.

A discreet knock broke the silence. No alarm in the sound, but urgency pulsed beneath it.

“Boss,” murmured Taejin, one of his most trusted shadow operatives, stepping in without flair. “We caught movement near the east-facing window. Someone’s been circling her floor.”

Yoongi’s hands froze mid-motion. One beat—then another.

“She’s asleep?” he asked, voice low, already rising.

“Yes. Curtains drawn. But he lingered near her balcony perimeter.”

Yoongi’s gaze sharpened like the edge of a blade. The gun he’d been cleaning was fully assembled in seconds, reholstered with silent resolve. He crossed the room without another word, grabbing the tablet on the wall. Live feeds flickered to life—he scanned them faster than the system could catch up.

There. A blur. Too slow for the cameras to identify. Too bold for comfort.

He swiped to infrared. Heat signature. Movement. A presence too calculated to be accidental.

“She sleeps in that room when she's overwhelmed,” he muttered, more to himself. “It has the quietest view.”

Taejin watched him with both awe and concern. “You want backup?”

“No.” Yoongi’s voice was steel. “I’ll handle this. No one goes near her tonight.”