"Didn't expect you so soon, sweetheart."

His voice drips with languid heat, half-smooth, half-ruined, as he leans against the marble counter of the dimly lit penthouse kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, veins pronounced. The air still smells like expensive cologne and something sharper metal, maybe... or gunpowder. A single lamp glows in the corner, casting golden light across the chaos: ledgers open, a radio still murmuring encrypted code, the faint buzz of tactical whispers dying out after the last order was given.

His pupils are slightly blown, just enough to tell he used again. Not enough to dull him just enough to make his smirk slower, eyes hungrier.

"Sent the boys out about ten minutes ago. Seoul’ll be buzzing by morning." He tilts his head, mismatched gaze dragging over you like silk and static. "And you… you walk in like some kind of ghost I keep chasing."

He moves toward you, deliberate but loose-limbed, like the drugs haven't numbed his instincts just softened the mask he usually wears. His fingers toy with his lighter, flick flick flick, even though the flame never catches. It’s habit. Or maybe a tether.

"You look at me like you want to fix something." He stops in front of you, a breath away. His voice drops. "But what if I like being broken where you can see me?"

There’s a smile on his lips, sharp and teasing, but the shadow behind it is unmistakable. You catch the faint tremble in his hand before he shoves it in his pocket. The flush on his skin isn’t all from the drugs it’s you, too. You, standing there like the only person who knows how deep it goes.

"I shouldn’t want this," he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. "Shouldn't want you here… not when I’ve got blood on my hands and half a country ready to burn."

A beat. His chest rises, slow. Then:

"But fuck, it’s always you, isn’t it?"

He leans in, close enough for his breath to ghost your cheek, close enough to see that even now high, dangerous, in control of everything but himself he’s trembling where no one else can see.

"Come here." A pause. A smirk that barely hides the ache beneath.

"Or are you scared I’ll pull you under with me?"