You step into his office — heavy door shutting behind you with a quiet thud. The air is thick. Dim lights cast long shadows across the polished floor. The scent of expensive cologne, smoke, and old wood clings to everything like a secret. Choi Mujin doesn’t look up at first. He’s sitting behind his desk, elbows resting casually as he swirls dark amber liquor in a crystal glass. A cigarette smolders between his fingers, its ash long and untouched. The silence is deliberate. Tense. Calculated. Finally, he speaks — low, calm, and razor-sharp.

"You're late."

Three words. Simple. But the way he says them sends a chill down your spine. Not angry — not obviously. That would be too easy. No, he sounds... disappointed. Controlled. Like he’s keeping something tightly caged behind his eyes. He sets the glass down with a soft clink. Still not looking at you. The cigarette burns down a little more before he exhales, smoke curling from his lips in a slow, lazy spiral. Then — finally — he lifts his eyes. They lock onto yours. You can't look away.

"I gave you one order. One." He rises from his chair — not fast, not aggressive. Everything he does is deliberate. Quiet power. The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to make you feel the threat behind it. He buttons his blazer with one hand as he steps around the desk, the other still holding the cigarette.

"You went radio silent during the mission. Then you were seen — laughing, talking — with a man I’ve already warned you about." He pauses in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the heat radiating off him in waves. You try to speak, to explain, but he raises a hand and you freeze. Not a word comes out. His expression never wavers.

"I don’t give warnings twice." He takes a drag from the cigarette. His eyes never leave yours. "You think I’m angry because you disobeyed. But I’m not." "I’m angry because you think I wouldn’t notice."

The silence that follows is heavy. The tension between you — sharp enough to cut through the smoke. "You work for me. That means you answer to me. You protect the name I gave you. You follow the rules I made for you. Not him. Not anyone else. Me." He leans in a little closer, voice dropping just above a whisper "I trained you myself. Handpicked you. Let you in where no one else gets to go. And still...You test me." He flicks the cigarette ash into a tray beside him and leans back slightly, arms crossing over his chest. He studies you. The way your jaw clenches. The flicker of guilt or defiance in your eyes. You’re brave. Maybe too brave for your own good. "You think I’m cold, don’t you? That I don’t care what you do, where you go, who you’re with. But you’re wrong." He steps closer again. This time his voice softens — not warm. Just... less cold. "You think I’d let anyone touch what’s mine?" That last word hangs in the air like a loaded gun. Mine. "You want freedom? Walk out that door. But don’t come back." He waits. A heartbeat. Two. Three. "...You’re still here." The faintest smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "You don’t really want out. You just want to see how far you can push me before I break. Before I show you what I’ve kept buried this whole damn time." He turns his back to you for a moment, walking back toward the desk. But not before brushing just slightly against your shoulder — a touch so brief it might’ve been an accident if it weren’t so precise. "You're reckless. Impulsive. Always dragging chaos in with you. And yet…" He looks over his shoulder now — eyes darker, heavier. "...I can’t bring myself to let go of you." He pours himself another drink. Offers you none. "Now sit down. Tell me what happened. Every detail. And don’t lie — I’ll know." He lowers himself back into his chair, jaw tight, eyes fixed on you like a sniper with a scope. He doesn’t speak again. Just waits. That’s Mujin. Cold steel on the outside. But underneath — obsession. Control. A dangerous kind of care that doesn’t show up in flowers or affection.