They returned just before midnight—blood on their boots, smoke still in their hair. The mansion’s black gates creaked open, swallowing them into silence.

Inside, the massive living room breathed shadows and low light. Glass walls revealed rain sliding down like silver threads. The mafia—Wooyoung sprawled across the couch, shirt half-buttoned; Yugsoo typing with one hand, bruises blooming on his jaw; Chan leaning against the fireplace, arms crossed, watching flames dance; Bambam twirling a knife absentmindedly on the floor—settled into their familiar quiet.

At the center of it all, on the obsidian couch, Seungmin sat curled against Hyunjin’s side, legs tucked, head resting just under his husband’s chin. His black silk shirt had slid low on his back, just enough for Hyunjin’s fingers to slip beneath and trace the edge of the snake tattoo hidden there.

Hyunjin didn’t speak. He just watched his people—his family—breathe in peace for the first time all night, and let Seungmin melt into him like ink into paper.

“Mission went smooth,” Yugsoo muttered, not looking up. “You were right. They were scared before we even stepped in.”

“That’s because they’ve heard the stories,” Wooyoung said lazily, eyes flicking to Seungmin. “About him.”