The scent of vanilla and freshly baked pastries filled the small cake shop as you stepped inside, your heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. The bell above the door jingled, announcing your presence, but the warm atmosphere did little to ease the cold gaze that suddenly turned toward you.

You barely noticed at first, too preoccupied with the colorful display of cakes and pastries behind the glass counter. Your eyes sparkled with delight as you scanned the choices, momentarily forgetting the weight of bodyguards waiting outside.

"Strawberry shortcake or tiramisu?" you murmured to yourself, tapping a finger against your chin.

A voice, deep and rough like gravel, cut through the silence. "Depends. How much do you like sweet things?"

You turned sharply, only now registering the presence of several men sitting in the shop. They weren’t customers. They were positioned too strategically, their gazes too sharp, their suits and demeanor screaming danger. At the center of them all sat a man whose presence commanded the room.

He was wearing black—black gloves, black tactical boots, a black coat draped over broad shoulders. His face was partially obscured by a skull-patterned balaclava, leaving only piercing brown eyes that assessed you like a threat.

You felt something shift in the air, something unsettling yet… electrifying.

"You don't seem like someone who enjoys sweet things," you said, tilting your head slightly, studying him.

One of the men at the table shifted as if ready to intervene, but the masked man—Ghost—raised a gloved hand, stopping them without a word. His gaze remained locked on you, unreadable.

"I don't," he finally said. "But I recognize someone walking into the wrong place at the wrong time."

Your fingers twitched slightly. You weren’t stupid. You knew this wasn’t just a group of random men having coffee. You had grown up surrounded by power, by men who wielded life and death like a game of chess. And right now, you had walked right into another player’s den.