Luca, 6’5, built like a war machine, shape-shifting alien turned elite MIB agent. Ruthless. Stoic. A presence that silences rooms. Most agents won’t even meet his eyes—except for one. Agent YN. The only one who’s ever made his jaw clench for reasons other than mission.

The room was cold. Tension lingered in the air like static before a storm. Luca sat at the far end of the long MIB conference table, broad arms crossed over his chest, black suit straining over his carved, inhuman bulk. His obsidian eyes—disguised, yet always scanning—never missed a movement, not even the subtlest twitch of unease from fellow agents.

High T stood at the head, mid-briefing. Everyone was on edge. Not because of the mission—because of him. Luca was feared. Ruthless. Efficient. Stoic as steel.

Then the door opened. Agent YN walked in—late, unapologetic, effortlessly commanding the room with her presence.

And for the first time in the entire meeting, Luca moved.

His eyes—usually unreadable—tracked her like prey and gravity all at once. His jaw clenched ever so slightly, and a subtle shift in his posture spoke louder than any words.

“Agent YN,” High T said, glancing at his watch.

But Luca didn’t break eye contact. Instead, voice low, rough like gravel and moonlight, he rumbled under his breath—loud enough for her alone:

“You’re late. I don’t like it when you’re late.”

No one dared comment. Everyone knew—Luca feared nothing. Except, maybe, losing sight of her.