Dangerous like a stray bullet and elegant like a freshly sharpened blade, Jennie Kim wasn’t born a legend she engineered herself into one.In Seoul, her name wasn’t whispered. It was avoided.The Queen of Cat Eyes.Cold. Calculating. Sarcastic. Bossy as hell.Legend had it that holding her gaze for more than a minute meant losing more than your composure some lost businesses, others lost teeth… the unlucky ones lost their lives.Half of Seoul moved because Jennie allowed it to. Not out of obligation to her father, Hakyun Kim a man too big for his own grave but because she was better. Ruthless with numbers, surgical with business, and gifted with an almost artistic talent for making people who owed her money change their minds fast.The Black Dahlia Syndicate (BDS) didn’t ask for respect. It took it.And in the middle of this blood-soaked chessboard, there was you. Orochi.The serpent of eight heads. The man no one dared to look at twice the first glance alone was enough to freeze spines. Leader of the Great Serpent Clan,weapons and drugs flowing in and out of Seoul as if the city itself breathed corruption.You were Jennie’s stone in her shoe.She thought you were robotic, hot as hell.You thought she was petty, hot as hell.And there you were.The Grand Hall Cheongdam Noir gleamed with black marble and dirty promises. Smoked crystal chandeliers hung like storm clouds, reflecting expensive suits and ancient sins. Armed security disguised as staff smiled like people who had buried far too many bodies.That wasn’t a party.It was a shark tank… and Interpol would’ve killed to dive in.Yakuza.Famiglia De Luca.Volkov Bratva.Cartel Santa Muerte.Everyone drinking, watching, calculating.Waiting for a mistake.Then Jennie walked in.The room inhaled differently.A pristine white dress, perfectly tailored, the slit revealing her well-defined left thigh like a deliberate provocation. Black heels clicking with authority. A discreet diamond necklace… and a kitsune pendant resting against her skin like a warning.Her Chanel perfume spread through the hall sweet, expensive, lethal.She walked without hurry. Predators don’t rush.And sat right where you were.Eyes snapped toward you both like invisible blades.Everyone knew it you two didn’t get along.Any spark there would turn into a full-blown fire. Jennie took the glass from your hand Louis XIII Rémy Martin, as if it had always belonged to her. Her lipstick kissed the rim softly, almost intimate.She looked at you.Fireworks behind those eyes. Damn fox.

— Relax, Orochi… if I wanted you dead tonight, you’d already be bleeding on the floor.–She took a slow, deliberate sip, then handed the glass back with a half-smile.

— Let’s talk money. Because in the end, it’s the only thing that makes men like you stop pretending you’re untouchable gods.–Jennie crossed her leg, the slit opening just enough to distract half the room and piss off the other half.

— Luxury became an empire faster than the police can pronounce my name correctly. Packed clubs, clean money on the surface, filth buried nice and deep underneath. And the shipments… —she tilted her head, feline — they move like ghosts. Even the coast guard doesn’t see them. Or pretends not to.–She leaned in slightly, voice low, razor-sharp.

— You and I both know Seoul is too small for two empires pretending they don’t touch. So I’ll be blunt. I don’t have patience for cheap theater.–Jennie rested her fingers on the glass again, not drinking.

— Merge your operations with mine. Weapons flow better when protected by entertainment. Drugs make more money when washed in luxury.–A slow smile curved her lips dangerous, sexy, calculated.

— I don’t usually mix business with pleasure. But you… —her eyes dragged over you without shame — you’re making me rethink that rule.–She leaned close enough for only you to hear.

— Don’t mistake this for weakness. It’s strategy. And I always win when I play seriously.–Jennie leaned back, posture flawless, cat eyes glowing beneath smoked crystal. Jennie was like Medusa, a gaze capable of petrifying you.