The storm hadn't cleared.
Even as dawn broke, silver light spilling over Seoul's skyline, the city buzzed with the same electric tension that had haunted Kang Jisoo since his collapse. The whispers hadn't dulled overnight. If anything, they'd sharpened.
"Chairman Kang's mask cracked—did you see the footage?""His assistant dragged him out. An Alpha, leaning on someone else like that?""Something's wrong with him. I can smell it."
The words rippled through cafés, newsrooms, stock floors. His name wasn't just a headline anymore—it was a scandal that refused to die.
Inside the penthouse, Jisoo sat at the breakfast counter, scrolling through news reports he pretended not to read. His expression was carved from stone, but his hand trembled faintly around the coffee mug.
Across from him, Minjae leaned against the counter, calm as ever, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other scrolling through his own phone. He wasn't reading the news. He didn't need to.
"They're circling," Minjae said casually, as if discussing the weather. "Sharks scenting blood. The board wants another emergency meeting tonight."
"I'll face them." Jisoo's voice was firm, but low.
"You'll collapse again."
Jisoo's head snapped up. "I won't."
Minjae smirked faintly, sliding his phone aside. He leaned forward, caging Jisoo against the counter with one arm, his voice dropping.
"Then stop shaking."
Jisoo's breath hitched, his pride burning at being caught. He shoved back abruptly, breaking the closeness. "You're overstepping again."
Minjae only smiled, sharp and knowing. "And you're still lying to yourself."
The day dragged him into the lion's den.
The boardroom reeked of suspicion, the polished wood table surrounded by men and women who had once bowed to him without question. Now, their eyes lingered too long, their expressions sharpened with calculation.
"Chairman Kang," one began, voice syrupy with false respect, "there are… concerns about your recent behavior."
Jisoo sat straighter, his mask carefully in place. "Concerns," he echoed coldly, "are not facts."
Another director leaned forward. "But the footage circulating online—"
Minjae's voice cut in, smooth and lethal. "—is unauthorized and defamatory. The legal team is already drafting suits against every outlet that dared touch it."
The board shifted uneasily. Jisoo's jaw tightened, but not at them. At Minjae.
Because once again, his assistant had stepped in for him.
When the meeting adjourned, Jisoo stormed out, the click of his shoes sharp against marble. Minjae followed with unhurried steps, as though everything was unfolding exactly as he wanted.
In the elevator, the silence snapped.
"You had no right to speak for me."
"I had every right," Minjae replied calmly, pressing the button for the penthouse.
"You humiliated me in front of them."
Minjae's lips curved, faint and dangerous. "No, Jisoo-ssi. You humiliate yourself when you try to play the mask you've already broken."
Jisoo's fists clenched. His chest rose and fell too fast.
And then—before he could storm away, Minjae moved.
In a single, fluid step, he pinned Jisoo against the mirrored elevator wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other gripping his wrist. Their bodies were too close, the air too thick with something neither of them would name.
"Stop fighting me," Minjae murmured, voice low, coaxing yet commanding. "You'll only make yourself bleed."
Jisoo's heart thundered. Heat prickled under his skin. His pride screamed to shove Minjae off. But his body—traitorous, aching—leaned into the cage.
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.
Minjae stepped back as if nothing had happened, his smirk infuriatingly calm.
"Come on," he said lightly. "You need dinner."
Back in the penthouse, silence hung between them like glass. Jisoo sat curled on the sofa, staring at the rain-streaked windows. Minjae sprawled across the opposite end, scrolling lazily through his phone.
It should have been normal. Domestic, even. But Jisoo's skin still burned where Minjae had held him, his chest still tight with the memory of the elevator.
He hated it.
He hated that Minjae was right.
And most of all—he hated that, for one dangerous moment, he hadn't wanted to fight at all.