Min-jae did not sleep.
He stood in the dark of his bedroom, city lights crawling across the ceiling, jacket discarded but tension still stitched into his spine.
On the other side of the wall—
she was there.
Close enough that he could reach her in seconds.
Far enough that he still couldn't breathe properly.
Every security report replayed in his mind.
The truck.
The camera.
The coordination.
Professionals.
Which meant patience.
And patience meant they would try again.
His phone vibrated.
Director Park.
"We've increased the perimeter," the man said. "No anomalies so far."
So far.
Another phrase Min-jae despised.
"Rotate the inner team," Min-jae replied. "I want fresh eyes."
"Yes, sir."
The call ended.
Silence returned.
Heavy.
Waiting.
He moved toward the door connecting his quarters to hers.
Stopped.
His hand hovered near the handle.
Ridiculous.
He had negotiated billion-dollar mergers without hesitation.
But knocking on his wife's door felt like trespassing on something sacred.
Before he could decide, a soft sound came from the other side.
Footsteps.
Then the door opened.
Seo-yeon stood there in borrowed sleep clothes, hair loose, eyes uncertain.
She looked like someone who had woken from a bad dream and walked toward the only place that felt real.
"I thought I heard you awake," she said.
"I was," he replied.
Neither mentioned the fact that she had come to him.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see the flash."
Anger moved through him again.
Hot.
Controlled.
Deadly.
"I'll make sure you never see them again," he said.
She studied him.
"You say things like that very easily."
"It's easy," he replied.
Because violence, for him, was simpler than vulnerability.
A fragile silence stretched.
Then she asked, almost shyly, "Can I stay here for a bit?"
The request hit him harder than any demand.
"Yes," he said immediately, stepping aside.
She entered.
His space shifted around her.
Softer.
Warmer.
More dangerous.
They sat on opposite ends of the couch.
A careful distance.
As if proximity might ignite something neither of them knew how to extinguish.
"You didn't answer calls in the car," she said quietly.
"I didn't want anything interrupting me reaching you."
Her chest tightened.
"That's reckless."
"Yes."
Another silence.
It's different now.
Loaded.
"If something happened to you," he said, staring at the dark window, "there would be nothing left worth negotiating for."
Her breath caught.
Min-jae rarely spoke emotionally.
When he did, it felt like witnessing a fault line move.
"Don't build your world around me," she whispered.
Too late, she realized.
He already had.
A buzz cut through the air.
Both of them froze.
His phone.
Emergency line.
Min-jae answered instantly.
"What."
He listened.
And the color drained from his face.
"How?" he asked.
No one ever asked him that.
He was supposed to be the one with answers.
Seo-yeon's pulse roared in her ears.
"What happened?"
He didn't respond at first.
He couldn't.
Because the words coming through the phone were impossible.
Internal access breach.
Security override from inside the system.
Elevator authorization—active.
Someone had opened the building.
For them.
Min-jae stood so fast the table trembled.
"Lock down her floor," he ordered.
Too late came the reply.
Already moving.
A sound echoed from the corridor.
Distant.
But real.
Seo-yeon felt fear like ice in her veins.
"They're here," she whispered.
Min-jae looked at her.
And something terrifyingly calm settled over him.
The kind of calm men wore before destroying everything in their path.
He moved toward her.
Took her face in his hands.
If this was about to become the moment he had failed—
He needed her to understand one thing.
"Stay behind me," he said.
The lights flickered.
Security alarms began to scream.
Footsteps approached.
Not running.
Confidence.
Inside the chaos of sound and flashing red, Min-jae made a decision.
If they wanted to take something from him—
they would have to survive him first.
The door handle began to turn.
Slowly.
Confidently.
Like the person on the other side believed permission already existed.
Min-jae moved.
Not backward.
Forward.
His body shifted in front of Seo-yeon with terrifying certainty, one arm extending slightly behind him as if he could hold her in place without looking.
Stay.
The alarms screamed louder, red lights cutting the apartment into pieces of emergency and shadow.
Whoever had breached the system knew the layout.
Knew the timing.
Knew exactly where to come.
The lock released with a soft, traitorous click.
The door pushed inward.
Not a stranger.
Director Park.
For half a second, confusion broke the tension.
Seo-yeon blinked.
"Director—?"
But Min-jae didn't relax.
Because Park was not dressed for defense.
He was dressed to leave.
No earpiece.
No weapon.
No urgency.
And behind him, in the corridor—
two men Min-jae had never authorized.
Understanding arrived.
Cold.
Perfect.
Internal access breach.
"Sir," Park said, voice tight, almost apologetic, "please don't make this harder."
Seo-yeon's stomach dropped.
Harder.
Min-jae's voice came out quiet.
Deadly.
"You opened my building."
"It was already open," Park replied.
"They're bigger than you thought."
A betrayal delivered gently was still betrayal.
The two men stepped forward.
Professional.
Efficient.
One carried restraints.
Seo-yeon felt Min-jae's fingers curl slightly, grounding himself before violence.
"Park," he said, almost conversational, "you've worked for me twelve years."
"I know."
"I trusted you."
Park's jaw moved.
"And I told them you would come yourself," he admitted.
Seo-yeon's heart pounded.
"Come for what?" she demanded.
No one answered her.
Because the answer was obvious.
Her.
Min-jae's posture changed.
The last thread of restraint snapped.
"They don't walk out," he said softly.
The men rushed.
What followed was fast.
Brutal.
Precise.
Min-jae fought like a man who had run out of things he was willing to lose.
A strike.
A body against the wall.
A cry cut short.
He did not hesitate.
He did not negotiate.
He ended.
Seo-yeon had never seen him like this.
Not the chairman.
Not the strategist.
This was something older.
More primal.
Terrifying in its devotion.
One attacker fell.
The second staggered back, shocked by resistance they clearly had not priced in.
Park moved then.
Not toward Min-jae.
Toward her.
"Forgive me," he said.
And grabbed her arm.
Fear exploded through her.
She struggled, but he was stronger, desperate strength lending cruelty to his grip.
"Min-jae!" she cried.
Min-jae turned.
And the world ended.
He crossed the distance in a heartbeat.
Park barely had time to realize his mistake.
Min-jae tore him away from her with such force the older man collapsed hard onto the marble.
Silence crashed down.
Broken only by Seo-yeon's shaking breath.
Min-jae stood over Park, chest rising and falling, murder written clearly across his face.
"Who," he asked, voice almost calm, "sent you."
Park laughed weakly.
"You already know."
Min-jae did.
Rivals.
Board factions.
Men who preferred removing pieces rather than losing games.
"Take me," Park coughed. "They only want leverage."
Min-jae looked at Seo-yeon.
Disheveled.
Terrified.
Alive.
Leverage.
A dark, dangerous understanding settled.
They wouldn't stop.
Tonight had proven it.
Security could be bought.
Systems could be cracked.
Distance was an illusion.
There was only one solution left.
He helped her to her feet.
Hands gentle now.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
She shook her head.
But she was crying.
Not loudly.
Just enough to split him open.
"I'm sorry," he said.
The words tasted like failure.
"For what?" she whispered.
"For letting them believe they had a chance."
Sirens began to rise below — real authorities, finally arriving to clean what power had already decided.
Min-jae turned to his remaining guards.
"Lock everything," he ordered.
"No one in or out without my approval."
Then he looked back at Park.
Twelve years.
Finished in one.
"Remove him," Min-jae said.
And the finality in it made the future very short for Director Park.
When it was done, the apartment fell into a strange, trembling quiet.
Seo-yeon stood in the middle of it.
And realized something with terrible clarity.
They had not tried to scare her tonight.
They had tried to take her.
She looked at her husband.
At the man breathing like a war he had barely survived.
"You can't protect me forever," she said.
His eyes met hers.
Dark.
Resolute.
Unhinged by love.
"Watch me," he answered.
Somewhere far away, the people who had orchestrated the breach received confirmation.
The attempt had failed.
Which meant next time—
they would not knock.