The gentle knock broke the afternoon stillness.
Inside the hall — sunlight streamed through the glass wall facing the garden, scattering reflections across the polished floor. There, on a prayer mat, she bowed in the last rakah of her Zuhar (noon) prayer — calm, unshaken, her voice whispering softly into the quiet.
The door clicked open.
Jeon.J stepped in — his gaze lifted, and she was right there, directly in his line of sight. Between them lay the hall's elegant center — the sofa set, a few art pieces, and the faint scent of lilies from the garden beyond the glass.
Behind him, the others followed, halting instinctively. A word wasn't spoken, but two questions flickered across their eyes — one raised eyebrow said, "Where's your Hitler wife?" and the other teased, "Where's our princess?"
Jeon.J smirked faintly, answering them without words — a subtle tilt of his head first toward the glass wall… then toward the door tucked in the far corner of the hall.
Teahun exhaled quietly, sliding forward on careful feet toward that corner. The hall was so still that even the hush of his steps felt loud.
Then — a voice cut through the silence, echoing like a warning spell:
> "If anyone dares to enter Masal's room and wake her up, remember — your legs will ache. The queen of mischief has already given pain to my arms and my mind. Think twice before you try."
Every head turned — first toward the one near the glass wall, now sitting back on her heels, hands raised in dua, her lips barely moving.
Then, almost in sync, all eyes shifted to Jeon.J — and down to his legs, as if silently asking, "Are you still fine?"
Jeon.J's lips curved into a restrained smile.
> "My legs are perfectly fine," he said smoothly. "And I'd never commit such an offense. My legs are too dear to me."
Teahun froze mid-step, his eyes darting between Masal's closed door and the serene figure near the glass wall. Finally, with helpless defeat, he leaned toward Jeon.J and muttered under his breath —
> "Send her back to her country… she's dangerous."
The hall fell silent again — except for the faint rustle of curtains brushing against the sunlight and the distant rhythm of her whispered dua, lingering like a secret spell between them.
Regards
ZK💌