"Turn the car around."
Kang Min-jae's voice was quiet.
It still sliced through the operations room like a blade.
Chairs moved. Screens awakened. Security personnel shifted from alert to lethal in less than a breath. Maps unfolded across digital panels, traffic routes recalculating, camera feeds pulling the city apart piece by piece.
Somewhere inside that maze of light and steel—
was her.
And he had let her leave.
"How long until we reach her?" he asked.
"Eight minutes at best," Director Park replied. "Longer if the obstruction ahead is deliberate."
Deliberate.
Min-jae's jaw tightened.
Nothing tonight was accidental.
Not the flowers.
Not the message.
Not the timing.
They were being studied.
Measured.
And whoever stood on the other side had decided Seo-yeon was the weak point.
His mistake.
He had believed distance meant safety.
But distance only meant she suffered it alone.
"Open the line," he ordered.
The call connected almost instantly.
"Min-jae?"
She tried to sound steady.
She failed.
The tiny fracture in her voice did something violent to his insides.
"I'm here," he said.
Two words, and the room seemed to retreat. Titles, authority, wealth — all useless in the face of one terrified woman sitting in the back of a car.
"Listen to me," he continued. "Stay down in the seat. Doors locked. Do not open them unless my team gives you confirmation."
There was a small pause.
Then, softly, "Okay."
No argument.
No bravery performance.
Just trust.
It humbled him more than fear.
"What's happening?" she asked.
"I'm not sure yet," he replied, eyes tracking the blinking locator that marked her vehicle. "But I will be there before it ends."
"You promise?"
"I don't break those."
In the car, Seo-yeon curled her free hand into the leather seat.
Outside, traffic lights smeared into nervous color. Rain threatened but never fell, the air thick with waiting.
Something was wrong.
She felt it the way animals felt storms.
The escort driver's voice murmured urgently into his earpiece, professional calm stretched too thin.
They knew.
The vehicle slowed.
Then stopped.
Her stomach dropped.
"Why are we not moving?" she asked.
"Blockage ahead," the driver replied. "Working on a reroute."
There was no crash.
No hazard lights.
Only a delivery truck resting diagonally across two lanes as if it had grown there.
Too neat.
Too convenient.
"Min-jae," she whispered.
"I see it," he answered at once.
Of course he did.
He saw everything.
Except the way her heart betrayed her every time he said he was coming.
Men began exiting nearby cars, annoyed commuters turning into obstacles. Noise rose — horns, shouting, confusion blooming right on schedule.
Her pulse raced.
"I don't like this," she breathed.
Neither did he.
But unlike her, Min-jae translated dislike into retaliation.
"Units advancing," someone reported near him.
Too far, Min-jae thought.
Always too far when it mattered.
Headlights flickered in the side mirror.
Fast.
Cutting between vehicles with intention, not impatience.
A motorcycle.
Black helmet.
No visible plate.
"Min-jae."
Her voice carried the warning.
"I have it," he replied, already moving toward the exit himself.
The escort sedan jerked sideways, attempting to shield.
But the rider was skilled — sliding past with terrifying elegance.
An arm lifted.
Seo-yeon braced for impact.
For sound.
For pain.
Flash.
White light burst through the window.
Then again.
Again.
Again.
Not murder.
Exposure.
Humiliation.
Proof.
They wanted images of fear.
They wanted the mighty Chairman Kang rushing toward vulnerability.
They wanted leverage.
The motorcycle vanished.
The truck ahead rolled forward as if awakened from a dream. Traffic loosened, angry drivers accelerating away, unaware they had just participated in a demonstration.
In the control room, curses erupted.
Min-jae said nothing.
His silence was far worse.
It meant calculations had begun.
And calculations ended in ruin for someone.
"Seo-yeon," he said, forcing calm back into his voice, "are you injured?"
"No," she answered. "But I think I was supposed to be."
"Yes," he said quietly.
"You were."
He grabbed his coat.
"I'm almost there."
"You don't have to—"
"I do."
By the time he reached her car, security had formed a perimeter.
Cameras were already lifting from sidewalks. Whispers traveled faster than sirens.
Min-jae ignored all of it.
He opened the door himself.
She looked up at him.
Frightened.
Shaken.
Alive.
Air returned to his lungs.
Rage followed immediately after.
His hands came to her face before permission or dignity could intervene.
He checked for blood, for bruises, for evidence of harm.
"Did they touch you?"
"No."
"Did anyone open the door?"
"No."
Her fingers wrapped around his wrist.
"Min-jae," she said gently.
"I'm okay."
He believed her.
But belief did not erase the image of what could have happened.
For one reckless second, he pressed his forehead to hers.
The city inhaled sharply around them.
Let them look, he thought.
Let them understand.
She was not accessible.
When he pulled back, the decision had already rooted itself.
He would never again trade proximity for strategy.
Never again convince himself distance was mercy.
"Come with me," he said.
Not an order.
A plea disguised as one.
She stepped out.
Into his reach.
And somewhere, unseen, someone watched the reunion through a long lens.
Smiled.
Because attachment made monsters predictable.
Min-jae closed the car door behind her.
Too late realizing one truth.
They had not ended tonight.
They had only begun.
"Come with me."
It sounded simple.
It wasn't.
Seo-yeon understood that the moment she stepped away from the protection of her car and into Kang Min-jae's reach, something irreversible would follow.
Distance had been their last illusion of control.
And it was gone.
The night air hit her, cool and restless. Cameras hovered beyond the security line like hungry birds, desperate to translate panic into profit.
Min-jae's hand found her back again.
Guiding.
Shielding.
Claiming.
Not for the public this time.
For himself.
His car door opened.
He did not release her until she was seated inside.
Even then, he lingered a second too long, as if confirming she wouldn't vanish the moment he blinked.
He got in beside her.
The convoy moved.
Inside the vehicle, the silence pressed close.
No assistants.
No directors.
No bodyguards.
Just them.
And everything neither of them had said.
"You shouldn't have come," she whispered finally.
His head turned toward her.
"I told you," he replied. "I don't send other people to stand where I should."
Her fingers twisted together in her lap.
"They wanted you to panic."
"I did," he said.
No hesitation.
No denial.
She looked at him, startled by the honesty.
A man like Min-jae wasn't supposed to admit weakness.
Yet tonight, he had shown her every fracture.
"I thought they were going to shoot," she confessed.
His jaw tightened.
"They wanted something worse," he said.
"What?"
"To teach me that you can be reached."
The words hung between them.
Heavy.
Intimate.
Terrifying.
She swallowed.
"Can I?"
His eyes met hers.
Too intense.
"Yes," he said.
Not politically.
Not socially.
But emotionally.
She had access to places no enemy ever had.
The realization made her pulse race.
"I don't want to be your weakness," she murmured.
Something fierce flashed across his expression.
"You are not my weakness," he said.
"You are the reason I will win."
Her breath caught.
It was not romance.
It was a promise.
And somehow, it felt bigger.
The car sped through intersections cleared by advance units.
City lights streaked across the windows, turning the interior into a moving confession booth.
Min-jae leaned back, but tension still radiated from him like heat from live wire.
"They will escalate," he said.
"When?"
"They already have."
She hugged herself.
"I can leave," she said quietly.
The moment the words slipped free, she wished she could pull them back.
But fear spoke truths pride hid.
"If I go far enough, maybe they stop using me."
He turned toward her fully.
"No."
The refusal was immediate.
Absolute.
"You don't get to volunteer for exile," he continued, voice low. "Not after tonight."
"Why?"
Because I can't breathe when I don't see you.
Because the idea of losing you is worse than losing everything else.
Because somewhere between a hospital corridor and a camera flash, you stopped being temporary.
But he did not say any of that.
Instead, he chose the only language he trusted.
"If they want you," he said, "they go through me."
Her eyes softened.
"That sounds like sacrifice."
"It sounds like marriage."
Silence swallowed them whole.
The contract had defined timelines.
Exit strategies.
Clean endings.
Yet nothing about tonight felt clean.
Or temporary.
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Rare.
Dangerous.
She noticed.
"You should answer," she said.
"They can wait."
Another shock.
Chairman Kang did not make the world wait.
Unless the world was not what mattered.
Her voice trembled. "I almost called your name before it happened."
"You did," he said.
"I heard you."
Something fragile opened in her chest.
"Were you scared?" she asked.
"Yes."
"For me?"
His gaze did not leave hers.
"Yes."
The truth settled like gravity.
Unavoidable.
Pulling them closer.
The car slowed as they entered the underground access to his residence.
Steel gates opened.
Closed.
Locking the world out.
But not the danger.
Never the danger.
Before the vehicle fully stopped, Min-jae spoke again.
"You're moving into my floor," he said.
She blinked.
"I already live in the penthouse."
"You lived in the guest wing," he corrected.
"Now you live with me."
Her heart stumbled.
"That's not necessary."
"It is for me."
He stepped out.
Offered his hand.
This time, she didn't hesitate.
Inside the elevator, mirrors surrounded them with infinite reflections — versions of a couple who had begun as strangers and somehow arrived at something far more combustible.
"Min-jae," she said softly.
"Yes?"
"If I become the reason you get hurt…"
His thumb brushed over her knuckles.
"You already are," he answered.
The doors opened.
And the future shifted.
Behind them, unnoticed, a vehicle remained parked outside the security perimeter.
Engine idling.
Camera transmitting.
A voice spoke into the dark.
"Phase two," it said.
"Prepare the extraction."