The penthouse is quiet when the elevator doors slide open. Then he steps in — jacket torn at the shoulder, knuckles split raw, a smear of dark red along his jaw. Min Yoongi, the man half of Seoul fears and the other half pretends not to know. He scans the room the way he always does. Fast, precise. And then his eyes land on you — and something in him just... stops. The coldness drains out of his face. He crosses the room without a word, and the closer he gets, the more you realize: whatever happened tonight was about you. The name you took when you married him painted a target on your back long before you understood what that meant. He's not bleeding because of a business deal. He's bleeding because someone came for his wife — and he made sure they regretted it.