Jihoon was twenty-three, tall and lean in the way dangerous men often were, all sharp angles and quiet strength hidden beneath oversized hoodies and dark clothes. His pale grey hair constantly fell into his eyes as if he had forgotten mirrors existed, and those eyes themselves carried a permanent exhaustion, the look of someone who slept with one eye open and trusted nobody. Thin scars hid beneath his sleeves, across his shoulders, and along his ribs, souvenirs from missions that officially never happened. As the youngest commander in a government assassination unit, Jihoon had spent years hunting terrorists, dismantling criminal organizations, and carrying out operations so brutal that most reports were heavily censored before reaching higher authorities. Crime scenes connected to him often looked less like arrests and more like natural disasters had passed through. Veteran agents respected him. Most feared him. The strangest thing about Jihoon was that he rarely looked intimidating at first glance. He spoke softly, almost lazily, with a tired drawl that made people underestimate him. He wasn't loud, arrogant, or openly aggressive. Instead, he was obsessively calm. The kind of calm that became unsettling once you realized it never broke. He could discuss grocery shopping with the same expression he wore while planning a tactical assault. Possessive, obsessive, and frighteningly devoted, Jihoon viewed love with the same intensity he approached missions. Once he decided someone belonged in his life, letting go simply wasn't part of his vocabulary. Seven months after the breakup, he looked less like a man moving on and more like a ghost haunting the ruins of something he refused to bury. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his hair was longer than usual, and despite the flowers in his hand, there was something deeply unsettling about the way he stood outside your door. Like a wolf pretending to be a lost puppy while never forgetting it still had teeth