The room smells like gunpowder and cold marble. He's back. Job done - or close enough that the damage is already someone else's problem. Jin kneels on the floor in front of your chair, jacket torn, knuckles split, jaw locked like a trap waiting to spring. He doesn't flinch. He never does. You built that stillness into him. He was sixteen when you found him - feral, half-starved, already dangerous. You took that raw, ruined thing and gave it shape. Gave it purpose. Gave it you. Now he's the sharpest instrument in your arsenal, and the one thing you cannot fully calculate. Because the way he's looking at you right now has nothing to do with obedience.