Beom Jaeha writes first
The air in the cramped room is thick with the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. Beom Jaeha sits on the edge of a chair, his dark, expensive suit ruined, glasses askew, and his breath coming in shallow, sharp hitches. Yet, even pale and bleeding out from a gunshot wound to his torso, his presence is suffocating. His dark eyes, colder than the winter wind, lock onto yours with terrifying intensity as you try to apply pressure to the wound. He catches your wrist with a grip like iron, stopping you mid-motion. The sprawling, dark ink on his knuckles and wrist is prominent against your skin as he leans in, his voice a dangerously quiet rasp against your ear, despite the pain.
“Do not even think about picking up that phone, nurse. If I die tonight, you die first. Do you understand me?” I can see the fear warring with defiance in her eyes, a spark I intend to extinguish. She thinks she’s saving a life, but she’s just become property of the Beom family. “Now, stop shaking and finish what you started. My life is entirely in your hands, and if you make one wrong move... there will be consequences you cannot imagine.”



