The lamp's light formed a yellow halo around the desk, an imperfect circle where the wood seemed aged by all the heavy decisions that had piled up on it over the years. San remained motionless, straight, her silhouette sharply outlined by the shadows. In the air, the smell of old paper, leather and cold tobacco lingered like a mist.
Yun Seong-min didn't speak right away.
He watched her, as if studying the lines of a weapon he had forged himself, but whose sharpness he still needed to test. His gaze slid over her slowly, searching for the slightest signal, the tiniest flaw, a crack maybe, something that would tell him how far he could pull on the thread.
Then, finally, he opened a drawer. A sharp sound. A muffled rustle. He pulled out a thick folder, swollen with documents, photos, reports folded one time too many. He set it down between them. The gesture was measured, almost ceremonial.
San didn't move. But something inside her tightened slightly—a tiny contraction, invisible, but real.
Yun Seong-min opened the folder with a slow, controlled movement, as if every second had weight, as if the air itself needed to learn how to hold what he was about to say.
Newspaper clippings appeared, yellowed edges, aggressive headlines, blurry night photos.
"DOUBLE HOMICIDE IN MAPO — BREAK-IN, ARSON"
San recognized the image instantly.
She wasn't really looking at it, but she felt it, like a phantom burn climbing up along her skin. The paper still seemed to carry the scent of ash. The burned house, the silhouettes of firefighters, the police tape. Everything was there, frozen in the flash of a camera.
Yun Seong-min never took his eyes off her.
"You already know," he murmured, "that your parents weren't the victims of a robbery gone wrong."
His voice was low, almost gentle.
A dangerous kind of gentleness.
"The newspapers talked about murder. They mentioned a break-in, arson. Investigators confirmed that the perpetrator knew the place very well."
He paused, a thin, cold smile stretching his expression.
"What you don't know, San… is why."
The word slid into the room like a blade.
San still didn't move.
But her gaze sharpened. A subtle tension crawled up the back of her neck, as if her body were recognizing a territory it had never really left.
Yun Seong-min slid another document toward her. An internal report. Red annotations. Fragments of underlined sentences.
"Your father was working on a case that was never supposed to land on his desk."
He placed his finger on an underlined line.
"Officially, it was an urban development project. Off the record, it was a political battleground."
San felt her own breathing grow slower, quieter.
"What he found wasn't a couple of administrative errors. He had put his finger on an entire network of illegal funding, ghost investors, discreet transfers tied to one very specific man."
He flipped a photograph.
A man in a perfect suit, fixed smile, parliament badge on his lapel.
Congressman Seo Junghan.
"Him," he said simply.
The room seemed to narrow around San.
Or maybe it was just her body, tensing ever so slightly. She stared at the photo with an almost mineral stillness, as if trying to imprint every detail into a corner of her memory she never opened.
Yun Seong-min went on, very slowly, as if savoring every syllable:
"Your father had… how should I put it… the missing pieces of a dangerous puzzle. Documents Junghan could not afford to see leak. Your father tried to approach him. Maybe even expose him."
He leaned in slightly.
"Politicians like him don't leave traces, San. They erase problems. And he erased you that night too. Or at least… that's what he thought."
Something trembled in the air. A vibration, invisible but heavy. San hadn't moved. But something inside her was tearing open very slowly—a tension, a thread of anger stretching tight, precise, almost painful.
Then Yun Seong-min laid one last photo in front of her: the burning house, taken from another angle, more intimate, more cruel.
"He's the one who gave the order. He's the one who sent the men. He's the one who signed their deaths."
He left a silence behind the words. Long, heavy, suffocating on purpose.
San didn't move. But inside her, something was rising, slowly, like a black tide. Not explosive rage—she didn't know what that felt like. But a cold hate, methodical, almost geological, settling into a corner she hadn't known she had.
Yun Seong-min watched her a moment longer, then added softly:
"I know you don't scream, San. I know you don't cry. But I know you understand."
He tilted his head.
"And that's why you're going to do what no one else can do."
Another pause. His eyes never left hers.
"That's where your mission begins."
The words hung between them, as if they had their own weight.
San followed their trajectory without moving, without breathing any deeper, but she could clearly feel what they had just done: they had just given shape to something that, until now, had only been a dull background noise inside her chest.
The mission.
That wasn't new. She had been given missions for years. But never with this tone. Never with this piece of her past placed at the center of the table.
Yun Seong-min sat down again slowly, as if settling in for a long, important, almost intimate conversation. He closed the folder of newspaper clippings, turned it a quarter of a turn to push it slightly aside, then took a second, thinner one, bound with a metal clip.
"You know what Seo Junghan is today, don't you?" he asked.
San gave the faintest nod. She knew what everyone knew: respected assemblyman, clean image, calm TV interviews, moderated smile, speeches about morality, security, transparency. The kind of man mothers quoted as an example. The man newspapers called "a pillar of reform" when he announced measures against the "underground economy."
She also knew what people said about him in the corridors of Gwanak Pa. An obstacle. A fortress. An enemy too high to reach with brute-force methods.
"He built himself an image of virtue," Seong-min continued, as if he had followed her train of thought. "He presents himself as the one who will clean up neighborhoods like ours. He has our bars closed, our gambling rooms raided, he pushes the police to dig where everyone used to look away. He blocks our real estate projects. He vetoes certain public contracts. He shakes hands for the cameras, then sets fire in the shadows."
He laid a more recent file down in front of her. On the first page: an official header.
National Assembly – Ethics and Anti-Corruption Commission.
"He's moving forward," Seong-min went on. "He's preparing his next election. He's aiming higher than this seat. And every time he climbs a floor, we lose one beneath our feet."
He turned the page, revealing columns of numbers, notes scribbled in the margins, arrows in pen.
"If he keeps going, Gwanak-gu will become a showcase district. They'll level the old streets you know. They'll rebuild smooth towers, with bright cafés on the ground floor. And we'll disappear from the map."
San listened. She stood motionless, but another thread was tangling with the first inside her mind: the old, quiet hatred for the man who, according to them, had ordered the death of her parents, was knitting itself to a broader understanding. He wasn't just her enemy. He was also the enemy of the clan that fed her, housed her, gave her weapons, orders, a framework.
"So why not just kill him?"
Her words were rare, but cold and precise. Something Yun Seong-min seemed to appreciate. He smiled.
"A car accident. A nameless shooter. A badly lit night. We know how to do that."
He leaned forward, hands linked before him.
"But if he dies now, he dies a martyr."
He let the word settle before continuing.
"He'll become the icon of everything he claims to defend. His death will justify more laws, more controls, more repression. They'll sweep harder, deeper. Our names will show up in reports we'll never be able to reach. Someone like us will automatically be blamed, even without proof. They'll tear the city apart looking for suspects."
He slid another document forward, this time a recent clipping.
"Congressman Seo Junghan, Leading Figure in the Fight Against Organized Crime"
The photo showed him visiting a police station, smiling in the middle of a group of officers.
"See?" Seong-min went on. "He isn't just an enemy. He's a symbol. If you attack a symbol head-on, you don't destroy it—you carve it in deeper."
He paused, then added, more softly:
"To bring down a man like him, you don't kill him first. You dismantle him. You crack him. You strip him down. You show the world that their hero is rotten to the core. And only then… you'll finish him."
San felt something inside her accept that logic with unsettling ease. She had always followed simple patterns: order, execution, exit. Now he was offering her a longer structure, more complex, but one that gave a clear direction to what she carried deep in her gut.
"And that's where I need you," Yun Seong-min resumed.
He opened another subfolder, this time dedicated to a single name.
Seo Haerin.
He opened it and flicked a new photo onto the table. It showed a young woman in her early twenties. Long dark hair, straight posture, a serious gaze slightly turned away from the camera.
"His daughter. She smiles in official photos, sometimes appears at his side during charity events. She's the 'human' element of his image. Proof he's a father. A family man."
He turned another page: university recommendations, snippets of society pages, a few candid shots of her leaving a building, surrounded by guards.
"These last months, his family received several threats. Things we didn't orchestrate, for once. A letter, a package, a coded message in a video. Political opponents, lone lunatics, people who hate him for what he represents. So he tightened security. For himself, but especially for her."
A thin smile.
"Enemies know that touching the daughter means hitting the father."
San stayed silent. Her black eyes slid over each photo without lingering, but she recorded everything. The way Haerin held her bag, her posture, the micro-expressions on her face when she thought no one was looking.
"He's used to bodyguards," Seong-min continued. "But this time, he asked for something more… specific. Discreet protection, younger, more adaptable. Someone who can fit smoothly into his daughter's daily life. Someone who doesn't look out of place in photos."
He paused.
"We… answered that request."
San turned her head slightly. It wasn't a gesture of surprise. More like bracing for what was coming.
Yun Seong-min slid another sheet toward her, this one bearing a private security company logo, a fake identity, fabricated references, an imaginary background in close protection.
"Starting tomorrow," he said, "for them, your name is Kawada Sana. You were born in Osaka. You worked several years for a Japanese agency specializing in protecting VIP clients on Korean soil. Your reports are solid, your reputation clean, no criminal involvement. You're efficient, discreet, professional."
He raised his eyes to hers.
"You are exactly what he's looking for."
San felt the structure take shape in her mind. A new role, a new surface. She'd had others. But never one so intimately tied to who she was.
"You'll be assigned exclusively to his daughter. You'll live in the residence. You'll accompany Haerin wherever she goes—to events, outings. You'll always be within earshot, within reach. You'll see what no outsider ever sees: their habits, their weak points, what they hide behind their bright, well-lit walls."
He laid his hand flat on the file, as if sealing his words.
"Your role is not to kill, San. Not yet, anyway. But I'm giving you the revenge you've been waiting for for twenty-one years."
His eyes locked onto hers.
"Your role is to watch. To remember. To listen. To report everything. Who goes into that house. Who comes out. At what time. With what expression. What names are spoken at the table. What files pass through his office."
San nodded once.
"Haerin might be a blind spot. A weak point, a threat, or a relay. She probably doesn't know what her father has done. Or maybe she does. Maybe her silences say more than her smiles. That's where you come in."
He fell silent for a few seconds, his stare almost oppressive.
"You'll stand by her side, day after day, until I don't have to guess anymore. You'll tell me if she's protecting her father. If she hates him. If she doubts him. If she knows. And from there, we'll decide how to use her."
San didn't move, but the hate inside her tightened. Not toward Haerin. That girl didn't matter to her.
The target was the father. Always.
Seo Junghan, the man they had pointed at and said: he ordered the death of your family. But the idea of living in his house, walking down his halls, seeing his face at breakfast and dinner, sensing how far his fear reached… that thought sparked something raw in her—a kind of naked impatience, almost burning.
Yun Seong-min seemed to sense it.
"You're not going there to survive, San," he said more calmly. "You're not going there for him. Or for me. You're going there to finish what he started with you."
His gaze brushed the scar on her neck.
"You're breathing today because he thought you'd never be a threat. Make him regret that mistake."
She showed no visible reaction. But in her chest, hate took on a clear shape, sharp and geometric, like a knife finally honed.
"You'll leave tomorrow morning," he concluded. "Akio will take you at eight. You'll have your new identity, your papers, your cover details. Akio will brief you on logistics."
He closed the file with a quick, decisive gesture.
"You'll walk into their house as their shield. You'll leave the day it falls."
San nodded again. A tiny movement. An agreement. She didn't have to say she understood. Yun Seong-min already knew.
And for the first time in a long while, as she left the office, she felt something that almost resembled direction. Not just another mission among others.
A line. Starting at the scar on her neck. And running straight toward one name:
Seo Junghan.
The basement corridor felt even narrower after what she had just heard. The air had that dry, metallic texture that follows irreversible decisions. San climbed the stairs without hurrying, her boots swallowing the sound of each step, as if even the noise were trying to stay discreet around her.
Akio was waiting for her on the ground floor, leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, as if he knew exactly when she would reappear. He didn't look up right away; he finished rereading a message on his phone, brows slightly furrowed. Then he locked the screen, slipped the device away, pushed his glasses back up his nose and studied his sister with the quiet attention he always had for her when she came back from a meeting with the boss.
"He told you everything, I assume."
She nodded.
Akio dipped his head, not quite satisfied, more like someone ticking off an important box in a plan he'd been drawing for a long time. A barely audible exhale escaped him, closer to a brief laugh than any hint of relief.
"It was bound to happen sooner or later."
They crossed the training hall together. Around them, the men stepped aside without anyone giving an order, leaving a corridor of empty space, as if some invisible force were parting the way ahead of them. The whispers only rose again once they had passed, too low to be understood, but heavy enough to be felt.
When they reached the small room that served as Akio's unofficial office, he closed the door behind them. The room was as orderly as a space could be for someone who lived, thought and plotted there constantly: a map of the neighborhood covered an entire wall, dotted with pins and notes. On a low cabinet, a half-disassembled coffee machine sat next to an old ashtray. The place looked lived-in, but disciplined—just like its owner.
Akio walked around the table, rummaged in a drawer, then returned with a thick envelope, which he set between them.
"These are your new papers. Your Japanese ID, your Korean driver's license, the fake contracts with the security company… everything is consistent. If anyone digs, it all leads back to Tokyo. And to an agency that actually exists."
San brushed the corner of the envelope with her fingertips but didn't open it. She had never needed to read to memorize.
Akio caught the small gesture, and a nearly invisible smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Sometimes I wonder if anything will ever surprise you."
He shrugged, as if the question didn't really need an answer.
"The boss expects a lot from you. But that's nothing compared to what I expect."
He paused very slightly.
"You must know that, San… I would never have brought you here if I thought you were weak."
She didn't answer. Akio wasn't looking for one.
He paced the room a little, hands clasped behind his back, turning like someone searching for the right way to say something he'd been holding back for a long time. When he faced her again, his eyes weren't just analytical anymore. There was something else there—murkier, more invasive.
"You're going to walk into their house like you belong there. And you're going to see up close what your enemy built. His comfort. His luxury. His daughter. His life as a respected man. Everything that bastard got to keep intact after he destroyed ours."
He set his hands on the table, leaning toward her.
"I want you to see it, San. I want you to feel it. Because that's where your strength lies: in that distance between what you'll have in front of you… and what you know is the truth."
He spoke to her as if he were sculpting something through her. As if she were raw material he was still carving.
"Your role isn't just to spy, or to obey Seong-min's orders. Your role is to become indispensable over there. Indispensable to his daughter. To their routines. To their security. They need to stop seeing you as a tool, and start believing you're the only person they can trust."
His gaze locked onto hers, a darkness almost mirroring her own.
"The more they open their home to you, the more they'll open their secrets. And only then will you be able to cut into the flesh where it hurts the most."
San stayed perfectly still. But something tiny tightened inside her—not an emotion, not a shiver, but an anchor point. As if those words had just found a precise place in her internal structure.
Akio stepped closer. He lifted a hand, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then brushed her neck scar with his fingertips. The touch was light, almost delicate, but there was a silent, almost possessive claim in the gesture.
"What that man stole from you, my dear little sister, it's up to you to take back. Not through anger. Not through impulse. But through patience. Precision. Proximity."
He lowered his hand.
"You have something no one else has. You don't feel fear, and you feel nothing except loyalty. You have my complete trust. I know you'll never disappoint me. It's you and me, until the end."
The words were not a compliment. They were a statement. A cold truth he treated like a weapon he had helped forge.
He took a step back, his tone returning to its usual state—controlled, calculating.
"I'll go with you myself tomorrow morning. I want to watch their procedures, make sure nothing has changed. You'll be introduced as someone I know personally, that's the version they're expecting. It's more believable. We made sure my picture is the one representing the security service they contacted."
He drew a breath.
"And San…"
His voice dropped.
"When you walk into that house… never forget what you're there to get."
She nodded. Barely. Just enough to show everything had been integrated, absorbed, stored somewhere inside her where nothing was ever lost.
Akio watched her for a few more seconds, then gave a short smile, almost tender in its harshness.
"You're the perfect weapon."
When San left the room, she heard the door close behind her with a sharp click. The kind of sound that marks the beginning of something, and the end of everything else.
Her brother's words still echoed in her mind as she made her way to her room to pack her things. They dragged up distant memories, memories that had shaped her new life.
A weapon had to be able to endure, not just take hits.
Back then—she must have been nine or ten—they had taken her down to the basement room, the one with bare concrete walls where the smell of dust and sweat clung like a thick layer. It was cold, but her skin burned in those years with a mix of nervousness and pure obedience.
Three boys were waiting for her. Teenagers, not children. Thirteen, fourteen maybe. The kind of boys who had already learned to hit in order to be respected.
They had looked her over as if she were some kind of bad joke.
"That's her?" the first one scoffed, tall, broad-shouldered.
"We're supposed to train with that?" another had sneered.
The third, a bit calmer, had stayed quiet, but his eyes shone with a quiet sort of contempt.
The handler raised his hand.
"You're going to test her."
A test. Like always. That day, the rules were simple: she had to stay on her feet for five minutes.
Five minutes. At ten years old. Against three older boys. No gloves, no protection, no real technique.
Just her.
Her and the raw mindset Seong-min wanted to shape.
The first slap had caught her off guard. Not the clumsy slap of a teenager. A real one—fast, sharp—the kind you use to punish before anything has even started.
She staggered hard, stunned by the shock, but didn't have time to recover. The second blow followed immediately. Then a kick to the thigh. Then a clumsy hook smashing into her jaw.
She had learned how to block, to dodge, to strike back. But that day, the orders were crystal clear. She had to take it, not retaliate, not return a single blow.
She was learning to endure. To absorb. To stay standing when her entire body was already screaming in pain.
At one point, she tasted blood spreading in her mouth. She lifted her eyes to one of the boys—the one who smirked, amused by her silent resistance—and something in her locked into place. A cold decision. A wordless promise.
She would last.
She would last because falling meant starting over. And starting over meant even more hits. Even more punishment. Even more time proving she wasn't a failure.
The third boy grabbed her arm to drag her down, but she dug her fingernails into the concrete pillar to keep from slipping. Her fingers burned as her skin tore, but she didn't scream.
"Shit… she just won't drop," one of them muttered.
The blows kept raining down. Ribs, stomach, shoulder, cheek. An irregular, brutal, impatient storm. But the little girl was still standing.
In the end, when the handler finally blew the whistle, she was covered in bruises and scrapes, her lip split, her neck marked with a red streak. Her knees were shaking, but they had never touched the floor.
The tall boy, the one who had mocked her at the start, stared at her with a strange expression—neither respect nor disgust. More a kind of unease he didn't even understand himself.
"She… she's not normal," he had murmured.
Maybe everyone was right. But that was what had made her what she was today. And now, after so many years of training, executing, obeying, her revenge was finally within arm's reach.
San slipped into her room without a sound and carefully took off her shoes before sitting cross-legged on the floor. She set the file on her knees. The paper opened like an old wound.
The first pages were devoted to Seo Junghan. Clipped articles, some yellowed with age. Others printed recently. Official photos, building plans, excerpts from administrative investigations that had never been made public.
San studied it all with a precision sleep never touched. She read the smothered accusations, the transactions hidden behind shell companies, the pressure exerted on overly curious journalists. She read the traces of dirty money crossing borders quietly, the accounts tied to anonymous donors, the photographs of late-night meetings between the congressman and men whose faces had been blurred.
Then she came to the second part of the file.
Seo Haerin.
She stopped for a moment. A pause that wasn't really a pause. Her breathing stayed the same, her gaze too, but something in her slowed down.
The photos showed a young woman with delicate features, always well put together, almost too clean for the darkness of the world San lived in.
The contrast was… striking, but San didn't put that word on what she was seeing. She just observed. Haerin reading in a café. Haerin walking down a stone-paved street in Seongbuk. Haerin in what looked like a university library. Haerin smiling politely at a gala.
San turned the pages with the same steady rhythm she used when disassembling a weapon. She analyzed the girl's habits, her movements, her relationships, the places she went, the routines she never questioned.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Then three. The light at the window turned golden, then bluish, before fading completely, replaced by red reflections from the neon signs outside.
She hadn't moved. She had absorbed everything. Everything that could bring her closer to her targets. A page slid beneath her fingers: a rough psychological analysis written by an outside observer.
"Gentle temperament, introverted, adaptable. Possibly emotionally fragile."
San tilted her head. She didn't categorize people that way. In fact, she didn't categorize people at all. She categorized opportunities.
And Haerin was one.
After a long time, the young woman finally closed the file. There was nothing more for her to learn from it. She took off her jacket, unlaced her boots and lay down on the futon. Arms at her sides, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling. A thin, uneven line cutting across the paint diagonally—it looked eerily like her own scar.
She closed her eyes.
And sleep came the way it always did for her: not slowly, but like a switch being flipped. Darkness, all at once. Clean.
She woke a little before dawn, without having moved a millimeter.
HQ was quiet, almost disturbingly still despite a few comings and goings, and the young woman took advantage of that calm to shower. She adjusted her still-damp bob, neatened her bangs, then put on the clothes Akio had given her the day before. A simple outfit: black pants. White shirt. Black jacket.
So cliché for bodyguard attire.
She pulled a laminated badge out of a drawer. An official security badge with the logo of a fictitious private agency the gang had been using for years.
She studied her reflection in the plastic. Just human enough to blend in. Just neutral enough to reassure.
She clipped the badge to her jacket. More symbolic than practical. She was ready for the role of her life.
The car was already waiting in front of the warehouse. It was still dark; only distant neon signs and a few taxi headlights cut through the end of the night.
Akio stood by the open door.
"You didn't forget anything?" he asked simply.
She shook her head.
Akio watched her climb into the back seat. His expression was hard to read; even he, who prided himself on being a wall, seemed affected by a kind of mute tension.
The engine purred softly, and the car slid into the already damp streets of Seoul.
They left Gwanak-gu. The narrow alleys, street-side shops, crumbling facades vanished behind them. The farther they drove, the taller the buildings grew. The landscape changed. Sidewalks became immaculate. Storefronts shone even before the sun came up. The parked cars were all new, all clean, all expensive.
Another world.
San wasn't looking at the scenery—she was scanning it. Blind angles. Cameras. Private patrols. Automated gates. Possible observation points. The closer they got, the more everything reeked of wealth and staging.
Hannam-dong finally appeared: modern villas with clean lines, white stone facades, tinted bay windows, carefully manicured trees.
The car slowed, turned into a lane lined with high walls, then stopped in front of a residence where two security agents were already standing.
San stepped out.
The air smelled different here: trimmed pine, clean asphalt, and a kind of luxury that didn't need to be flaunted to be understood.
The two guards—black uniforms, clear earpieces—looked her over with stiff politeness.
"Your badge, please."
San showed it without a word.
They checked it, scanned it on a tablet, then nodded.
"Welcome. The head of security is waiting for you inside."
She followed the two men under the porch.
The villa projected a kind of almost oppressive calm. Light walls, pure lines, modern lanterns built into the ground. The luxury wasn't ostentatious—it was controlled.
The head of security appeared. A massive man with graying hair, the kind of face that had spent twenty years in the army.
"You're the new recruit sent by Orion Security?" he asked.
She nodded.
He studied her with a professional eye: straight posture, neutral expression, no ego in her gaze.
"Perfect. The assemblyman wants to meet you before his daughter comes down."
He motioned for her to follow.
The villa had that peculiar silence rich homes always carried: not the silence of rest, but of control. San sensed the artificial calm the moment she stepped inside. She didn't look at the decor—she broke it down. Immaculate walls, sharp lines, minimalist furniture—nothing left to chance. The paintings weren't chosen for beauty, but for price. Lines of sight, valuables deliberately placed out of reach, windows too clean to be natural—everything pointed to a house designed to be observed. A façade of perfection.
San also noticed the discreet cameras built into the ceiling corners. Military-grade. Small round lenses, invisible to an untrained eye. The house wasn't beautiful. It was watched.
The head of security led her to the living room.
San used the walk to map out the layout in her head: the main staircase splitting into two branches, the open kitchen to the right with a back exit, the three possible blind spots in the hallway, the two emergency exits hidden behind wall panels.
She had noticed all of that in ten steps.
When she entered the living room, Seo Junghan was leaning against a large bay window, a file in hand.
He turned slowly. He was wearing a dark suit, perfectly tailored, classic in style but almost obsessively precise. His face looked carved from patient stone: controlled lines at the corners of his eyes, a firm jaw, deep black eyes anchored in a carefully managed calm. A man who had spent a lifetime masking what truly drove him.
"Come closer."
His voice was neither soft nor harsh—just weighted. The voice of a man used to choosing every intonation.
San stepped forward. Her walk was perfectly steady—no sound, no shift, no break in rhythm.
The head of security stayed back, arms crossed.
Seo Junghan scanned her from head to toe. Not with the contempt of those who judge beneath them. With the patience of a man evaluating a weapon.
"Miss Kawada Sana," he repeated, as if testing the sound of the name. "Not a very common name in Korea."
She didn't answer. A small silence followed. Junghan didn't break it right away—he watched. He searched for the slightest weakness in her face, in her posture, in her breathing.
San gave him nothing. So he began his interrogation—but not head-on. He chose veiled remarks instead.
"Orion Security assured me you were 'highly qualified'. I spent hours going over your file and I must say your track record is impressive."
He stressed the words.
"Silent. Instinctive. Reliable."
He moved closer, step by step, until the distance became almost intrusive. There was no worry in his eyes—just the cold curiosity of someone who had spent too many years doubting everything.
"I've known many bodyguards. Some too sure of themselves. Others too nervous. And a few who were nothing but thugs dressed in nice suits."
He circled her, literally, like a predator analyzing an unusual prey.
"But you… you don't fit any known profile."
The words hung in the air like a simple observation, not a compliment.
San kept her hands clasped behind her back. She breathed slowly, without the slightest change.
Junghan passed behind her one last time, then came to stand in front of her.
"You don't talk much, I see."
San replied in a voice so calm it could have belonged to someone else:
"I speak when it's necessary."
The politician gave the faintest smile.
"I like that. People who know when to keep quiet are rarer than you'd think… and often much more useful."
He paused.
"My daughter is… precious to me. She attracts attention. A lot of attention."
San stayed motionless, as silent as ever. So he tried something else: a more subtle, more intrusive test.
"If someone were to get close to her… would you be able to act before my team reacts?"
San's answer was immediate, sharp, flawless:
"Yes."
Junghan raised an eyebrow.
"Even if the threat is trained?"
"Yes."
"Even if they're armed?"
"Yes."
"Even if the threat is unpredictable?"
"Yes."
A powerful silence settled between them. The man kept staring, still searching for a crack. But San didn't have any.
In the end, he was the one who backed down. He stepped away, leaned against the back of the sofa and crossed his arms.
"Good. I must admit you're… convincing."
But the praise sounded almost like a warning. He finally released his jaw a little, a sign he was accepting—reluctantly—that he couldn't destabilize her.
"In that case… welcome to the Seo house."
Just as he was about to tell her to go introduce herself to Haerin, he added, almost as a warning:
"One last thing. My daughter doesn't need a thug. She needs a wall."
As if she'd ever been a wall for anyone…
San remained still while Seo Junghan watched her posture a few seconds longer, hunting for a flaw he would never find.
The sliding door behind him suddenly opened, with that silent smoothness that belongs to houses where nothing is allowed to stick out.
The approaching footsteps were no longer those of a guard. Not heavy. Not hesitant. They were regular, perfectly measured, as if their rhythm had been practiced over and over.
San raised her chin just slightly when Haerin appeared.
She was… perfectly presented. Not in the sense of a young adult who has simply gotten ready for the day. No. In the sense that every detail of her appearance seemed to have been checked, approved, and validated by someone else before she even crossed the threshold.
Her deep brown hair, catching a hint of chestnut in the living room light, had been straightened with meticulous care. It fell in a flawless sheet, without a single rebellious strand, as if the air itself didn't dare touch it.
Her face was soft but well defined, with two fine cheekbones that gave her features some structure. Her skin had that impeccable texture of faces too often exposed to camera flashes—not a single visible blemish, no awkward shine. Her complexion was even, almost unreal… like a living filter. Her eyes, slightly almond-shaped, were a light brown, almost golden. Bright. But dimmed by something you sensed more than you saw: inner discipline, or a fatigue far too old for her age. Her lips formed a polite smile—a smile that belonged to her role, not to her.
Her outfit could have appeared in any magazine aimed at future heirs of powerful families: a cream blouse falling perfectly over tailored charcoal trousers, cut to elongate the silhouette. Fine leather shoes, discreet but expensive. No flashy jewelry. Just a small pair of pearl earrings—the kind of detail image consultants love.
There was a studied uprightness about her, as if every gesture had been rehearsed in front of a mirror: the exact angle for tilting her head, the precise height of her chin, the measured way she folded her hands in front of her.
San watched all of this in silence. Not with admiration. Not with judgment. But because she had been trained to read bodies the way others read books.
What she saw, however, didn't quite match the daughter of a politician. Not entirely. It wasn't just the perfection that stood out.
It was… the tension underneath.
Tension hiding under layers of control. A tiny pulse in her throat when she saw her father. A slight stiffening of her shoulders. A fraction of a second when her eyes clouded over, as if she were afraid something might go wrong. It was subtle. Invisible to anyone who wasn't really paying attention.
But San saw everything.
Seo Junghan glanced at her briefly before saying:
"Haerin. This is Miss San Kawada. She'll be in charge of your protection starting today."
The young woman finally looked at San. A straightforward, direct gaze that didn't try to shy away… but betrayed something well-bred people hate to show: deep fatigue, a polite sort of weariness.
Haerin bowed her head slightly, just as she'd been taught. Not too much. Not too little. Just the perfect amount of respect without lowering herself.
"Nice to meet you," she said in a clear, controlled voice. "I'm Seo Haerin."
Her voice, when she introduced herself, was gentle but firmly held in check, like someone who had learned to always stay within the exact limits of what was expected of her.
San inclined her head in return. Without a word.
Haerin paused for the briefest moment. Not annoyed. Rather discreetly surprised… and something else. As if she had just met someone who didn't play by the usual rules.
Seo Junghan immediately reclaimed control.
"Miss Kawada doesn't talk much, but she notices everything. And her top priority will be your safety."
Haerin nodded. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, her gaze changed. She examined San without hostility: the straight bob, the pale scar along her neck, the rigid posture… then the eyes, black, empty, unshakable.
"Very well," Haerin simply said.
She smiled—a courteous, perfectly executed smile, the kind you give journalists and official photographers. A smile meant to hide more than it revealed.
San stayed still.
A barely perceptible flicker crossed her gaze, a tiny, indescribable reaction, like the echo of a blade brushing against a string pulled too tight.
Seo Junghan continued:
"She'll be with you at all times: events, public appearances, private trips. And you will follow her instructions. Without arguing. Is that clear, Haerin?"
The young woman inhaled slowly. Her polite smile shifted just a millimeter. Then she answered:
"Yes, Father."
Not another word.
Junghan nodded at San.
"Go with her. Get familiar with the house."
He paused, his gaze growing heavier, colder:
"Don't leave her side. For any reason."
San dipped her head.
Haerin stepped back, inviting her to follow into the hallway. And at that exact moment, San felt something change in the air. A subtle tension. A faint, invisible shiver.
She had just set foot in the wolf's den. And she burned for the day she would finally bring it down.