Page 129 of Ruthless Touch

“You know,” Gun says, breaking the quiet as we pull off the highway toward Pangyo. “I forgot how loud it is here. The beach spoiled me.”

I glance over at him, one eyebrow raised above my sunglasses. “You? The big bad mafia captain, spoiled by a little peace and quiet?”

“Two weeks of peace and quiet,” he corrects with a small smile. “That’s practically a lifetime in our world.”

“Good point.”

“Returning to civilization. Guess every day can’t be paradise.”

I can’t help but laugh at the heavy sigh he gives.

“Civilization,” I repeat, peering out at the congested streets, the apartment complexes stacked on top of each other, the convenience stores glowing on every corner. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

“Would you prefer organized chaos?”

“More accurate.”

“Then organized chaos it is.” He pulls into the parking garage of his building—ourbuilding now—and cuts the engine. He turns to look at me, his expression earnest in the dim garage lighting. “You ready?”

I nod, pulling off my sunglasses and meeting his gaze. “Yeah. I think I am.”

And for the first time ever, I mean it.

I’m ready for this new beginning. For this next chapter in my life.

The ‘what comes after’ all the revenge and bloodthirst I never allowed myself to think about before.

We grab our bags and head toward the elevator, shoulders brushing as we walk. The city hums above us, alive and indifferent to what we’ve survived. But standing here next to Gun, keys jingling in his hand as he hits the button for our floor, I realize something.

Home isn’t here. It isn’t the beach. It isn’t some peaceful escape from reality.

Home is wherever he is.

After a lifetime of betrayals and violence, we’ve become that for each other.

Over the next few days, Gun and I focus on settling back into the rhythm of our daily lives in Seoul. Gun’s forced to face the music at the Cheongryong while I have to confront a different kind of mess in the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

One of the biggest messes being my friendship with Priscilla and our loss of KD.

We meet at a café near Seoul National University. It’s exactly the kind of place Priscilla would pick, with its mismatched furniture, large plants, and fairy lights.

Some bubbly indie pop song plays on the speakers that’s surprisingly catchy.

I spot her before she sees me, tucked into a corner table with an oversized mug cradled in her hands. She’s in one of her infamous anime t-shirts with a freshly drawn cat eye, but it can’t disguise the grief she still holds after KD’s death.

When she looks up and our eyes meet, she doesn’t smile and wave the way the old Priscilla would. Instead she gives a nod hello and waits for me to wander over.

I slide into the seat across from her, suddenly unsure how to start. We’ve shared an apartment for almost a year, yet here we are, sitting in broad daylight surrounded by oblivious students and their textbooks, unsure how to even speak to each other.

“Um, how are you doing?” I ask finally, my tone meeker than I intended. “After... after KD? And everything else.”

Her expression hardens. She stares into the contents of her mug. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I care.”

“We’re not friends, Elise,” she retorts. “Right? You made that pretty clear.”

I take a breath, forcing myself to be vulnerable for once. “I know. And I deserve that.”