Page 134 of Ruthless Touch

By the time we stumble out into the neon-lit street, my throat is raw and my face hurts from smiling. A server had taken a photo of the four of us earlier—Joon making peace signs, Priscilla mid-laugh, Gun’s arm slung casually around my shoulders, me leaning into him with genuine happiness written across my face.

We look like people who belong together.

Like a family that chose each other instead of being born into obligation.

Outside, Seoul hums with late-night energy. Joon disappears into the crowd with a theatrical bow, probably in search of more alcohol or another chance at redemption with tourists. Priscilla hugs me tight before heading toward the subway, her “take care of yourself” muffled against my shoulder.

Then it’s just Gun and me, walking through streets we once prowled as enemies, his hand warm in mine.

“Good night?” he asks as we wait for a taxi.

I think about Priscilla’s bittersweet smile, Joon’s ridiculous energy, Gun’s unexpected voice filling the karaoke room.

About found family and second chances and the strange grace of being fully known and still wanted.

“Yeah,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Really good night.”

The taxi pulls up, and as we slide into the backseat, I catch my reflection in the window. I look content. Not quite perfect and put-all-the-way-together—that’s still too fragile, too new—but content.

Like maybe this is what healing looks like.

Like maybe we’re going to be okay.

TWENTY-NINE

GUN

The Cheongryong headquartershas always felt like a temple of power—all marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Seoul like a kingdom waiting to be conquered.

Today, walking through the familiar corridors in my pressed black dress shirt and slacks, clean-shaven and carrying myself with the kind of formal dignity my father always demanded, the weight of legacy settles on my shoulders.

The Jeokpa soldiers I pass nod with deference, not the careful wariness they used to show the lieutenant’s unpredictable son. Lee Seung-ho, who once looked at me like I might snap and break his nose, bows his head respectfully. “Yongsa-nim.”

I make my way to the top floor, where the Cheongryong-je holds court from his private office.

The old man sits behind his massive desk, back straight, hands folded, watching the city spread out beneath him like a god admiring his creations.

He’s in his seventies, bald, with a long silver beard that touches his chest and a face lined with age.

But that doesn’t mean he’s a frail old man. There’s still something markedly dangerous about him.

A deadly dragon in repose.

He doesn’t look up when I enter, just raises one weathered hand in a gesture that sayswait.

So I do, standing by ’til he addresses me.

It’s a moment I’ve avoided for long enough. But after almost three weeks on Jeju with Elise, it’s time.

After a long moment, he finally turns his attention to me, dark eyes taking in my appearance with silent study. “Sit.”

I move to the chair across from his desk but remain standing until he nods. Only then do I lower myself into the seat, spine straight, hands resting formally on my knees.

The ritual of respect, performed exactly as Father taught me years ago.

It’s rare that even a captain like myself is called for a one-on-one meeting with the emperor of our syndicate.

“Harabeoji,” I say, bowing my head a second time.