The air was suffocating.

The scent of danger—mixed with her fury—hung in the room like the thick smoke before a firestorm.

Everyone was still, their eyes fixed on her.

And she wasn’t done yet.

Yn turned, slowly, letting her icy gaze pierce every single man in that room—one by one.

“And one last thing—”

Her voice was calm. Controlled. But lethal.

“Let me make it crystal fucking clear for every single one of you in this room.”

“I. Don’t. Like. Being. Touched.”

Her words dripped venom.

“You dare lay a hand on me…”

She tilted her head, a faint, humorless smile on her lips.

“And you will see consequences.”

She paused.

Stepped closer to one of the men just to let them feel it—the storm wrapped in skin.

“Consequences that won’t be good. Not for your hand, not for your face, not for your goddamn life.”

No one moved.

Not even a breath.

She turned slightly, eyes flicking back to Jungkook—like she was challenging even him to cross the line.

And what did he do?

He laughed.

A low, dark chuckle that sent a ripple of unease through the room.

“Welcome to hell, sweetheart,” Jungkook said, leaning back in his chair like a king watching his queen raise her sword.

“Let’s see if it’s my demons that break you…”

“Or yours that burn this place down.”

Jungkook didn’t say a word after her declaration—he just flicked his eyes toward Jimin.

“Show her where she belongs.”

Jimin, usually the smooth-talking devil with a flirtatious smirk and a lazy swagger, hesitated.

For the first time in a long time.

He nodded slowly, casting a sideways glance at Yn—the woman who just threatened to mutilate anyone who touched her.

> “Damn, what kind of fire did Jungkook drag in this time?”

He gestured for her to follow him.

They walked in silence through the dimly lit hallway, walls lined with weapons and red LED lights, the air soaked in metal and old blood.

Yn’s boots were quiet. Her presence was not.

It was like walking beside a loaded gun—one twitch and it could explode.

Jimin cleared his throat, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

> “Well…” he said, forcing a light tone that sounded far more awkward than usual, “You’re bold back there.”

She didn’t even glance at him.

Just kept walking, her cold, unreadable face forward, like she hadn’t even heard him.

But the tension in her jaw told him she had.

“Not many people talk to Jungkook like that and walk away breathing,” he added with a nervous chuckle, trying again.

“I’m not like many people,” she said flatly, voice sharp enough to slice.

“Clearly.”

He laughed, but it died quickly.

“Just… a little advice,” he said, a little more serious this time. “This place—it’s not built for emotions. Not anger. Not grief. Especially not hope.”

“I’m not here for any of that,” she replied, finally looking at him.

Her eyes met his.

And it chilled him to his bones.

“I’m here for revenge.”

Jimin blinked.

Swallowed hard.

Yeah.

She wasn’t like anyone they’d ever let in before.

He stopped at a metal door and keyed in a code.

“This is your room,” he said, pushing it open.

It was bare. Spartan. A bed. A drawer. A punching bag in the corner. The walls were concrete, scratched from years of damage.

“Training starts at five. Jungkook doesn’t like late. And he sure as hell doesn’t like excuses.”

“Good,” she said simply. “Neither do I.”

As she stepped inside, Jimin lingered at the door.

“You know… everyone here is a monster.”

She turned slowly, her voice colder than steel.

“So am I.”

He nodded slowly, a flicker of something—respect or fear—crossing his face.

Then he shut the door behind her.

And Yn exhaled—alone now. But not weak.

She was inside the heart of hell.

And she was going to set it on fire.

The room was unusually quiet.

The click of Jimin’s boots echoed as he stepped inside, brushing his fingers through his hair and exhaling hard.

“Shit…”

He muttered under his breath.

“For the first time, I feared someone other than Jungkook.”

His voice hung heavy in the air.

Taehyung leaned back on the worn leather couch, his lips quirking into an amused grin.

“It’ll be fun working with her,” he said, voice low with mischief. “She’s fire.”

Yoongi let out a scoff, dark eyes flicking up from his glass of whiskey.

“Try her,” he said coolly, “and she’ll bury you six feet under.”

“Hell,” he added with a crooked smirk, “she’ll make you dig your own grave first.”

A silence followed. Not playful. Not tense. Just… still.

Until Jin spoke.

His voice was quieter than usual. Thoughtful. Distant.

“She’s broken.”

They all looked at him.

“Think about it,” Jin continued, his eyes unfocused, like he was trying to piece something together.

“She’s not even twenty-five. Maybe younger. And she walks into this place like she’s been bathing in blood her whole life.”

“Didn’t flinch when she saw our weapons. Didn’t blink when every gun turned on her. Didn’t hesitate when she looked Jungkook in the eyes and talked back like he wasn’t the devil himself.”

That silenced everyone again.

Namjoon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low.

“Where did you find her?”

Jungkook had been silent until now—legs stretched out, head leaned back, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.

He exhaled smoke.

“I didn’t.”

The words made them glance up.

“She found me.”

His tone was unreadable—flat, almost impressed.

“Tracked me down. Through alleys, abandoned bars, and fucking shadows. Found this mansion like a wolf following blood. She wanted me to help her take revenge.”

“Revenge?” Taehyung asked, brows raised.

Jungkook didn’t look at him.

“For her parents’ death.”

The temperature seemed to drop in the room.

But Jungkook didn’t say more.

Didn’t say who did it.

Didn’t say what he already knew.

Just leaned further back, letting the silence speak for him.

And in that silence, they all felt it:

This wasn’t just another broken girl with a vendetta.

This was a war waiting to be lit.

And she had just walked into the middle of theirs.

5:00 a.m. sharp.

The sky was still painted in the bruises of night. The forest around the mansion held its breath as the metal training doors slammed open with a dull echo.

Yn stepped in.

No makeup.

No hesitation.

Just black sweats, tied hair, and eyes so sharp they could slit throats.

Inside the underground training arena, the rest of the men had already gathered—some half-awake, others curious.

They expected her to walk in confused.

They expected her to complain.

They expected her to quit.

Instead, she stood in front of them like she owned the floor.

Jungkook stood on the balcony above—watching silently, arms crossed.

“Today,” Taehyung announced with a lazy smirk, “the new little bird joins the wolves.”

A few chuckled.

Yn didn’t smile.

Didn’t blink.

“Let’s start with 100 pushups. If you fall, you’re out.”

One of the men snorted.

“She’ll drop after ten.”

She dropped to the floor.

And started.

1.

2.

3.

No hesitation. No noise.

Just raw, sharp, brutal movement.

By the time the others reached 40, she was at 60.

By 100, she was still going.

“That’s enough,” Namjoon said, narrowing his eyes.

“You’ve proven it.”

“I’m not here to prove,” she muttered, standing up with a sweat-slicked neck.

“I’m here to survive.”

Next came the bags.

“Kick until your legs give out,” Jimin called.

Thuds echoed through the hall as the sound of fists and feet against leather grew louder.

But her kicks?

They were violent—born not from training, but from pain.

Every strike she landed was an echo of a dead scream—her mother’s, her father’s, hers.

Even the older fighters began to glance sideways.

She didn't stop when her knuckles split.

She didn't stop when the blood hit the floor.

She didn't stop when the ache set into her ribs.

Yoongi, from the sideline, whistled low.

“She’s not human.”

Jin leaned forward, eyebrows drawn.

“She’s not fighting to learn.”

“She’s fighting like she’s already planning to kill.”

Final task.

Hand-to-hand combat.

One of the taller guys—a cocky recruit who once broke a man’s jaw for “breathing too loud”—stepped into the ring.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he mocked. “You might cry when I bruise that pretty face.”

She didn’t speak.

She just charged.

Two moves.

A block. A spin.

Then a solid punch to his throat.

He stumbled.

Another strike to the ribs.

Then elbowed across the jaw.

He hit the mat.

Hard.

Blood from his lip smeared the floor.

She didn’t even look fazed.

Just stood over him like a shadow cast in vengeance.

From the balcony, Jungkook watched, his jaw tight.

Taehyung let out a low whistle.

Jimin blinked.

Namjoon just whispered—

“Holy fuck.”

Jungkook smirked.

“She’s not here to learn. She’s here to hunt.”

Yn stood in the bathroom washing away the blood—but not the ache. Not the fire in her chest. Not the ghost of her parents' screams.

Her knuckles throbbed, raw, split open in places.

Water turned pink as it circled the drain.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

She felt alive for the first time in years.

Behind her, the heavy steel door creaked open.

She didn’t turn.

She didn’t need to.

She knew that presence like smoke. Dark, calm, dangerous.

“You hit harder than half my men,”

Jungkook’s voice was deep, smooth—like a blade being unsheathed.

Still, she said nothing.

“You going to keep bleeding alone every night or let someone show you how not to ruin your bones?”

She finally turned, slow and precise.

Water still dripping from her lashes.

Eyes still void of fear.

“I don’t need your help.”

He stepped closer, silent as a shadow, holding a towel in one hand and a small black box in the other.

“Didn’t say I was here to help,” he said simply.

“I’m here to test you.”

Her eyes narrowed.

He placed the towel on the bench beside her. Then opened the box.

Inside—a silver gun. Cold. New. Waiting.

“You say you want revenge. You say you’re ready to kill,” he murmured, tone unreadable.

“Then prove it.”

“Take this gun,” he continued, “walk into the room at the end of the hall, and kill the man inside.”

Her jaw tensed.

“Who is he?” she asked.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to hers.

“He’s from the Wolf Syndicate. He betrayed us last week. Gave intel that got one of my men tortured.”

Silence.

Water still trickled down her spine.

Her breath slow. Measured.

“He’s a traitor. A killer. Filth,” Jungkook added, watching her.

“If you hesitate, you’re out.”

She stared at the gun.

Stared at him.

Then took the towel, dried her hands—slowly, methodically.

Took the gun.

Loaded it with the bullet he’d placed beside it.

Click.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask again.

She walked out—barefoot, dripping, blood staining her bandaged knuckles.

Jungkook watched her go, eyes unreadable.

Two Minutes Later

BANG.

One shot.

Nothing more.

She returned. Tossed the gun back in the box.

“Done.”

“Did you look him in the eye?” Jungkook asked.

“Yes.”

“Did he beg?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Her eyes were colder than death.

“He reminded me of someone.”

She didn’t wait for his reaction.

She walked away.

Leaving a man like Jeon Jungkook speechless for the first time in years.

The knives clinked against plates.

Forks scraped quietly.

No one spoke.

Not because they had nothing to say… but because she was there.

Yn.

Sharp-eyed. Bleeding-knuckled. The woman who trained at dawn and threatened to cut off fingers by noon. Her presence burned—heavy and still like a storm waiting to strike.

Until—

“Kookie!!”

A tiny voice pierced the silence. A blur of pink and sunshine came flying down the marble stairs.

Every head turned.

A little girl—no older than six—ran full speed toward Jeon Jungkook.

And without hesitation, she jumped into his lap.

“Good morning, little baby,”

Jungkook's voice was no longer the voice of a killer.

It was soft. Velvet. A sound no one had ever heard from him.

He brushed her hair gently behind her ear.

The girl turned to everyone, beaming with a bright, toothy smile.

“Good morning, everyone!”

Every member at the table softened.

“Good morning, Annie,” came the chorus—Taehyung smiled, Jimin ruffled her hair, Namjoon winked.

But not Yn.

No—she just stared.

Frozen.

A child… in a house full of monsters.

Her mind screamed questions.

Was she kidnapped? Was she Jungkook’s real sister? Was she bait?

But Annie’s eyes locked onto hers before she could even blink the thoughts away.

Big, round, doe eyes.

“Who’s that, Kookie?”

Annie tilted her head.

Her voice was pure sugar.

Jungkook’s eyes met Yn’s.

Cold. Calculated. But calm.

“She’s Yn, baby,” he said, his hand still softly resting on Annie’s back.

“She’s going to live with us from now on.”

Annie’s eyes widened with joy.

She gasped.

“Really?! She’s so pretty!”

The girl grinned, practically bouncing.

“Good morning, Ynieee~!” she said with bright excitement, her tiny hands waving.

Yn blinked.

Confused. Still.

Everyone turned to her, watching how she would respond.

Would she ignore the child?

Would she flinch away like she did from every hand that reached toward her?

“Uh-h—y-yeah… good morning, Annie,” she finally said.

The words felt foreign on her tongue.

The little girl’s smile grew wider, satisfied by the acknowledgment.

She slid off Jungkook’s lap and ran to sit beside him, legs swinging, stealing a piece of his toast like it was hers to take.

No one stopped her.

No one dared.

Yn's eyes didn’t leave Jungkook.

Something twisted in her chest.

Not pain. Not jealousy.

Confusion.

This man—the same one who threatened lives like they were pawns… now quietly letting a child rest her head on his arm.

She leaned back, her food untouched.

Something didn’t fit.

Something was wrong.

And yet… something warm bloomed in the back of her mind. Something terrifying.

Hope.

She didn’t flinch when guns were aimed at her head.

She didn’t tremble when she threatened to slice fingers off the men in the room.

She didn’t even blink when she watched a man bleed out under her knife.

But now—

“Good morning, Ynieee~!”

A child.

A tiny, harmless child.

Looking up at her with glowing admiration.

Yn stuttered.

“Uh-h—y-yeah… good morning, Annie.”

The words came like broken glass, slipping past her lips like she wasn’t sure how to shape them.

And the room went silent.

Every fork paused mid-air.

Jimin blinked.

Taehyung’s smirk faltered.

Jin looked stunned, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

“Did she just… stutter?” Yoongi muttered under his breath.

“Yn?” Namjoon echoed quietly. “Stuttered?”

No one said it out loud, but it hung in the air like a neon sign.

This was the woman who spit death in Jungkook’s face and didn’t bat an eye.

The same girl who trained until her hands bled, who never once showed weakness.

But now—

A little girl’s warmth cracked the ice she’d built around herself.

Jungkook didn’t react.

Not visibly.

But his eyes sharpened.

Focused.

Curious.

He saw it.

Not weakness.

But something human.

And that was more dangerous than anything she’d said before.

Later that evening, the mansion buzzed quiet under a blood-red moon.

Inside Jungkook’s study, the air was thick with unspoken thoughts.

“She stuttered,” Taehyung said first, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes shadowed.

Namjoon looked at Jungkook. “You noticed too.”

Jungkook didn’t look up from the drink in his hand.

He swirled the amber liquid slowly.

“A girl like her doesn’t stutter for fear, or for men, or even for death,” he finally murmured.

“But for a child,” Namjoon finished the thought.

Taehyung’s voice dipped cold.

“You think she’s soft underneath that rage?”

“No,” Jungkook said quietly. “I think… that’s the part that makes her dangerous.”

He stood, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring into the black woods surrounding the mansion.

“She’ll burn the world alive to protect what little light she has left.”

He sipped his drink, dark eyes narrowing.

“And if we’re not careful, we might be standing in the middle of that fire.”

2:47 a.m.

The hallway creaked under her bare feet. She moved like a ghost—silent, controlled. Her hands were wrapped, blood staining through the bandages from earlier training.

She stood in front of a wall.

The Wolf Syndicate.

A hundred photos.

Men in suits. Masks. Guns.

All stitched into the tapestry of blood and chaos.

Her finger hovered over one man.

A deep scar running from his jaw to his temple.

A wolf tattoo barely visible under his watch.

Her breath caught.

“You.”

The whisper was venom.

She pressed her forehead against the glass—eyes closed.

A single tear slipped down her cheek, trailing into the corner of her lips.

“I will find you,” she whispered. “And I will bury you alive "

He watched her from the shadows, his frame blending with the darkness.

Something in the way she stood there—rage barely bottled, her breath uneven—

It wasn't vengeance. It was obsession.

He stepped forward.

Deliberately.

She turned sharply, hand going to her blade—but stopped when she saw him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked back to the photo wall.

“You stuttered today,” he said quietly, walking closer.

Her jaw tightened. “So?”

“You don’t strike me as the type who forgets how to use her tongue.”

“Maybe I forgot how to speak when I saw something… I thought I’d never see again,” she replied.

“And what’s that?”

“Innocence.”

Jungkook stared at her. Not her body, not her face—but something beneath. Something fractured.

“Be careful, Yn,” he said at last. “The moment you start caring about people… the enemy will smell it.”

She looked at him sharply. “That includes you?”

He smirked. “Especially me.”

To be continued...