The King's court

Nyra's Apartment – 12:27 AM

The apartment smelled faintly of jasmine and cold metal. A single lamp glowed in the corner, casting soft golden light over the cluttered table where Selen's laptop now sat—open, blinking, angry.

The box sat untouched beside it.

The black gown still inside. Like a secret she wasn't ready to wear.

Selen's fingers flew across the keyboard, the screen flickering with code and bouncing signals. The phone lay beside her, plugged in, tapped, stripped. She was tracing every tower hit, every hidden signature, every byte of movement.

But nothing stuck.

Every time she reached deeper—the trail vanished.

Gone.

Blocked.

Encrypted beyond anything she'd ever seen.

"Come on," she whispered, jaw tight. "Come on, just give me something. IP, packet route, anything—"

Error.

Null.

Access denied.

She cursed under her breath, slamming the heel of her palm against the desk.

"No. That's impossible. I've broken firewalls ten layers deeper than this with one hand while half-asleep."

Nyra sat on the couch, silent, watching her.

Selen's breathing was heavy now. Her voice cracked with frustration.

"I do this in my sleep, Nyra. I taught people how to do this. And now—this? I can't even touch it."

She pulled the phone cord loose and threw it across the table.

Silence.

Then Nyra said, low and steady:

"That means they already know about you."

Selen looked up.

Nyra leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

"Not just that you're smart. Not just that you hack. They know who you are. Your background. Your tools. Your habits. They knew you'd try to trace them."

Selen's stomach dropped.

"They didn't just set the trap," Nyra finished. "We're already inside it."

The words hung in the room like smoke. Selen stared at the black box again—still sitting there like it belonged.

She didn't move.

Because for the first time since this started—

She wasn't sure how to fight something

that already knew her every move.

The night had stretched long and heavy, stitched together by low lamplight and silence.

Neither of them noticed when exhaustion finally won—when Selen's fingers stilled on the keyboard, when Nyra's eyes fluttered shut on the couch beside her.

They didn't dream. They simply disappeared into sleep.

By the time the first slant of morning sunlight crept through the curtains, the air had cooled. Jasmine faded. The cold scent of fear still lingered.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Until—bzzzt.

A sharp buzz rattled the coffee table. Then again.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Selen stirred first, eyelids heavy and dry. Her back ached from sleeping half-curled in a chair, but the sound brought her fully awake.

Her phone. Face down. Screen lit.

She picked it up slowly.

The sender: Private Number

No name. No contact photo.

Only one message.

"Are you ready for tonight, sweetheart?"

Beneath it—a single image file.

Selen hesitated, thumb hovering above the preview. Her stomach turned. Something inside her already knew.

She tapped. And froze.

The image opened with a soft click—

Inside, a sterile hospital room, pale walls bathed in cold morning light. Her father lay unconscious, IVs running into both arms. Machines blinked beside him. Heart monitor steady but fragile.

And beside him—Elira.

Still in her hoodie. Still tired. Still watching over him like a soldier guarding what was left of a broken kingdom.

Selen's breath caught. Her throat closed.

" They're watching."

Not just her. Not just her inbox or her movements. But them —Her family. Her blood. Her softest parts.

She could barely speak.

Nyra stirred behind her. "What is it?" she asked, voice rough with sleep.

Selen turned the screen to her wordlessly.

Nyra's eyes widened.

"How the hell… that's the hospital room—"

"How did they get that photo? Who the hell got close enough to—"

She didn't scream. She just whispered.

"They've made their move."

And so would she. Because no matter what it cost—

She wasn't letting her father die.

Even if that meant walking straight into the lion's den wearing silk and secrets.

6:40 PM

The gown waited on the table like a secret too heavy to hold.

It wasn't just black. It was deeper than black—the color of shadows that followed you home, of threats whispered in empty alleys. A fabric woven from danger and quiet power. Sleek. Cold. Designed to be worn by someone who didn't blink when the world turned violent.

Selen stared at the box for a long time.

Then she stood. No words. No hesitation.

Nyra watched from the doorway, still in her pajamas, arms folded, eyes wary.

Selen stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

Click.

Silence.

The mirror greeted her with a stranger.

Messy hair. Dark circles. Lips dry. A woman who hadn't slept properly in three nights. A woman who once hacked federal systems for thrill, who once laughed with her father over burnt toast.

And now?

Now she was a pawn.

No—not a pawn. A piece sacrificed.

But tonight, she'd become something else.

Her fingers moved fast—clipping her hair into a sleek bun. Pinning flyaways with cold precision. She lined her eyes in black, her strokes sharp as blades. Blood-red lipstick. Not smeared. Not soft. A warning.

Then the dress.

She peeled it from its tissue paper like it might bite.

And slipped it on.

It fit like it had been made for her sins. The fabric clung to her waist, curved down her back, and pooled around her feet like smoke. No zippers. No frills. Just elegance sharpened into a weapon.

Selen stared at her reflection. Gone was the girl in hoodies. The late-night coder. The daughter.

What remained was the version they wanted.

But behind her eyes—a storm still brewed.

Nyra knocked once on the door. "You okay?"

Selen opened it slowly.

Nyra's breath caught. "Holy shit!"

____

At Kim Enterprise. 

The Enterprise Tower stood like a monument to ambition, draped in light and drowning in secrecy. On the 45th floor, the ballroom shimmered—mirrored floors, gold-trimmed archways, walls soaked in candlelight and whispered danger. The kind of place where power smiled with blood on its teeth.

This was not just an event. It was a ritual.

The Annual Ceremony of Kim Taehyung.

Where masks were worn openly, and silence had sharper teeth than knives.

Taehyung stood at the head of it all, looming over his empire like a king carved from obsidian. He didn't speak often—but when he did, the room bent to listen.

Just right to Taehyung stood Jimin. His expression charming as always, fingers dancing over a digital tablet.

and Eunwoo, calm as a storm before it breaks, Taehyung said nothing. He didn't need to.

His presence was enough to keep the wolves in suits from howling.

Champagne flutes shimmered. The orchestra dipped into a minor key. And on the ballroom floor, whispers floated like ash—

Until a single ripple broke the silence.

Selen.

She entered the room like a mistake—too real, too trembling, too human.

The moment her heels touched marble, she knew– She didn't belong here.

But she wasn't here for belonging. She was here because someone had twisted her life into this—the threats, the fear, the blood.

Because her father was in a hospital bed with machines keeping him alive.

Because someone out there wanted her obedience—and she was out of choices.

She clutched her silver clutch like it could hold her together.

Nyra walked beside her, stiff in a dark blue gown. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them smiled. But inside Selen, a war raged.

"What if they sees me?

What if he doesn't?

What if they were never bluffing? What if I just kissed the devil's feet in front of his court?."

"Selen, are you sure?" Nyra whispered behind her, eyes darting. "There is still time to go back."

Before Selen could answered —

A waiter approached with a Polished smile. White gloves. No drinks.

Just a napkin.

Selen's blood ran cold the moment her fingers touched the folded linen.

Inside: a note, the same jagged handwriting from days ago.

"Beautiful. Now smile for the cameras, sweetheart.

Next stop? Your father's grave."

The words burned her eyes. Her knees almost gave out.

"We can't go back, Nyra," she whispered. "I have to finish this."

Nyra hesitated. "Selen, you don't have to—"

"Don't you see?" Her voice cracked. "They're watching. They're always watching."

Nyra nodded slowly, her jaw set. "Then walk like you own them. I'm with you "

Selen took a deep breath, lifted her chin and stepped forward.

Her heels echoed like gunshots on the polished floor. Every head turned. Whispers curled through the crowd.

"Who is that?"

"Is she invited?"

"Did someone bring a date without clearance?"

And then—

Taehyung looked up.

He stilled. The glass paused just shy of his lips.

His heartbeat stuttered—just once.

The room blurred behind her, but her face? That face? The fire in her eyes that night in the alley…

"Selen. My ghost in red!"

But she wasn't supposed to be here. He hadn't summoned her. No invitation had left his hands.

And yet—here she was.

Walking toward him with purpose. With fury disguised as grace. Her body taut like a loaded weapon.

Jimin tilted his head slightly, already scanning facial recognition files.

Eunwoo stiffened. Not at Selen—but at the girl beside her.

Nyra.

The woman who'd shot him. His fingers twitched at his side. The phantom pain in his thigh lit up like it remembered her, too.

"What the hell is she doing here?"

He shifted half a step back, something primal rising in his chest. But his face? Still. Cold. Controlled.

Except for his eyes—burning into hers like they could set her ablaze all over again.

Selen reached the base of the staircase. She didn't tremble. She didn't stop.

The crowd parted around her like instinct recognized danger—and she ascended slowly, one step at a time.

When she reached him, she didn't speak at first. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like it belonged to someone else.

Taehyung said nothing.

Their eyes locked—and in that moment, the entire world fell silent.

Selen leaned in. Her lips brushed his ear.

"They made me come," she whispered, voice trembling. "I had no choice. Forgive me."

Then—

before he could respond—she kissed him.

In front of the board. The elite. The press. The sharks in designer suits.

Her lips caught his. Not soft. Not sweet. Desperate.

She clung to his lapel like it was the last thing gathering her to this world.

Taehyung's breath hitched, his heart skipped a beat.

Just for a second—he kissed her back. Just for a second—the king forgot his throne.

And then he tore away.

His voice—cold. Public. Sharp as a knife.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Selen blinked, stunned by the rejection—heart hammering, lips tingling, panic blooming in her ribs.

She forced a smile. And in the same tone, loud enough for the whole ballroom to hear—

"What kind of question is that, honey?!

I'm your wife! Can't a wife kiss her husband?!"