the legacy in her blood

A dull haze hung over Seoul, soft and deceptive.

Outside, the city moved with its usual rhythm—honking cars, street vendors calling out breakfast deals, office workers walking briskly beneath umbrellas as early drizzle clung to their coats. But inside the narrow hallway of a hidden apartment nestled in a quiet bend of Bukchon Hanok Village, time stood still.

Ania Malik was still.

She lay on her couch, limbs draped delicately beneath a woven shawl, her cheeks flushed with residual fever. Her skin was painted with fresh bruises—along her wrists, her ribs, the line of her jaw—remnants of the nightmare she had endured only hours ago.

The filtered morning light spilled through gauzy curtains. It kissed her forehead. It didn't wake her.

It was pain that did.

A sudden ache in her right wrist, the strain from the ropes that had once bound her. She flinched, a soft gasp escaping her dry lips. Her eyelids fluttered.

Her eyes opened slowly, vision blurry at first—still riding the drug's fading aftermath. The air was too quiet. Not even the hum of the refrigerator or the clink of the heating pipes.

Then came memory.

Darkness.

Hands.

A slap.

A whisper: "Where's your hero now?"

Then came something else.

A crash. A wind. A masked shadow.

And then—safety.

A name echoed in her chest like a heartbeat she hadn't allowed herself to remember.

Devrathor…?

"No," she murmured aloud, barely audible to herself. "It couldn't be…"

She shifted to sit up and winced, pain radiating along her side. Her fingers instinctively touched her ribs, where someone had cleaned and bandaged her. A soft scent lingered in the air. Something faintly masculine—leather and cologne.

She looked around.

The apartment was untouched. But on the coffee table beside her, folded with clinical neatness, was a single black glove.

Her breath caught.

Her heart began to pound—not from fear, but from recognition.

"Was it… him?"

She touched the place just above her heart, where his hand had steadied her, moments before the world tilted and she lost consciousness.

The warmth of his touch… hadn't been imagined.

He came for me.

A knock.

Three sharp taps.

Then one slow.

She froze.

That rhythm.

Not the postman. Not a neighbor. Certainly not a stranger.

She didn't even have time to move before the door opened.

Four figures stepped inside, and with them, the weight of an entire buried life.

The woman who led them stood tall and poised, with the kind of confidence that came from years of killing and commanding. She wore a black trench coat cinched at the waist, sleek sunglasses covering eyes that could probably kill with a glance. A crimson crest shimmered at her collar—a cherry blossom wrapped around a crossed pair of blades.

Behind her stood three others: two men, one woman. All silent. All watchful. All familiar in the worst way.

Ania's body tensed.

She stood slowly, ignoring the flare of pain. Her voice was steady.

"You shouldn't be here."

The woman removed her glasses. Sharp, fox-like eyes assessed her with something between admiration and guilt. "Ania Malik," she said. "Or should I say… Rahee Seon?"

Ania's heart plunged like a stone.

"No one calls me that anymore."

The woman smiled faintly. "You can change your name, Rahee. But blood remembers. And when someone touches the daughter of the Seon family—"

"The clan comes," Ania finished, her voice hollow.

A flicker of sadness crossed the woman's face. "We didn't come to drag you back. We came to warn you."

Ania's hands trembled slightly, hidden beneath her shawl. She looked at the others behind the leader. They hadn't aged much. Still shadows of her childhood.

"You're late."

"We only heard what happened last night at dawn," the woman replied. "You were taken. Beaten. Drugged. But you weren't targeted because of who you married, or where you lived."

Ania turned her face away.

"You were targeted because of who you were born to be," the woman finished.

"Not anymore," Ania said sharply. "I'm a mother. I live clean. My children don't even know—"

"They will," the second man spoke finally, voice deep and scarred. "Because Mafia Bull isn't like the others. He's interested in heritage. In heirs. And you—Rahee—you're not just a bloodline. You're a prize."

Ania closed her eyes. The name Mafia Bull sent a chill down her spine.

She had heard whispers about him—violent, obsessive, obsessed with conquering lineages the way warlords conquered cities. Men like him didn't kill outright. They devoured. Made you watch as they turned your life into something unrecognizable.

"I don't want this life," she said, her voice softer now. "I left that name behind when I buried my mother. When I ran from that burning house."

"But someone remembered," the woman said. "And now they've found you."

Ania sat down slowly, her legs giving way beneath the pressure.

"I finally felt safe…"

The room went quiet.

The woman's gaze softened.

"Because of him?" she asked.

Ania didn't answer.

But her silence was louder than a scream.

---

[CUT TO: A basement beneath Mapo District – hours earlier]

The lights buzzed overhead, flickering slightly as rainwater trickled down from pipes above. The room smelled of blood, rust, and something chemical.

A man slumped in a metal chair, tied at the ankles and wrists, blood dribbling from his nose. One eye swollen shut. His breath rattled in his chest.

Across from him stood Devrathor.

Drenched in black. Silent. Cold.

His fists were still gloved, though stained with fresh crimson.

Devrathor had been many things in his life: a street rat, a fighter, a killer, a kingpin's shadow—but never this.

Never this angry.

He stepped forward and grabbed the thug by the collar, yanking him upright.

"Why her?"

The man spat blood onto the floor, grinning despite the bruises.

"Wasn't for you…"

Devrathor's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"They didn't come for you," the man coughed. "She was the target. Not some random widow…"

Dev's heart slowed.

The thug wheezed. "She's not just anyone. She's a Seon."

A silence followed that felt like a dropped bomb.

Devrathor's grip loosened.

"What did you say?"

"Seon," the man repeated. "Rahee Seon. Daughter of Seon Hwa. The White Queen of Busan. You didn't know?"

Devrathor stumbled back half a step.

He remembered nights where Ania would bolt upright from nightmares. How she triple-locked her door, even though they lived on the top floor. How her kids never had photos online. How she never spoke about her childhood.

He had thought it was grief.

But it was war.

"She was trained," the thug added. "To be the next. She disappeared. Faked her death, they said. But we found her. We always find what we're paid to find."

Dev didn't answer. His knuckles were white.

"Guess you don't know her at all," the thug laughed. "You thought she was weak. A widow. But she's royalty, brother. Blood royalty."

Dev leaned in close, voice low. "You put your hands on a queen."

He raised his arm once more.

---

[BACK TO ANIA'S APARTMENT – Present]

The room was quiet again. The Seon emissaries stood waiting, but Ania didn't say another word.

The woman in the trench coat finally spoke.

"Minhoo and Hana are safe. We placed men near their school. No one gets near them without our eyes knowing."

Ania looked up sharply. "You followed my children?"

"We protected them."

"That's not protection," she hissed. "That's surveillance."

The woman looked unshaken. "In our world, that's the same thing."

Ania walked to the window. The city stretched before her, so familiar and foreign all at once.

"I thought if I could keep quiet, live small… the past wouldn't find me."

"You thought wrong."

Ania's voice broke. "Then what do I do now?"

The woman stepped forward. "Live. But be ready. Because now that Bull knows who you are… he won't stop."

Ania turned around. "Then neither will I."

The woman smiled for the first time. "There's the girl I trained."

"I'm not that girl anymore."

"No," she agreed. "Now, you're a mother. And that's far more dangerous."

---

[EVENING – A rooftop across from Ania's apartment]

The sun dipped below the skyline, bathing Seoul in hues of copper and violet. The breeze was cool, a strange calm following a storm of revelations.

On the rooftop across the street, a figure stood hidden among the shadows—tall, motionless.

Devrathor.

He had removed his gloves, the ones still stained. He held the same one he had left behind, brushing it thoughtfully.

His eyes were fixed on the balcony across from him.

Ania stepped into the twilight, wrapped in a thick shawl. Her hair blew loose in the wind. Her bruises were faint in the light, but he saw them.

Every one of them.

She looked up at the moon, quiet and contemplative. And then—she turned her gaze toward the rooftop across from her.

Right at him.

She couldn't see him. But she felt him.

A tear traced her cheek. She didn't wipe it away.

She just whispered one name, so softly that even the wind barely caught it.

"Dev…"

And in the silence of dusk, he whispered back, though she couldn't hear:

"You were never just a widow."

He watched her for a moment longer.

And then vanished into the dark.

Still protecting her.

Now not just from the world…

But from herself.

---