They say that when death approaches, the past flashes before you like a broken kaleidoscope—shards of memory, cutting and brilliant, scattered across the darkness.

“It was just a job… nothing more,” Ayla Kwon whispered inside her head, as if saying it enough times could erase the truth. “I chose it because I had no choice. I was pushed into it, dragged along by a mission bigger than me…”

But if that was true, then these shattered, burning fragments of memory must mean her life was reaching its end.

So why, of all things, was she thinking of him?

Not the lies.

Not the betrayals.

Not even the blood that painted her hands red.

But him.

The man whose presence lingered like salt on a wound—sharp, stinging, impossible to forget.

‘It wasn’t bad,’ she told herself with a bitter laugh that never reached her lips. Even now, even on the edge of death, I’m still pretending it meant nothing.

Her memories bled together—his voice, low and commanding, cutting like steel yet brushing against her like spring air. The faint scent of soap that clung to his skin, clean and grounding. The broad back that had once shielded her from a storm she didn’t know how to face.

“You’d better stop there. Even if you fall, I’ll drag you back.”

Those words haunted her, curling around her ribs like a chain she couldn’t break. His dark eyes—consuming, dangerous—rose unbidden in her mind. The endless stars above them that night had been merciless in their beauty, a cruel reminder that the world could shine while her heart fractured.

The memory ended in pain. Blinding, suffocating pain. Her lungs burned, her body shook, and the world around her dimmed into blackness.

Reality rushed back.

Her wrists ached, raw and bleeding against the coarse rope that bound her to the chair. Her throat was parched, her lips cracked. Her body felt weak, yet her spirit refused to bow.

“Water…” she croaked, her voice barely human.

Her captors laughed, the sound sharp and ugly in the dank room.

“We’ll give you water—if you give us the file.”

Ayla’s cracked lips twisted. Instead of words, she spat blood at their feet.

The retaliation came instantly. Blows rained down, fists and boots, until her head sagged forward and shadows swallowed her vision. Darkness pulled at her like a tide, eager to claim her.

But then—

Crash!

The sharp shatter of glass ripped through the silence. A figure rolled through the window, shards scattering like stars across the filthy floor. A gust of icy wind stormed in, chilling the room, carrying with it the scent of night and danger.

Ayla blinked through the haze. Her heart leapt against her ribs, thundering with fear—and something else she refused to name.

The figure rose with effortless grace, his movements precise, controlled, almost disdainful. Irritation flickered across his face, but his eyes—those piercing, obsidian eyes—burned with a dangerous focus.

Broad shoulders.

A jaw carved from stone.

A presence that filled the room until even her captors froze.

Rian Sol.

Her curse.

Her savior.

Her unfinished problem.

Even now, when she was bound and broken, his existence consumed her—pulling her into the same spiral of need and hatred that had marked every step of their twisted bond.

At that moment, Ayla realized—

She hadn’t reached the end of her story yet.

“This is my daughter.”

It was the last Thursday of September. The city carried the faint chill of approaching fall, while summer lingered only in memory. News of the death of Kyung-Jun Gyeong’s wife—the former chief prosecutor and head of Kyleum Law Firm—was posted on the prosecutor's office bulletin board like a silent decree.

Rian Sol entered the funeral parlor with his close friend, Chan-Young Bae. He paused just short of the third floor, where the private memorial room overflowed with mourners and flowers. Chan-Young followed, eyes widening.

“Oh my… it’s ridiculous. Anyone walking in would think this is a newly opened club, not a funeral,” Chan-Young muttered.

White chrysanthemums and black-striped ribbons filled the staircases and hallways, transforming the space into a display of wealth and power more than mourning.

As they ascended, Chan-Young whispered, “Rian… even if you’re the ‘grim reaper of Kyleum,’ Kyung-Jun’s influence is untouchable.”

Rian barely nodded, his attention snagged by a corner of the room where a young woman stood. Their eyes met unexpectedly, sharp and fleeting, as if the universe had paused for the moment.

Her dark eyes were calm, indifferent, almost unreadable, yet charged with quiet intelligence. She returned her gaze to the crowd, but Rian could not look away.

“Does Kyung-Jun have only one daughter?” Chan-Young asked.

The resemblance was unmistakable: pale skin, sharp features, black mourning attire—Ayla Kwon stood beside her father, a solitary heiress in a storm of whispers and floral displays.

“She doesn’t show grief,” Rian murmured.

Indeed, at her mother’s funeral, Ayla appeared untouched, distant, a quiet storm hiding beneath calm waters. Rian, accustomed to chaos and strong personalities, found her serene indifference both strange and magnetic.

“G-Pro, let’s go. It’s our turn,” Chan-Young nudged him.

Rian straightened his tie and stepped forward to pay respects. Kyung-Jun Gyeong greeted them warmly, shaking Chan-Young’s shoulder.

“It’s been a while. You came in person?”

“No excuses, Senior. It’s important,” Chan-Young replied politely. “I heard about your sister-in-law’s health… thank you for your efforts.”

Kyung-Jun gestured toward Ayla.

“This is my daughter, Ayla Kwon. Please, greet her. These are my father’s juniors.”

Ayla inclined her head, her words flowing like water—polite, controlled, yet carrying a trace of frost. “Thank you for coming. I appreciate it.” Her voice held no warmth, no hint of vulnerability. Rian felt the chill of her composure, sharp and deliberate.

Chan-Young whispered with a smirk, “Someone’s caught his attention. Look at that—serious feelings brewing.”

Rian ignored him, drawn to Ayla’s presence. Then the door opened. The room collectively inhaled. Yang Da-jeong entered flawlessly. Partner at Kyleum Law, renowned for her sharp mind and audacity, she commanded attention effortlessly. The audacity to appear at the funeral made every eye turn.

Ayla did not flinch. Her icy, precise gaze swept over Yang Da-jeong as if measuring her worth—or lack thereof. The daughter’s silent authority quieted the room more than any presence could.

“Her name is Ayla Kwon,” someone whispered nearby.

Rian repeated it silently: Ayla… Ayla Kwon. Simple, yet formidable, like a frozen lake—beautiful, cold, and untouchable.

Later, at Seolleongtang in Seocho-dong, Chan-Young chattered about trivialities while Rian’s thoughts lingered on the funeral. Conversation drifted from the turning seasons to media, specifically NBS PD Bae Chan-soo, who had requested interviews about the Colvin case—a request Rian had refused.

Then, his phone vibrated. An unfamiliar number. Rian signaled Chan-Young to give him space, and pressed answer.

“Yes, this is Rian Sol,” he said.

A hesitant, low voice replied, careful and uncertain.

“Are you… Rian Sol?”

“Yes. I am.”

A pause, a measured inhale. Then:

“My name is… Ayla Kwon.”

Her voice was calm, deliberate, and commanding. Rian’s pulse quickened. A subtle tension, magnetic and undeniable, passed between them—two forces meeting, testing boundaries, daring each other to cross the line.

Rian straightened in his seat, mind alert, heart thudding. He had no idea what lay ahead, but one thing was clear: Ayla Kwon was no ordinary woman. She was a storm—distant yet mesmerizing—and he was already drawn into it.

And in the quiet hum of the restaurant, Rian Sol knew: this was just the beginning.

The call came out of nowhere.

“Ayla Kwon?”

“Who are you?”

The woman on the other end fell silent. Rian Sol leaned back in his chair, spoon paused over a steaming bowl of seolleongtang, and tried to remember if a name like that had ever crossed his path. Thirty-three years, a life hardened by precision and discipline—why would he know a woman like this?

Across the table, Chan-Young Bae was devouring his meal, oblivious to the tension gripping Rian. The silence stretched, testing his patience, until a calm, low voice finally spoke.

> “This is Ayla Kwon. Daughter of Kyung-Jun Gyeong, CEO of Kyleum Law Firm.”

Rian froze. A flash of memory—black mourning clothes, dark hair, eyes deep as a galaxy, pale as porcelain. Those eyes had carried exhaustion, anger, and something infinitely sharper.

Ayla.

That woman.

---

Later, in a small, cluttered building across from the Seoul Central District Prosecutors’ Office, the scene felt oddly surreal. Cream and yellow walls, chipped paint, debris on the floor—a stark contrast to the woman standing there.

And then she appeared.

Pink hair.

From crown to tip.

Gone was the black mourning attire. Instead, a dusty denim shirt, stained sneakers, pale skin beneath the unusual hue of her hair. Yet the air around her carried the same commanding presence.

“This is Ayla Kwon,” she said, extending her hand.

“……This is Rian Sol,” he replied.

It wasn’t just his hand that moved. His eyes traced every detail: the chopsticks pinning her hair, the stray strands over her pale brows, the dark, alert eyes, the thin lips—dry, precise, unreadable.

“You can take your time,” she said, tilting her chin toward his hand.

Rian flinched, withdrawing immediately.

“I’m sorry. It’s… unexpected.”

She didn’t clarify, didn’t comment on her pink hair. Instead, she warned quietly, “Please sit. Watch your step,” and disappeared briefly into the back. When she returned, it was with a laptop. She placed it on the table, slid a bottle of water toward him, and resumed working.

The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate.

Finally, unable to hold back, Rian asked,

“What would interest me?”

“Wait a moment,” she said, her frown small but commanding—a quiet order to stay still.

So he waited. Click. Click. Click. Her fingers paused, and she finally raised her head, eyes locking with his, steady and unreadable.

“Are you satisfied with the results of the first Colbein trial?”

Rian’s chest tightened. “Colbein?”

“Yes.” Her voice was calm, unhurried. “Unlike the usual approach of the prosecutor, you concluded swiftly. I understand why—speed was necessary to protect evidence. Now, with Kyleum co-defending, the appeal will be brutal.”

Rian’s gaze sharpened.

“And what exactly are you saying?”

“I want to help you with the appeal,” she said simply.

He blinked.

“……Help me?”

“Yes. The Colbein trial,” Ayla stated, clear and precise.

She leaned back, rubbing her neck, faint exhaustion flickering across her pale face. And for the first time, Rian found himself nearly speechless—unprepared for the quiet authority, intelligence, and confidence she radiated.

He forced himself to gather his thoughts.

“How exactly can you help me?”

Ayla studied him, slow and meticulous, as if calculating every outcome.

Then, in a voice so calm it cut through the tension like a blade, she said:

> “How about marrying me?”

The words hung between them, impossible to ignore, sharp as ice.

Rian’s heart skipped, mind racing, awareness snapping into overdrive. This was no ordinary proposal—it was a challenge, a test, and a lure all at once.

And just like that, the slow-burn between them ignited, tension thick enough to slice through the air.