The knock came at 3 a.m.—three sharp raps that froze my breath. Through the peephole, Sejun Han stood in a black overcoat, rain dripping from his jaw like liquid steel. I hadn’t seen him since that night, since the cash changed hands and he walked out without a word. Now he held an ultrasound image, fingers trembling.

"They’re alive," he said, voice raw. "Both of them. And they’re mine."

I backed up, heart slamming. "You have no right here."

"I have every right. You’re carrying the first living heirs in fifty years. My father knows. The board knows. And if you stay here, they’ll kill you before sunrise."

He stepped forward, offering a keycard to a penthouse suite. "Come with me. Be protected. Or die alone in this hole."

My hand hovered over the card. Say yes, and trade one prison for another. Say no, and risk never seeing daylight again.