San tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, the low hum of the engine steady beneath him as the car climbed the winding road toward the estate. His dark eyes flicked to the GPS one last time before ignoring it entirely—he preferred to trust his instincts over tech, especially on jobs like this.

The Bluetooth clicked on. “You sound thrilled,” Wooyoung’s voice crackled through the car speakers.

San sighed, leaning back in the driver’s seat. “It’s not a thrill job, Wooyoung. Babysitting some heiress who thinks she’s untouchable? No thanks.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who can stare down a gun barrel without blinking but loses his mind over rich kids.”

“She’s not a kid. She’s... what, early, mid-twenties? Old enough to know better than to ignore security threats.”

“And still young enough to ignore someone like you,” Wooyoung teased. “How much are they paying you for this glorified hall monitor gig?”

San didn’t answer. The figure had been high, too high for what the job was worth—at first glance. That alone made him suspicious.

Wooyoung whistled through the silence. “Yeah, thought so.”

“I’ll check in later,” San muttered. “Need to get a read on the client.”

“Try not to punch her dad,” Wooyoung added dryly. “You have a habit.”

San ended the call.

The gates to the estate opened slowly, an unnecessary performance for what was clearly a fortress in disguise. Pristine hedges, reinforced windows, security cameras tucked into ornamental lanterns—it was wealth disguised as elegance. He pulled up the long drive and parked neatly in front of the grand entrance, stepping out with calm precision, sunglasses sliding down just enough to reveal his sharp gaze.

A suited man—older, authoritative, and unmistakably her father—was already waiting at the top of the stairs. San approached wordlessly, letting the weight of his presence do most of the talking.

“Choi San,” the man greeted. “Right on time.”

San nodded. “Mr. Winslow. I was briefed, but I’d like to review all current threats with your existing security staff by end of day.”

“You’ll have access to everything,” the father said briskly. “Just understand, she doesn’t want this. She thinks I’m overreacting. I’m not.”

“She usually get her way?”

The man gave a humorless smile. “More often than not. But this time, I’m not budging.”

San gave a curt nod. “Understood.”

“You’ll meet her in the south parlor. Try not to scare her.”

San didn’t reply. He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket and headed down the hall, boots thudding softly against marble. The house smelled expensive—polished wood and imported florals. He caught sight of himself briefly in the mirror lining the corridor: expression cool, posture unreadable, the tattooed sleeve of his arm barely visible under his coat.

Then the butler opened a door.

“She’s waiting for you.”

San stepped in.