Lady Jay

You’ve been training with Jongho for a week now. Every morning, before breakfast, before questions, before fear can creep in, you meet him on the mat. No excuses. No shortcuts. Not that you’ve tried—everything about his demeanor forbids it.

He drills you on form first. How to stand. Where your weight should be. How to keep your knees soft and your guard up.

You’d thought learning to defend yourself would feel empowering.

Mostly, it feels like getting knocked flat on your ass.

Jongho doesn’t sugarcoat things.

“Drop your shoulder.”

“You’re too slow.”

“Block like that again and you’re going to lose a kidney.”

But he never mocks you. Never doubts you. And by the third day, he doesn’t need to repeat himself as much; you’re listening. By the fifth, he makes you wear gloves. By the sixth, he makes you hit back.

On the seventh, he says, “You’re ready for different terrain.”

Which is how you find yourself now—sweaty, sore, and facing a man with a smirk and way too much enthusiasm.

Mingi bounces lightly on his toes, already warm from his own drills. His sleeves are rolled, knuckles taped, and there’s a glint in his eye that says he’s not just looking forward to this—he’s delighted.

“You sure about this?” he asks casually.

You nod, sliding your mouthguard into place. “Don’t go easy on me.”

His grin is full of teeth, sharp and excited.

“Not in my vocabulary, princess.”

Jongho stands off to the side, arms folded like always, but his tone carries weight.

“She needs to know what it’s like when a man doesn’t hold back. Controlled, but real. She’s ready,” he narrows his eyes, ““Try not to break her.”

You glance sharply at your husband’s second.

Mingi gasps—offended. “I never break trainees.”

A beat.

“Usually.”

Another beat.

“…Lately.”

God. You shake your head and square up. Seeing your response, Mingi rolls his neck, then crooks a finger at you—flirtation edged with violence.

“Alright then, sweetheart. Come take a swing.”

Your first few hits land—barely. You’re testing distance, trying to stay fast. The feeling of a fist meeting flesh is already becoming familiar—and this time, you’re not holding back. He grunts at a blow to the stomach, nods once—then fires back.

It’s not a knockout punch—but it’s real. You stumble, breath knocked from your lungs, and he waits. Watches.

You don’t go down.

“Good,” Mingi says. “Get back in.”

You do.

The next fifteen minutes are a blur—strikes, counters, messy footwork and adrenaline. Sweat slicks your skin. Your arms ache. But you don’t stop. Mingi doesn’t mock your stumbles or flinches. He eggs you on instead—

“Come on, hit me.”

“Was that a love tap, sweetheart?”

And when you finally land a clean hit to his ribs, he lets out a breathy laugh and steps back, gesturing for more.

“You’re thinking too much,” he says. “Don’t wait for permission. If I’m in your space, hit me like you mean it.”

You nod, jaw set. Determined.

So this time, when he charges—broad shoulders, long reach, a shout meant to unnerve—you meet him head-on It’s messy. Your stance is wrong. But your elbow connects with his side—and your follow-up hits square in his chest. He grunts. Steps back for real.

You’re both panting.

Mingi wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then breaks into a grin.

“There she is.”

You blink, stunned.

“That was you,” he says. “Not the drills. Not the technique. You decided not to fold.”

Your hands shake—but not from fear.

From adrenaline.

From the sudden, dizzying realization that you didn’t break.

Jongho nods in quiet approval. “That’s what we want. You don’t have to be the strongest. Just the one who refuses to stay down.”

Mingi steps in again—gentler now, more partner than opponent.

“Let’s go again. We’ll clean it up this time. But I want that same fire.”

You square your stance. Breathe deep.

And nod.

“Good,” he says. “Now hit me like someone’s life depends on it.”

The session ends not with a knockout, but a quiet tap of Mingi’s hand against your shoulder.

“Done.” His voice is still light, but no longer teasing.

You pull out your mouthguard, chest still heaving. Sweat runs down your back. Your arms are jelly. You feel… wrecked.

And alive.

He drops to a crouch beside the mat, grabs a towel from the bench, and tosses you one. You barely catch it.

“Not bad, rookie,” he says, wiping the back of his neck. “You’ve got grit. No shame in bad footwork if you’re still standing.”

You huff, breathless. “That was brutal.”

“That was me being nice.” He grins. “You should see me when I’m trying to be scary.”

“I’d rather not,” you mutter, and he laughs.

Jongho steps forward at last, nodding once as he scans you for signs of injury.

“She’s more reactive than she realizes,” he says. “Favors instinct over technique. Overcommits on follow-through.”

“Yeah,” Mingi agrees. “She fights like someone who’s used to getting out of trouble by sprinting for the exit—still hasn’t bought into the idea that she can win the fight.”

You glance between them, towel pressed to your face.

Jongho’s tone stays flat when he addresses you directly. “But you’re learning. And fast.”

Mingi tosses his towel aside, eyes bright. “Honestly? You’ve got good aggression under the panic. A little more control, and you’ll be terrifying.”

You blink. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a forecast,” he says cheerfully. “Stick with Jongho. He’s got a fun way of turning people into weapons.”

“She’s not a weapon,” Jongho says quietly. “She’s a shield who’s learning how to cut back.”

That makes Mingi pause—just for a second. His head tilts, a little smile playing at his lips, like he’s found a strain of music he likes.

Then he gives you a crooked little salute. “Good luck, shield maiden.”

He saunters out, already unwrapping his tape, leaving the space quieter than it’s been all morning.

Jongho looks at you once more, and for a moment—just a flicker—you catch the edge of something softer in his expression.

“Good work,” he says.

A knock at the door causes you both to turn. Seonghwa is waiting, expression polite but a little strained.

“Your husband is requesting you.”

You blink at that, lowering the towel. Requesting? He hasn’t done that before.

“Good timing, Hwa. We just wrapped up,” Jongho says. He hands you a bottle of electrolyte water. “Hydrate. And put ice on your ribs. I recommend checking for bruising.”

You nod and take the water before following Seonghwa from the gym.

Seonghwa says nothing as he leads you through the hallways—his pace steady, steps near silent. You’re still catching your breath. The water bottle is half-drained in your hand, the towel draped around your neck. Your shirt clings damply to your back, and you’re pretty sure your ribs are already starting to bruise.

You’re tempted to ask about the ‘requesting’, but you feel like it’s a question better left for your husband. It’s so…formal. In a way he hasn’t been since you arrived.

Seonghwa stops in front of Yunho’s office and knocks once.

Yunho’s voice is muffled from within: “Come in.”

Seonghwa opens the door, then glances at you. “He’s waiting.”

Formal again. Still, you step inside.

Yunho’s at his desk, sleeves rolled, tablet in hand. He sets it down the moment he sees you—his eyes scanning quickly, pausing on the towel, the sweat, the faint mark blooming on your arm.

“You’re hurt,” he says, already halfway to standing.

You shake your head. “Sore. Not hurt.” You lift the water bottle. “Hydrating. I followed instructions.”

That earns the faintest smile. He comes around the desk. “Good. Jongho doesn’t hand those out lightly.”

He nods toward one of the armchairs across from the desk. You sink into it gratefully, pressing the towel to your neck. You didn’t know your body could produce this amount of sweat until this week.

Yunho angles the other chair toward you and sits, elbows resting on his knees. “How was training?”

You shrug, wincing slightly at the movement. “Brutal. Mingi fights like a wrecking ball wrapped in charm.”

Yunho’s mouth twitches—half amusement, half concern. “And you held your own?”

You pause. “Didn’t fold.”

That earns a real smile this time. “That’s what matters.”

You meet his gaze. He’s watching you closely—not just assessing for injury. There’s something else there. Something weighing on him.

“You… requested me?” you ask carefully.

He sighs, soft and low. “I told Seonghwa to bring you when training was done. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Ah. So it was just a turn of phrase. That tracks, given Seonghwa’s demeanor.

Yunho continues after a beat.

“There was a delivery.”

You sit up straighter. “A delivery?”

Yunho rises, crosses to a table near the window, and retrieves the vase there. When he turns, you see it.

A bouquet.

Elegant, understated, and absurdly expensive. Cream roses, gold-tipped leaves, black calla lilies. No card.

But there doesn’t need to be one.

He places it gently on the desk so you can see it clearly.

“I thought you should see it first,” he says quietly. “Before we decide what to do with it.”

You stare, something swooping cold and sudden in your gut.

“What…what does it mean? In…mafia-speak?”

His lips twitch just slightly at your strained attempt at levity.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that,” Yunho says, though his tone is gentle.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I can't give you a clear answer. The language isn’t consistent,” he replies. “It changes depending on who’s speaking. Context, history, subtext. Sometimes a gift is a threat. Sometimes it’s a message. Sometimes it’s just meant to remind you that someone’s watching.”

You glance at the bouquet again. It really is beautiful.

“...So which one is this?”

Yunho’s gaze darkens a shade. “That’s the problem. From anyone else, I’d say it’s an insult. Sending flowers to another man’s wife—uninvited—is a provocation. But from him…” He trails off, jaw working.

“From Park Jimin,” you say quietly.

He nods.

You wrap the towel tighter around your neck. “He left something at Nana’s funeral.”

“So you said.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“Do I respond?” you ask.

Yunho shakes his head. “No. Not yet. We don’t acknowledge it until we know why it was sent.”

You nod slowly, then gesture to the bouquet. “So what do we do with it?”

He considers.

Then: “We have Yeosang sweep it. Make sure it’s clean. And then we burn it.”

You blink. “Burn it?”

“It’s symbolic,” he says. “And personal. We don’t return fire unless there’s a shot. But we don’t keep what doesn’t belong to us. Especially not when it’s from him.”

Your hand tightens around the towel again, the ache in your muscles suddenly more present. This feels like something out of a nightmare. Flowers aren’t just innocuous ways of expressing appreciation. They’re codes to be unraveled. Potential threats to be assessed.

Yunho watches you for a moment longer. “You’re doing well,” he says softly. “But it’s okay to feel shaken.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, “I’m not as shaken as I thought. A little pissed, actually.”

“Why’s that?”

““Because he keeps meddling. He was at Nana’s funeral—with my family,” you shudder, “and we didn’t even know. And now this…”

Yunho hums, returning to you. He sinks down onto one knee, sliding his hand into yours and looking up at you.

“Meddling is what he does. He’s an expert at being infuriating—especially when it comes to me. This was as much a jab at me as anything. Practically his favorite pastime.” he squeezes your hand, “I meant what I said. If anyone lays a hand on you, I’ll be the one who fires the final shot. Even if it’s him.”

You meet his eyes, letting yourself be soothed by the quiet resolve there.

“Can you take him in a fight?”

He tips his head, considering.

“Hm… Out of all the syndicate heads, he’s probably the only one who can go toe-to-toe with me. We’ve fought before—it usually ends in a draw. His technique’s different, but he knows what he’s doing.”

Something in his expression turns a little smug, and he squeezes your hand again.

“But I have something he doesn’t have. Something that makes me more dangerous.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

You stare at him, stunned—heat pooling low in your chest, the bruise of adrenaline replaced by something softer. And for a moment, you forget you’re bruised, tired, and angry. Because you believe him.

Then you notice the twitch of his mouth—too amused, too pleased.

“Are you flirting with me?”

A full smile breaks across his face at that, accompanied by a low chuckle.

“Maybe a little.”

You huff, only to grimace when it pulls at your ribs. He immediately sobers, eyes sweeping you over again.

“Where does it hurt?”

You motion to your right side.

“My ribs. Jongho said they might be bruised.”

Yunho nods once, gently releasing your hand and reaching for the hem of your shirt.

“May I?”

You blink, caught off guard

“Yeah. Um…you know what to look for? Or are you still flirting?”

His smile is dry.

“Mingi’s been my second since we were fifteen. And he always aims for the ribs. Has since high school. I think it’s personal.”

He lifts the fabric slowly, carefully—not like someone eager, but like someone accustomed to handling pain.

The bruise is already blooming. Deep maroon at the center, fading to mottled purple and blue along the edges. His breath catches, just for a second.

“That bad?” you ask, trying for lightness.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just brushes his fingers gently around—not over—the bruise. The warmth of his hand contrasts sharply with the throb beneath your skin. It’s enough of a relief that you almost ask him to lay his palm over it.

“No break,” he murmurs. “But it’ll hurt like hell for a few days.”

You nod, jaw tight. “I noticed.”

He glances up at you then, expression unreadable. “You didn’t tap out.”

“Didn’t want to.”

That earns you something quieter than a smile. Something proud.

His thumb drifts to your waist—still careful, still respectful—and lingers there.

“You’re really doing this,” he says softly. “Learning how to hold your ground.”

You meet his eyes. “You said you’d help me stand beside you. I’m just… taking you up on it.”

A pause. The air thickens.

“I meant it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll give you everything you need to do that.”

His hand drops. Your shirt falls back into place.

“C’mon,” he says gently, standing and offering you his hand again. “Let’s go find Yeosang. We have a bouquet to burn.”

The next morning, Jongho explains that you’ll be beginning firearms training. He leads you down to an indoor firing range, located on the ground level. Yeosang is already present.

The room smells like oil, cordite, and cold metal. It’s cleaner than you expected. Brushed steel tables, neat weapon racks, not a single shell casing on the floor. Yeosang stands like a shadow near the firing line, checking over a pistol with meticulous care.

Yunho is surprisingly present as well, surveying a rifle on one of the racks. You tilt your head questioningly when he meets your gaze. He only gives you a brief smile and tilts his head for you to keep following Jongho.

Jongho fits you with safety gear, draping the ear protection around your neck before moving to a safe vantage point.

“You’ve handled a gun before?” Yeosang asks without looking at you.

You hesitate. “A friend once let me shoot beer cans off a fence in college.”

He glances up. Blinks. Then returns to loading the magazine. “Cute.”

He finishes and holds the weapon out grip-first. “Today we’re past fences. Live rounds only.”

You step forward, take it carefully.

Yeosang doesn’t explain safety procedures—because Jongho already drilled them into you. He just nods once to the lane.

A mannequin waits at the far end, center-mass target outlined in faint red chalk.

“You aim,” Yeosang says, calm and impassive, “You breathe. You fire.”

You steel your nerves. Raise the gun.

First shot—too high.

Second—closer.

Third—center mass.

The dummy jerks slightly. Then the red explodes.

It spurts in a pulsing arc from a hidden bladder in the chest cavity, splattering the target and dripping to the floor like blood. A sharp splash smacks wetly into the wall behind it when the bullet penetrates fully through the hollow interior.

You stumble back, mouth open in shock, nearly dropping the gun.

“What—”

Your stomach lurches. You turn and barely make it to the bin tucked near the wall before vomiting.

Yeosang waits. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Jongho doesn’t so much as shift his stance.

And across the room, Yunho watches silently, arms crossed. His face is unreadable. But he doesn’t come to you.

Not yet.

You brace your palms on the edge of the table, breathing hard. The smell lingers—acrid, metallic, disgustingly organic. It’s fake, you tell yourself. A training tool. It’s not real.

You force yourself upright. Turn back to the lane. The mannequin still drips, grotesque in its realism.

“I thought it was just a dummy,” you say hoarsely.

Yeosang nods. “That’s the point.”

You meet his eyes. His expression doesn’t change. But you think—maybe— you’ve passed a test you weren’t warned about.

You reload the weapon yourself. Step back into position.

“Again,” you say.

Yeosang lifts a brow.

You level the gun.

She walks in with an air of curiosity and trepidation, utterly unaware of what the next phase of training will bring. Yunho doesn’t move from the rifle rack. Just watches as Jongho hands her off to Yeosang, lets the briefing begin.

She listens carefully—nervous, yes, but not trembling. Not fragile. He lets his gaze drift to her hands. No shake there either. Just tension.

When Yeosang says “Live rounds only,” something flickers in her eyes.

Fear, maybe. Or understanding.

She takes the gun anyway.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift. Just crosses his arms and settles into the role that’s been harder to play lately: observer. Not husband. Not protector. Just the line between watching and interfering.

The first shot goes wide. The second, closer. The third—

The spray catches even him off guard, if only slightly. Yeosang added a bladder—cow’s blood. He hadn’t told him.

She stumbles back. Chokes.

And then she’s at the bin, retching.

Yunho doesn’t move.

Yeosang meets his eyes across the space. Shakes his head—once, subtle.

Let her.

So he does.

It hurts more than it should, watching her bend over that bin while no one steps in. His fingers itch at his sides, like his body is preparing for a fight that won’t come. But this is the line she asked to walk. This is the cost of stepping into the life he lives.

He knows why Yeosang did it. Better to get the initial shock response out now rather than during a situation where it might cost her. It isn’t the same as a live body, no. But it’s close enough in form to be helpful.

She stands up, face blotchy—shock and burst vessels painting her exhaustion. For a moment, she leans heavily on the table, breathing.

Then she turns back to the lane.

He can see the horror still clinging to her—knows exactly how long that blood smell will stay lodged in her sinuses. But she reloads. She lifts the weapon.

Again, she says.

Something quiet and fierce coils in his chest. Not pride. Not exactly.

Reverence, maybe.

She meets Yeosang’s stare like she belongs here. And when she lifts the gun again, she doesn’t hesitate.

Yunho exhales slowly.

She didn’t break.

And she didn’t look for him.

The range is silent now, save for the soft clink of metal and the low hum of the overhead lights.

Yeosang is the first to speak. He steps forward, not unkind, just clinical.

“You corrected faster than most. Your grip needs work, but your follow-through was clean. You didn’t flinch after the first recoil.”

You nod, still trying to calm your breath. Your hands are steadier now. The nausea has passed.

“You recovered,” Jongho adds from behind you, folding his arms. “Took the hit, reset, kept going. That matters more than how you shot.”

You glance at him. “Even though I—threw up?”

He shrugs. “Better to react now than when it’s real. That was the point.”

“Shock is part of the training,” Yeosang says simply. “Pain comes later. You did fine.”

You don’t realize Yunho’s moved until he’s at your side, offering a bottle of water. You take it without thinking. The cap’s already cracked open.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak right away.

When he does, it’s quiet. “That was a hard test. You passed it.”

You blink up at him. “Because I shot straight?”

“Because you didn’t walk away.”

There’s a beat of silence—one shared between the three men who’ve known this life longer than you’ve known how to hold a gun.

Then Yeosang glances at Jongho, who nods slightly. As if something’s been confirmed.

Yeosang wipes his hands on a cloth, turning to leave with a brief, “We’ll recalibrate your sights tomorrow.”

Jongho follows, pausing at the doorway. “You’re not where you need to be yet,” he says, voice neutral. “But you’re on the right path. Keep walking it.”

They both exit, leaving you alone with Yunho once more.

He still hasn’t reached for you. Still waiting.

You lean against the edge of the table, arms heavy, skin still clammy beneath the gear. Your fingers flex around the water bottle. You’re drained—physically, emotionally—but steady.

Yunho doesn’t speak right away. Just watches you with that same unreadable expression he wore during the test.

Then, quietly, he offers his hand.

No words. Just the gesture.

You don’t hesitate.

Your palm slides into his, fingers curling automatically. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t lead—just lets the connection settle. Like an answer to a question neither of you had to ask.

You look up at him. “So… what’s next?”

His lips tug faintly—something between a smile and a sigh.

“A long soak,” he says. “For you.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

Yunho nods, guiding you toward the hallway with your fingers still laced in his. “You’ve earned it.”

There’s something in his voice—soft but certain. The way he walks a little slower than usual, like giving your body time to catch up. Like he remembers what it’s like to walk off a battlefield without fanfare.

“I remember my first real training session,” he says eventually. “They pushed me until I couldn’t stand. Told me not to show pain, not to slow down. Said it would make me stronger.”

You glance over, surprised by the bitterness in his tone.

“Did it?” you ask softly.

He exhales, gaze straight ahead. “It made me colder. That’s not the same.”

Silence follows. But his hand tightens gently around yours.

“I don’t want that for you,” he adds. “You’ll learn everything you need to survive. But you won’t have to do it with broken ribs and a mouthful of blood.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m not here to break you,” he says, looking down at you. “I’m here to help you build.”

The words land somewhere deep. Not as comfort. Not even as a promise.

As truth.

You nod once. Let it settle between you like the warmth of his hand in yours.

And for the first time in days, the ache in your chest eases before the bruises do.