12. Monroe
If you told me that I would be living under the same roof as the man who marked me and then tried to kill me, I would’ve looked at you like you were crazy.
Because that’s exactly how it sounds.
It. Is. Insane .
But it’s the truth—after Jin destroys my apartment and uses his blade to draw my blood, he whisks me away in his car. We drive for almost an hour until we reach a sleepy fishing village in Gijang-gun, on the outskirts of Busan.
The further we get from the city, the darker it becomes. Buildings shrink in size and number, the roads empty, and the streetlights are replaced by uneven patches of moonlight slipping through tree branches.
The shops we pass are shuttered, their metal grates drawn and locked. A lone convenience store glows on a street corner, but even that light flickers with uncertainty. It’s the kind of neighborhood that shuts down after dark and doesn’t stir until morning.
For a violent leader in a big-time mafia syndicate like the Baekho Pa, I would’ve never imagined this is where Jin would choose to live. I’d assume he’d want to be in the middle of the action, right in the heart of Busan.
But then I cast a sideways glance at him and wonder if I’ve assumed wrong.
Jin seems like the strong, silent, stoic type. He’s all business and no fun.
Someone like him may be deep in the urban parts of Busan for work, but he would probably want to be far removed during his leisure time. He probably values solitude.
We pull into a sloped driveway behind a low-rise building that’s tucked between a fish market and another, older apartment building.
From the front, the place looks like it used to be mint green but was left out in the sun too long, the coat of paint faded and washed away.
The balconies are narrow and used by most residents to air dry their laundry.
Only a handful of the windows are lit up from within, once again telling me that this is a village that rises early but quiets in the dark.
Jin guides his Genesis G80 Sport down into an underground garage, the engine humming as the concrete structure swallows us whole. He kills the engine and steps out without a word.
You’d think we’d already discussed our plans by the way he moves with such certainty.
But I’m in the dark as he walks to the passenger side of the car and opens my door. It’s a gesture that’s not chivalrous, but more so done out of distrust. He obviously expects me to bolt the first chance I get.
His hand clamps shut on my elbow and he steers me toward the caged elevator in the back corner. We ride it in tense silence, only the clanking metal and groaning gears filling the space between us.
We reach the top floor—the fifth and final level—where Jin unlocks a heavy steel door and ushers me into his apartment.
It’s… bare, to put it politely.
The floors are old vinyl, faded and yellowed at the edges.
The walls are entirely made up of exposed slabs of concrete, not a single thing hung up for decoration.
There’s a tiny kitchenette to the right with no appliances except an old school coffee pot that looks older than both of us.
Something tells me if I opened the kitchen cabinets, I’d find nothing inside.
Maybe just one plate, one bowl, one glass, one of everything.
A wooden shelf lines the wall under the window, stacked with books in both English and Hangugeo.
There’s no artwork, no photos, no personal touch anywhere.
Just a standing fan, a futon couch, and a girthy analog TV that looks about as old as the coffee pot.
His apartment carries faint traces of soap, like it’s the only scent Jin approves of.
I linger near the entryway, the rubber mat smooth under my feet. The only thing that grounds me. The weight of the situation presses down on me all at once. My thoughts feel scrambled, so many to sort through I don’t know where to start.
Jin says nothing as he unzips his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of a barstool. He crosses the room to an AC unit mounted by the window and switches it on with a soft hum. For the first time since we left my place, he turns around and looks me in the eye.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says coolly. “So you might as well make yourself comfortable.”
I snap out of my stupor and take an uncertain step back. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I already told you. You’re dead.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, brows knitting. “Did you send that man to kill me? Why are you doing any of this?”
He doesn’t bother to respond, walking out of the living room. I rush after him, dogging his footsteps down the short hallway into his bedroom that’s cramped and small. It’s as barren as the rest of the apartment, with only a bed, a wardrobe and bedside table.
He drags open a drawer and pulls out a folded blanket, a set of clean sheets, and a bath towel, pushing the items into my arms.
His chin juts at the closed door to our left. “That’s the bathroom. If you want to shower, go ahead.”
I glance down at the towel, still stunned.
What the hell is going on?! This can’t be real!
“You’re small enough to fit on the futon in the living room. Get used to it. It will be where you’re sleeping for a while.”
“Wait… this can’t… you can’t be serious?
” I stammer, and when he says nothing, I explode.
Tossing the armful of linens aside, where they land on his bed, I let out every thought in my head.
“You can’t think you’re going to keep me here?
Like some… some captive? Are you crazy? Wait, actually…
I already know the answer to that! But you can’t do this! ”
“The alternative is to kill you. Which option do you want? Choose now, and I will respond accordingly.”
I swallow at the thinly veiled threat, cotton filling my throat.
I’m peering up into the face of the man who marked me. He’s nearly ended my life twice now, but then he changed his mind.
He spared me.
And then he’s kissed me. Twice now, so passionately I’m still dazed over an hour later.
There’s something brewing between us that’s intense and complicated. I don’t understand any of it, but it seems neither does Jin.
It seems he’s been thrown off as much as I have. He never planned to spare me; he definitely never planned to kiss me.
Yet he couldn’t help himself. Does this mean it’s possible he’ll someday set me free?
He’s obviously given some kind of lifeline by bringing me here.
I stand opposite him and feel the heat rolling off him. I’m ensconced by the quiet power and dominant energy he exudes, left to admit what I’ve already known.
Jin is undeniably attractive and lethally irresistible.
His dark, almond-shaped eyes drill into me, the rest of his chiseled bone structure distracting. His permanently windswept jet-black hair frames his face, and the muscle in his jaw is taut and clenched.
I take in the dozens of tattoos that cover his arms, his hands, his neck. All so unique, vivid and vicious, just like Jin himself. Things like tigers, fiery flames, sacred temples, and other Korean symbols.
My heart flutters so fast in my chest that I question if he can hear it. If he can pick up on how my body responds to his, heat flooding through me. Even the flush that warms my cheeks. I’m damn near blushing .
“Okay… fine,” I murmur finally. “I guess I’ll take my shower.”
I rush for the door he said was the bathroom and quickly snap it shut. The breath I’ve been holding in puffs out of me, the relief that I’ve escaped Jin’s smoldering hot orbit is instant.
…at least for now.
Over the next few days, Jin lays out his rules.
The first—and most important—is that I’m not allowed to leave his apartment under any circumstances. Not to get fresh air. Not to hover by the stairwell in the hall. Not even to step out onto the balcony in his apartment.
“You’re dead,” he reminds. “Dead women don’t show their faces in public.”
His other rules follow quickly. No smart devices. No laptops. No contacting the outside world in any way, shape, or form.
The third rule is the grimmest of all. If I try to escape, he’ll kill me. That one, he says with no hesitation, his tone as hard and severe as granite.
He provides me with a few pieces of clothing. All fitted for him. Oversized for me. Shirts and hoodies that fall to my thighs and drawstring pants that slide right off my hips. Everything of his swamps me.
I walk around the apartment looking like I’m playing dress-up with a gangster’s laundry.
On the first day, I notice he barely leaves the apartment.
He doesn’t trust me. He’s always within earshot, sitting with a book or fiddling with his phone by the window.
With how small the place is, I’m pretty sure I drive him halfway to madness just by existing.
Or rather, by asking so many damn questions.
“Where did you get that scar on your eyebrow?”
“Have you always lived all the way out in Gijang-gun?”
“What happens if someone finds out I’m here?”
“How many tattoos do you have? Have you ever counted?”
Eventually, he spins around from the kitchen counter and pins me with a cold, forbidding stare. “New rule. Three questions a day maximum. Make them count.”
He’s dead-ass serious.
When he finally does leave later that afternoon, he reveals a cuff and chain tethered to the bottom bar of the radiator. The chain is long enough to allow me mobility around the living room and the kitchenette, but not the rest of the apartment.
I watch as he snaps the metal cuff around my right ankle and shoves the key into his jacket pocket.
“Are you seriously chaining me while you’re gone?”
“How else will I keep you here?” he asks. “Remember rule three. You run. You die.”
I yank my foot, the chain clanging as it sways. “But what happens if I have to pee?”
He shrugs. “Then make sure you use the toilet before I leave. Or piss in a bottle. Here’s one. Your call.” He grabs the water bottle that’s resting on the edge of an end table and hands it over to me like I should be grateful.