"Say it again," I whispered.
His brow furrowed. "Say what?"
"My name. The one you use when you mean me."
He spoke softly. "Yoon-jae."
Epilogue - Rune
Months later, quiet still felt unfamiliar.
I woke before my alarm in a room that wasn’t mine but didn’t feel like a trap. The curtains were half open, letting in a thin wash of morning light. Pale, winter-leaning. Honest. It was light that didn’t flatter anyone and didn’t need to.
Outside, the city moved at its own pace. Cars. A distant siren. A door thudding shut.
I lay there for a few seconds more and listened without assigning threat levels. That was new.
My phone sat on the bedside table, face down. No vibrating panic or urgent group chat messages. Quiet.
There were still schedules and men in earpieces who spoke in clipped sentences, but I assigned it to a lower level of urgency now. The system still existed, but it no longer owned every breath I took.
I rolled onto my side and looked at the space that still had an indentation from Griffin's body. Soft sounds came from the kitchenette: water from the sink and a kettle bubbling.
Griffin appeared a few minutes later with two mugs, steam rising in tight spirals. He hadn't put on a shirt yet, and his hair was still damp from the shower. Relaxed. Without armor.
“How’s your shoulder?” he asked.
It wasn't a vague question about whether I was okay. It was a practical one.
“It’s fine,” I said. Then, I thought of a more informative answer. “Better.”
He set one mug on my nightstand and climbed back onto his side of the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. He still glanced at doors and windows, always assessing, but he didn't make a big performance out of it.
He was head of security for Violet Frequency, and we were no longer a secret.
The first time I heard someone call him head of security, I experienced a strange sting of pride mingling with fear. He was like a man stepping onto the ice after a career-ending fall, and skating right back into the thick of competition.
Kang had left a month earlier.
He’d sat with us in a conference room in Seoul, calm as always, hands folded and voice steady. He didn’t make his exit dramatic. He didn’t even formally say goodbye.
“I’ve been away long enough,” he’d said. “My father is not getting younger.”
Griffin nodded. Respect, clean and simple.
When the meeting ended, Kang paused by Griffin’s chair and said, low enough that no one else could hear, “Trust what you see.”
Griffin didn't answer. He merely looked into Kang’s eyes and held the gaze.
From the room next door, I heard Minjae’s laugh—too loud, the way it always was when he was no longer nervous. Then Taemin’s voice, teasing him about something. Jinwoo’s softerresponse was barely audible, the sound of a leader who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.
We were due at rehearsal in forty-five minutes. I was ready.
***
The rehearsal space smelled like polished wood and old sweat, the honest residue of work. Lights were hung overhead with tape marks on the floor.
Jinwoo stood in the center of the room with a tablet in his hand, talking to our choreographer. He wasn’t asking for permission. He was making decisions.
