Julian walked slowly into the hospital suite, his gaze landing on Mia's back. She was a portrait of quiet, steadfast guarding.

Every time he saw this girl, or listened to the refined cadence of her speech, Julian was reminded of the old quarters of London—ivy-covered walls at twilight, rain falling over the Thames, Victorian streetlights glowing through a thick fog. She possessed the peace and meticulous detail of a time long since passed.

Wherever she stood, even in a world defined by localized war and chaos, it felt as though flowers bloomed along the path of her return. Within her was a sanctuary of peach blossoms and flowing water—a sky so clear that the blades of the Syndicate could never reach it.

Julian watched her, thinking of their shared history at Cambridge. That resonance created a reserve of pity and tenderness for her in his heart. Even now, though she had committed a grave error and wounded Damien—unwittingly dragging Julian into the crossfire—he couldn't bring himself to reproach her.

Julian stepped forward, raising his left hand to rest on her shoulder, intending to offer some form of comfort.

Sensing someone near, Mia looked up. When her eyes met Julian's, a flash of panic crossed her features. It was a panic born of absolute guilt; her single comparison had not only broken Damien's control but had deeply insulted the reality of Julian's "clean" life.

One cannot simply compare two men; to do so carelessly is to ensure both are left in ruins. It was a simple truth she had known since childhood, yet she had still failed to hold her tongue.

Seeing her instinctive unease, Julian's hand froze mid-air.

Internally, Julian felt a flicker of collapse. He had always lived a life of integrity, keeping himself far from the rot of the underworld. He had tried to distance himself from Damien's volatility, knowing his brother was a man who lacked a ceiling or a floor when he lost his grip. But looking at the silent, injured Damien on the bed—seeing the Sovereign's arrogance replaced by this terminal stillness—Julian was overcome by a crushing sense of debt and sorrow.

He withdrew his hand with a gentleman's grace, masking his own turbulence with a composed facade.

The tension in the room was so bizarre that the only outsider present finally decided to intervene.

Alistair cleared his throat and stepped forward, patting Mia's shoulder. "It's three in the morning, Mia. You haven't eaten or rested in twenty-four hours. Let's not make this any longer," the doctor said, his tone professionally firm yet gentle. "Come, let me take you to get something to eat. You aren't strong enough to endure this."

"I don't want to leave," Mia whispered, her fingers tightening around Damien's hand. "I don't want to go anywhere."

"I promise to bring you back soon," Alistair insisted. He lowered his voice, leaning in. "Besides, you need to let Julian have a moment alone with him. His heart is as heavy as yours..."

That sentence hit its mark. Mia wavered.

Julian looked at her, his voice flat. "Mia, please." He turned his eyes back to the man on the bed, his expression complex. "I wanna stay with him for a while..."

Mia, always attuned to the unspoken needs of others, understood the weight of the request. Slowly, she released Damien's hand and followed Alistair out of the suite.

The room fell into a profound silence.

Julian sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on Damien's silhouette. In this private space, it was only the two of them. Julian studied his brother's face—the sharp cheekbones, the elegant mouth—and thought that the rumors were true: the man was devastatingly beautiful.

And impossibly stubborn.

As Julian watched him, the decades of their shared blood and shared burden surfaced like a cinematic montage. He realized then that their bond was a terminal obsession that time could never erode.

Oh, brother. You have become a shadow that covers my eyes. Even when I leave the Syndicate, even when I leave you, I still see you lurking in every corner of my world.

"...Are you serious?" Julian's voice was a low, quiet rasp in the dark. "It's one thing to refuse to let others go, but you won't even let yourself go? Do you never consider the consequences of your actions?..."

Julian sat in the silence, keeping watch.

"Let me tell you a story," Julian whispered, his tone turning surprisingly tender. "...You know Kitten's personality, right? Fearless. The more dangerous a situation is, the more interested she becomes. She'd charge into heaven or hell without blinking. Since I married her, no amount of lying, coaxing, or scolding has worked. Sometimes she makes me so angry I actually want to hit her, but..."

Julian smiled faintly, looking down at his hands. "But once, she cried. ...Can you imagine it? The uninhibited Kitten, who has spent years causing trouble like a little monster, actually cried in front of me and Alistair. ...Do you know why?"

"...She was terrified. More specifically, she was terrified of the Lancaster house. She saw the wound on my arm from an assassination attempt. That was her first time witnessing the reality of our world, and she couldn't handle it. I held her all night; the moment I let go, she would wake up screaming."

Julian looked at Damien, his devotion bleeding through his words. "See? Even a girl like Kitten can't endure the weight of this family. How can you expect Mia to?"

His eyes grew misty in the dim light. "In that moment, she was terrified by your violence. She spoke without thinking. She didn't mean those words..."

"How could you take a stray comment like that to heart?" Julian reached out, his hand trembling as he touched Damien's pale cheek. His expression was one of pure agony. "If you take those words seriously... how am I supposed to face you ever again?..."

Mia followed Alistair down the hallway, her body feeling leaden and drained, as if she had just survived a terminal illness. Her world was in shambles.

The corridor was lined with two rows of Lancaster enforcers, their movements and expressions perfectly synchronized—a wall of black suits and suffocating pressure. As she passed Gideon at the end of the hall, Mia offered a humble, pained apology.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

"Don't be," Gideon replied, his tone icy. He didn't even look at her. "You belong to Damien. You don't need to be polite to me."

Mia's face went translucent with shame. For someone as thin-skinned as her, to be rebuked publicly was like a physical blow. She lowered her head, her hands twisting together, her complexion ashen.

Gideon turned his back, done with the conversation.

Alistair stepped forward and gave Gideon's forehead a sharp tap. "What is wrong with you? Bullying a girl?"

Gideon's rage flared for a split second. He spun around, his voice a jagged roar. "Do you have any idea?! Damien has never—!" ...never been wounded...

Alistair cut him off with a lethal glare. Gideon went silent. He could ignore Mia, but he couldn't ignore the doctor. With a frustrated huff, Gideon turned and stalked away.

Alistair patted Mia's shoulder, leading her toward the exit. "Ignore Gideon. He's been with Damien since they were children. His entire worldview has been twisted by Damien's brand of madness. Come on, let's go..."

They walked down to the private garden behind the hospital.

Alistair looked up at the soft light glowing from the eighth-floor suite. He let out a low, contemplative laugh. "Julian must be under immense psychological pressure tonight..."

Mia looked up, confused. "Why?"

"Heh," Alistair's smile turned playful. "If I tell you, you'll only feel more guilty about what you said. Do you still want to know?"

She nodded. She had already committed the sin; she wasn't afraid of the penance.

Alistair's gaze turned deep and complex. "Mia..." he said quietly. "Have you ever considered one question?"

"...What?"

"Julian comes from a background this complex. He once controlled the entire financial engine of the Lancaster Syndicate, yet he never held the actual power—the violence. In other words, he had no way to defend himself. Do you really believe it's possible for a man like that to exit the underworld safely and completely?"

"..."

Alistair provided the cold, hard fact. "Julian never kills and never bleeds. He was able to walk away and live a 'clean' life only because there was one person standing behind him, blocking every bullet meant for him..."

Mia froze, the realization striking her with the force of a monolith.

The night wind was cool. Under the moonlight, the shadows of the flowering trees were lonely and sharp.

She suddenly remembered the night of the fireworks—Damien's velvet whisper: I need you.

He truly did need her. Not as a trophy, but as the only person who could look at the blood on his hands and not see a monster.

She remembered the late hours of that night, the heat of his body against hers in the bed, his long fingers tracing the line of her spine. She remembered the refined, carnal expression on his face as he possessed her, his voice a ragged, aching rasp: "You're so thin..." and then his kiss—burning like a branding iron.

Damien Lancaster: a man of seductive, world-tilting devotion. He had set the terminal keynote of her heart, and she would never be free of it.