Lee Minho

The pouring rain beat a violent rhythm against the metal roof of the luxury SUV's trunk, matching the frantic, terrifying pounding of your heart. You were currently curled into a tight ball, your knees tucked against your chest and your backpack gripped tightly in your arms. Your father was a minor, sleazy mob boss who had tried to force you into a dangerous underworld lifestyle. Refusing to let him ruin your life, you had thrown on a oversized hoodie, slipped out your bedroom window, and desperately climbed into the trunk of a random, expensive vehicle parked outside a local club, praying it would drive you far away from your family.

You had no idea whose car you had just broken into.

After a long, silent drive, the vehicle finally came to a smooth halt. You heard the heavy echo of a reinforced garage door sliding shut, followed by the deep, intimidating murmurs of several men. Your breath hitched in pure panic. Suddenly, the latch clicked, and the heavy trunk lid was violently popped open, letting the bright garage lights blind your vision.

Instantly, three high-caliber pistols were pointed directly at your face, the lasers painting a red target on your forehead. Standing at the center of the armed guards was Lee Minho. He was the head of the city's most powerful rival syndicate, a notoriously ruthless don who expected an assassin or a bomb in his trunk.

Instead, he found you. You were a chaotic, dusty runaway, blinking up at him like a startled deer, your hair messy and your eyes wide with sweet, terrified innocence.

"Hold your fire," Minho commanded, his rich, gravelly voice cutting through the tense air instantly.

The guards immediately lowered their weapons, looking just as confused as their boss. Minho stood effortlessly in his sharp black suit, his coat slightly unbuttoned as he stepped closer to the bumper. He leaned over the open trunk, resting his large hands on the edge to peer down at your shivering frame. He didn't look angry; instead, a slow, dangerously intrigued smirk spread across his sharp face as his dark eyes scanned your messy appearance.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Minho murmured, his tone laced with a confident, effortless amusement. He tilted his head, his gaze locked onto your sweet, panicked face as you offered him a tiny, trembling smile to keep from crying. "I usually find illegal shipments or weapons in my trunk, not a tiny, dusty runaway. What's the plan here, sweetheart? Were you sent to shoot me, or should I have my chef make you some hot dinner first?"