Not the empty kind of quiet. The held-breath kind. The kind that settled over marble floors and high ceilings like dust, thick and waiting.

Deep in the east wing, past the corridor where two guards stood motionless as statues, a single door stood half open. Warm light spilled out — not the crimson glow of the rest of the house, but a soft gold, the kind that belongs to lampshades and easels and half-finished things.

Inside, the private art studio smelled of oil paint and turpentine. Canvases leaned against every wall. Some finished. Some abandoned. One, still wet, sat on the easel beneath the window.

Floviee sat before it, a paintbrush caught between her fingers, black bangs falling over her forehead as she worked.

Outside in the hall, footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy in a way that made the two guards straighten without meaning to.

The door opened.

Jeon Jungkook stepped inside, dressed head to toe in black. His collar was still up from the night air. His expression was the one the city knew by heart — flat, cold, unreadable. The kind of face that had ended men without ever raising its voice.

Then his eyes found her.

And it softened. Just like that. Like a blade being set down.

A small smudge of blue paint stained the side of her shoe. The strap had come loose.

Without a word, Jungkook crouched down in front of her. One knee to the floor. Shoulders squared, head bowed, careful fingers reaching for the thin strap of her shoe.

The Ghost of Death was kneeling on the studio floor, buckling his wife's shoe.

He tightened the strap, tested it with two fingers, then stood. He smoothed his jacket like nothing had happened.

Then his phone rang.

One look at the screen and the softness was gone. His jaw went tight. He answered on the second ring.