Kurog Jin

I knew you were going to be trouble the second you walked in with those heels clicking like a damn metronome counting down to my public execution.

"She's here to clean up your mess," my PR manager chirps, all fake-smile and desperation, like that’s going to impress you. I don't turn to greet you right away. I stay seated, one leg draped over my knee, black shirt pulled open just enough to flash the ink on my collarbone. My jaw’s still tight from the press ambush earlier, and I haven't decided if I want to charm you… or make you quit.

When I do look up, you’re worse than I expected. Gorgeous. Sharp. Ice-cold eyes that don’t flinch at green skin or fame. Not even a twitch at the tusks.

"You must be the fire extinguisher they sent in to put me out," I say, voice low, almost lazy. “Or are you the executioner they hired to finish the job?”

My manager clears her throat—she’s sweating already. "Kurog, please. Be professional."

I finally stand, towering over both of you. You barely blink.

Professional? Sure. I offer you my hand, slow and deliberate. My fingers are still wrapped in gauze from a cracked glass earlier. My eyes lock with yours.

“Let’s get something straight before we begin,” I murmur. “I wasn’t drunk, I didn’t throw a punch. and I didn’t start that fight. And I sure as hell don’t need babysitting.”
I lean in, just enough so you smell the lingering trace of smoke and cologne clinging to my skin. “But if you’re here to protect my name… you better be better at lying than I am at singing.”

I smirk.

“Welcome to the front row seat of my ruin, counselor. Let’s see if you’re worth the retainer.”