Judge Choi did not surrender easily.
"Absolutely not," he said sternly in the living room. "I will not remove the bodyguards when you were nearly killed twice."
Dahlia lowered her gaze, playing her role carefully.
"Appa… I'm safer now. I… hired someone."
Judge Choi frowned. "Hired? Without consulting me?"
Dojoon stepped in, backing his noona. "Father, she did hire someone. A specialist. Highly skilled. Works independently. Someone she trusts."
Judge Choi's eyes shifted suspiciously. "And who is this 'specialist'?"
Dahlia swallowed. "He prefers to work unseen. That's how he keeps me safe."
It was vague. Risky. But said with a calm conviction only truth could give.
Dojoon crossed his arms. "I'll personally take responsibility for monitoring her safety."
Judge Choi exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead. "…Fine. No more bodyguards. But Dojoon—she stays under your supervision."
"Yes, sir," Dojoon replied.
He gave Dahlia a subtle nod.
Step one of her plan was successful.
The old gym smelled of dust and forgotten sweat. Sunlight slipped through cracked windows, illuminating floating particles like tiny fireflies.
Coach Insung unlocked the rusted door. "It's been years," he murmured. "Let's see if this old place can breathe again."
Dahlia tied her hair back, determination firm.
"Coach… I'm ready."
Insung looked at her—fragile in appearance, but fire in her eyes.
"Alright," he said. "Warm-up first. No shortcuts."
Her training began: running drills, footwork, stances, blocking forms, holding balance on one foot, core strengthening until her arms shook and legs trembled.
"Again," Insung said.
"Coach… I can't—"
"You can."
He corrected her posture, raised her guard, guided her kicks. Her breaths turned sharp, her limbs burned.
But each repetition hardened her.
Dahlia wasn't training to fight assassins. She was training to stand before the ghost of her past.
Hours later, drenched in sweat, she bowed to Insung.
"Same time tomorrow," he said.
She nodded, hands trembling but heart steady.
After training, Dahlia intentionally pretended her car had trouble. She popped the hood open in the parking area and called Dojoon.
"It's time."
"Confirmed. The three officers are on standby," Dojoon said through the line.
She hung up and began walking toward Judge Choi's residence—a quiet old neighborhood, dim streetlights flickering under the cold wind.
Her heartbeat was unsteady—not from fear, but from the possibility of seeing him again.
Jaemin… please…
At the mouth of a narrow, shadowed alley, she slowed down.
Footsteps.
Three men—Dojoon's undercover officers—emerged, acting drunk and sloppy.
"Hey, pretty lady… walking alone at night?"
She took a shaky breath and forced herself to step backward.
One grabbed her wrist.
"Let go!" Dahlia shouted—the agreed cue.
Right on time.
A blur dropped between her and the assailants.
Silent. Deadly. Swift.
Lee.
His hood. His black mask. His cold precision.
He disarmed the first attacker with a twist, slammed the second into the alley wall, and swept the legs of the third in one motion.
He moved like a phantom pulled by instinct—because someone touched his person.
But Dahlia needed more. She needed his face.
The third man—following her plan—lunged from behind and grabbed Lee's hood, pulling with all his force.
The mask slipped.
Time stopped.
His face—sharp jawline, narrowed eyes, familiar features sharpened by years of pain and training. The face from Dojoon's age-progression photo.
Her breath collapsed inside her.
"Jaemin…" she whispered.
Tears blurred her sight instantly.
She stepped toward him—trembling—wanting to touch him, hold him, confirm he was alive.
But before she could reach him, her knees weakened from shock. She sank slightly, grabbing the hem of his sleeve to steady herself.
He froze—her touch jolting down his arm like electricity.
Their eyes met.
His Dahlia. Fifteen winters apart.
"Jaemin… it's you," she choked on her tears.
The officers, stunned by her reaction, hesitated—giving him time.
Lee swallowed—then slowly took her hand off his sleeve.
His voice, low behind the half-slipped mask: "…I am not the person you think I am."
Her heart broke instantly.
"Don't lie to me," she whispered. "Please—don't."
He pulled his mask fully back on, stepped backward, distancing himself.
"Forget this," he said quietly. "Forget me."
"Jaemin!" she cried louder, reaching out.
He turned. He ran. And the shadow disappeared into the night—leaving Dahlia collapsing onto her knees, the street spinning around her as her tears hit the cold pavement.
Like the sky had shattered above her.
Like her heart had been thrown off that cliff all over again.