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Min-ji is used to silence.

Living with Ki-won means brushing her teeth beside a man who doesn't speak unless necessary, watching him scroll through reports over dinner, falling asleep to the sound of nothing but his breathing. It used to get under her skin. Now it's background noise. When she wants sounds, he plays one of his vinyl records for her.

But this silence isn't familiar.

This one is hostile. Thick with accusation.

He hasn't said a word since she showed him the knife. Since she gave him the facts—bloody blade, bandaged hand, bruises. He saw everything. He just hasn't moved.

He stands near the table, arms crossed like a lock, mouth set in that flat, furious line he gets when he's trying not to say something he'll mean too much. His eyes cut from her neck to her wrist to her face, like he's trying to make the pieces form an answer he won't hate.

Min-ji waits. Doesn't offer comfort. She lets the tension swell, lets it hover until it feels like something sharp and alive. She's good at waiting him out. Usually he's the one doing it.

Not today.

"Are you forgetting how to talk?" Her voice slices clean through the quiet. Smirking, light, purposely irritating.

His arms stay crossed, his jaw tightening just enough for her to notice before he exhales, slow, restrained. "What the fuck happened?"

She flicks a glance at her hand, hums like it's not a big deal. "Work."

He scoffs, but there's no humor in it. Just raw disbelief. His eyes drag over the bruises again. He doesn't even try to mask it anymore. "Don't test me."

"I'm not." She shrugs. "That's all it was."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

Ki-won's voice drops, slow and lethal. "You were out recruiting. You know what that means. You know the protocol."

"Didn't realize I needed your permission to get sliced."