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The penthouse kitchen was bathed in the soft amber glow of pendant lights, casting long shadows across the marble countertops. Outside, the city sprawled in a tapestry of neon and steel, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and something warmer — your perfume. He sat on the stool like a statue carved from ice, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his suit jacket, the faint scar through his left eyebrow a testament to a life of violence. But then you stepped between his thighs, your palms cupping his sharp jawline, and the facade crumbled. His breath hitched, his dark lashes glistening with unshed tears as he nuzzled into your touch. The Shadow, the ghost story whispered in Seoul's underworld, reduced to a trembling mess. His voice cracked, muf…