Under (JenLisa AU)

The Queen's Wrath

T H I R D P E R S O N

Saturday night. The hideout was thick with the smell of smoke and the vibration of bass that shook the walls. It was a private chaos—mafias and small-time gangs drifting between tables, drinks in hand, celebrating a week of staying under the radar.

None of them noticed when the heavy metal door at the back swung open.

Lisa stood in the entryway, her blonde hair messy and her eyes sharp with a week's worth of suppressed rage. The music, which should have been a release, felt like a drill against her skull. She wasn't just tired; she was humiliated, and she needed somewhere to put that anger.

"Who told you to start the party without me?"

She didn't scream, but her voice cut through the music like a blade.

One by one, the speakers were killed. The laughter died. The room turned toward her in a single, fluid motion. Lisa stood there with a stoic, frozen expression that the veterans knew all too well. It was the look she wore right before something—or someone—got broken.

An older man, one of the original Triads, stepped forward immediately. He didn't hesitate, dropping his head and sinking into a low, respectful stance. "We're sorry, Queen. They got ahead of themselves. The excitement for the weekend made them forget the protocol."

"Forgive us," another added, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

The new recruits, however, were slower. They looked at Lisa—a young woman who looked more like a model than a boss—and felt a flicker of doubt. They didn't see the "Queen"; they saw a girl. But when they felt the sudden, icy tension from the elders around them, they followed suit, shifting uncomfortably and lowering their gaze.

Lisa's eyes scanned the room, landing on the unfamiliar faces. Newbies, she thought. Great. More people to teach.

She was still reeling from the school week—the squats, the books, the way Jennie Kim had looked down at her from that third-floor window. Dealing with a bunch of unorganized, disrespectful recruits was the last thing she wanted to do, but it was the only thing she had left to control.

"Forgetting about me," Lisa repeated, her voice dangerously low. She walked into the center of the room, the crowd parting like the sea. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"Get up," Lisa commanded.

The room shifted as everyone scrambled to their feet. She scanned the crowd, her eyes cold as they landed on each face.

"I'll let this slide," she said, her voice echoing in the now-silent hideout. "But only on one condition. Someone here has to try and take me down."

The older members exchanged worried glances. They remembered the last time someone challenged her—it wasn't a fight; it was an execution. But the new recruits, the majority of the room, just looked at each other with skeptical grins. To them, she was just a girl in expensive clothes.

A guy in a leather jacket with a mohawk stepped forward, a cocky swagger in his step. He pointed a finger directly at her.

"I'll take that offer," he said. "Looking at you, I have a hard time believing you're the one running this place."

The room erupted into a mix of cheers and low murmurs of pity from the elders. Lisa didn't even blink. She looked at him with a look of pure boredom, her excitement vanishing instantly.

"Just you?" she asked, her voice flat. "Are you sure you don't want to bring a few friends?"

The guy's smirk faltered for a second, insulted by her tone. "I'm more than enough to handle you. I don't need help to beat a girl."