My Sloppy Husband Is Actually a Handsome Bigshot! - Chapter 70 Intricate Relationships

“My name is Yang Jian, when you are reading this, I am already dead.”A mysterious sheepskin scroll, an eye that peers into darkness, this is the tale of a survivor

There are all sorts of lunatics in the world:Self-centered, reckless, psychotic, impulsive, obsessive, and pe*verted.As far as Suin knows, that man embodied every single one of those traits—an obsessive, pe*verted psycho.And now, that lunatic is back.“Finally, we meet.”“Adult Lee Suin.”He didn’t even try to hide the sticky hunger in his gaze, like a starved lion finally spotting its prey.“A job reassignment?”“I want Lee Suin to help me.”Chairman Woo Ilhwa, unaware of his son’s true intentions, reassigns Suin, his chief secretary, to serve as his son’s personal secretary.This forces Suin into close proximity with the man who’s been preying on her from the shadows.“Wait for me, Lee Suin.”During his eleven years of exile, Jaehee had dreamed of one thing:A proper relationship—not as a restricted minor, but as a full-grown adult.A relationship where he could take what he wanted, whenever and however he pleased.That’s why, even though Suin was as rigid as a steel rod, his sly persistence ignited the spark within him whenever he faced her.“What do you want from me?”“You.”“Lee Suin.”But it seems Suin has been flirting with some bastard behind his back, and Jaehee’s jealousy and obsession explode.“Don’t take a single step.”“Unless you want to see me go completely insane.”What nonsense.You were already insane to begin with.

"I want to run away from everything."

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”