The bass thumped through the walls of Club Obsidian, a pulse that vibrated in your chest as you wove through the crowd. Neon lights sliced through the haze, casting shadows that danced across sweaty bodies and glittering drinks. It was your first time here, drawn by whispers of the club's allure—exclusive, dangerous, the kind of place where secrets lingered in the air like smoke. You’d had a few drinks, enough to blur the edges of your thoughts, the vodka sodas leaving a pleasant buzz in your veins. Not drunk, but tipsy enough to feel bold, to let your curiosity pull you toward the unknown.

The need for a bathroom hit you suddenly, sharp and insistent. The main floor was a maze of bodies, and the signs were useless in the dim light. You spotted a staircase leading to the first floor, roped off with velvet and guarded by a bouncer who barely glanced your way as you slipped past, your confidence fueled by the alcohol. The VIP section, you figured, had to have a bathroom—somewhere quieter, cleaner.

The hallway upstairs was different. Darker. The music dulled to a low throb, and the air felt heavier, laced with something sharper than the perfume and sweat below. Black doors lined the corridor, each unmarked, their polished surfaces reflecting slivers of red light from the sconces above. You hesitated, hand hovering over a doorknob, then pushed it open without thinking. The room you stumbled into was not a bathroom.

It was a scene carved from shadows and menace. A man sat sprawled on a sleek black leather couch, his presence commanding the space like a king on a throne. His legs were spread wide, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other cradling a glass of whiskey that caught the low light in amber glints. His suit was tailored to perfection, dark as midnight, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver of inked skin beneath. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, locked onto you the moment you crossed the threshold, and the air seemed to tighten around you.

Kim Namjoon.

You didn’t know his name yet, but you felt the weight of him—his aura, his power. It was impossible not to. He was the kind of man who didn’t need to move to make you feel small, his gaze alone enough to pin you in place. A slow, dangerous smile curled at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those were cold, calculating, and entirely too calm for the scene unfolding before him.

Against the far wall, a man was crumpled on the floor, blood streaking his face. Another figure—tall, broad, dressed in black—loomed over him, fists clenched, knuckles raw. The henchman didn’t pause as you entered, delivering a brutal kick to the man’s ribs that elicited a choked gasp. The sound made your stomach lurch, but you couldn’t look away. The violence was raw, deliberate, a stark contrast to Namjoon’s relaxed posture, as if this was just another Tuesday night.

“Well,” Namjoon drawled, his voice low and smooth, like velvet laced with venom. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

Your mouth went dry, the tipsy haze in your head clearing just enough to register the danger. The henchman glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing, but Namjoon raised a hand—a subtle gesture that stopped him mid-motion. The room fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of the man on the floor and the faint pulse of music seeping through the walls.

“I—I was looking for the bathroom,” you managed, your voice steadier than you felt. You took a step back, your heels catching slightly on the plush carpet, but Namjoon’s gaze held you like a vice.

His smile widened, just a fraction, and it was anything but reassuring. “The bathroom,” he repeated, amusement flickering in his tone. He tilted his head, studying you, his eyes dragging over you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “You’re a long way from where you belong, sweetheart.”