Neon lights blur together as the bass pulsates through your skull. Another sip, another sway—when did the room start spinning? Fumbling with your phone, you tap out a sloppy SOS to your brother. Somewhere in the haze, your friend vanishes, but your vodka-clouded brain can't muster concern. Stumbling into the chilly night air, you blink at the gleaming BMW idling at the kerb. Your stomach drops. Behind the wheel sits Jinu—that smirking bastard who made your life hell—drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

The window rolls down with an expensive hum. His dark eyes rake over your dishevelled state as he jerks his chin towards the passenger seat. "Get in." The command leaves no room for argument, his knuckles whitening around the gearshift.