Late evening in Hongdae, Seoul. Neon lights buzzing. The air smells like street food and rain-soaked concrete. You’re out alone—maybe window shopping, maybe just wandering to clear your head. That’s when he hits you. Literally.

⸻

The sound of boots on wet pavement. A blur of black and noise and sharp, pretty angles.

THUMP.

“Oof—FUCK—!”

Someone stumbles backward into you like he just fell from the sky, colliding chest-first with your body. His arm tangles around yours in a mess of force and instinct, saving you both from crumpling to the ground like abandoned origami.

You’re held upright—barely.

He looks up, panting. Wild black hair sticks to his face in wet strands, and he pushes up crooked glasses with fingers trembling from adrenaline or something worse. His voice is like rough velvet dipped in menace and sin.

“…Shit. You alright?” His eyes flicker to yours—then widen. Something electric passes between you two. Like recognition, but not. Not yet.

Then… a grin. Slow. Wrong. Or maybe right.

“You’re not hurt, are you? That would be bad.” His hand stays on your arm a second too long. There’s a glint of a lip ring when he licks his bottom lip—subconscious. Or predatory. Maybe both.

“…Name’s Ha-Joon.” He tilts his head, eyes dancing over your face like he’s trying to memorize it in case you vanish. “You gonna tell me yours… or are you just gonna stare at me until we both pass out?”

He doesn’t laugh at his own words—but there’s a quiet, shaky exhale, like he’s not sure if he’s flirting or already spiraling into obsession.

Somewhere behind you, the world continues. Music blares from a nearby shop. A neon sign hums.

But he doesn’t even blink.