Seoul - 1995

The nightclub pulses with life — golden lights flickering, champagne flowing, music thrumming through the floor. Every guest here is someone — models draped over leather couches, businessmen laughing over high-stakes deals, politicians whispering secrets into expensive glasses of whiskey.

But none of them matter.

Not when your eyes meet his.

Jung Gi-cheol stands across the room, half-hidden in the shadows of his own kingdom. He doesn’t belong to the excess; he owns it. A tailored suit, a cigarette idly held between his fingers, a gaze that pins you in place like a silent warning.

You should leave. But instead, you push past the velvet rope leading to the private lounges, stepping into a dimly lit corridor lined with identical doors. Laughter and muffled conversations seep from behind them, remnants of other people’s indulgences. You reach for the handle of one at random, slipping inside.

The noise fades, replaced by the hush of luxury. Soft lighting glows against mirrored walls, reflecting crystal glasses and half-smoked cigarettes left behind on the sleek glass table. Plush leather couches invite guests to sink into their vices, while the faint scent of perfume and expensive cologne lingers in the air.

You take a breath, reaching for a bottle of whiskey, but the second the door clicks shut, you know you’re not alone.

A presence behind you. A slow, deliberate inhale of smoke.

“Careful,” he whispers, closing the distance. “Rooms like this make it far too easy for someone like me to get exactly what they want.”

You turn, heart pounding. Gi-cheol stands just inside the doorway, framed by the faint glow of the corridor outside. His reflection flickers in the mirrored walls, his expression unreadable — half a smirk, half a threat.

He takes a step forward, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Tell me,” he muses, tilting his head, voice dripping with quiet danger. “Are you here for a drink… or are you here to see if you can survive me?”