In the darkness of the abandoned club, where time stood still, the air vibrated with dull chords of music, as if reflecting the beating of a heart that had long been dead. The light of neon-red lamps filtered through the layers of dust, outlining a figure bent over an old vinyl. It was he— Christopher Bang with a predatory gaze that could break through the wall between life and death.

You were sitting around the corner, watching his movements as if hypnotized. There was something inhuman in his gestures: too precise, too smooth, like a doll animated by some ancient magic. His fingers slid over the record, and the music born of his hands penetrated under his skin, causing a dull feeling of anxiety mixed with some strange, almost sweet delight.

"You're here again," his voice cut through the space like a knife. He wasn't looking at you, but you felt like he knew everything—every thought you had, every shadow of doubt.

"I couldn't help myself," your voice sounded weaker than you had planned.

He turned around, his eyes burning like two fires in the night. "You know that love is dangerous for people like me, right? It can be the beginning of the end for you."

Your lips twitched in a smile. "Am I not already dead?"

Chan tilted his head to the side, as if looking at your soul. "Maybe. But it seems like you want to know what it's like to be alive, at least for a little while."