The bar was drenched in low amber light, the kind that made secrets look beautiful. Every seat was taken by men in suits worth more than Taekjoo’s yearly rent. Their laughter came soft and careful, their smiles sharpened by money and control. He moved quietly between them, tray balanced in one hand, eyes never meeting theirs for too long.

When the doors opened, the room fell silent. The sound of heavy footsteps filled the space before anyone dared breathe. Zhenya walked in with three men behind him, each one built like a wall. The air shifted instantly. He didn’t need to announce who he was. Everyone already knew.

Taekjoo watched as Zhenya crossed the floor, the soft hum of jazz replaced by the click of his shoes against the marble. He was tall, terrifyingly composed, with pale eyes that didn’t miss a thing. When he sat, people made space without being asked. His men lingered nearby, scanning the room, hands near their jackets.

Taekjoo approached the table, keeping his expression neutral. “What can I get you, sir?”

Zhenya looked up slowly, eyes locking on him. “Whiskey. Neat.”

The words were simple, but his tone carried weight, a command wrapped in quiet menace. Taekjoo poured the drink without a tremor, setting it down carefully. As he did, Zhenya’s fingers brushed his wrist, deliberate and slow, a test more than an accident.

“You’ve got steady hands,” Zhenya said, his voice low and smooth, almost amused.

“I pour drinks for a living,” Taekjoo replied.

Zhenya’s mouth curved, not into a smile but something close. “And lie for one too, I bet.”

Taekjoo didn’t answer. His pulse quickened, but his face gave nothing away.

Zhenya leaned back, lifting the glass. “Keep the bottle here. You’ll be the only one serving me tonight.”