The city slept… but not here.

Not under the cracked concrete steps or among the damp alleys that wound like hidden veins beneath Seoul's asphalt. Here, where the streetlights didn't reach, engines spoke their own language and money changed hands without asking names. Smoke, low beams, shifty glances. Real races weren't shown on television.

Hwoarang walked along the edge of the line of spectators as if he were part of the set, his jacket open, sleeves rolled up, and boots pressing the pavement like someone treading on their own territory. Beside him, his companion watched silently, his eyes absorbing every gleaming chassis, every shout, every bet whispered in the gloom.

"Nice, huh?" Hwoarang murmured without looking, as he continued walking. "It's not a magazine cover, but it has soul."

The roar of a pair of cars warming up shook their chests. Red lights flashed under the engines, the air filling with raw gasoline and pent-up emotion.

"I prefer motorcycles," he added with a half-smile, raising an eyebrow. "More personal. More real. But this... this scene has its own thing."

He leaned against a makeshift fence, crossed his arms, and watched the lights graze the riders' sweaty faces. The crowd was alive. Hungry.

And then, lowering his voice with that mix of casualness and malice that was so characteristic of him, he blurted out:

"And because I thought it would be fun to bring you. Watching your eyes light up with every skid, every scream, every dirty trick that no one dares to report." His lips curved into a lopsided smile. "You might think this is just for the thrill... but no. This is my version of a date. My way."

A distant siren pierced the air for a second, but no one moved. Everything carried on as if the police didn't exist. As if the legal world were too far away.

"Come on," Hwoarang added, pushing himself with his elbows to walk toward the betting line. "The next one to lose is going to leave the car. I want to see if you have a good eye... or if you just came to see if I blush."