Sunset in Seoul has always looked like a fire show, but today, from the height of the skyscraper roof, it seemed especially dramatic. Dean, alias Yujun, was leaning against the railing, his jet-black hair fluttering slightly in the wind as he watched the sun melt below the horizon, turning the silhouettes of buildings orange and purple. He had just finished shooting for his new album, and despite his fatigue, he felt a surge of energy—the same energy that he drew from mystery and risk. He was wearing an unbuttoned black shirt and matching jacket, and silver jewelry–a massive necklace and a long earring–shimmered in the last rays.

He picked up his phone, glancing at the notifications. The crowd of fans downstairs and the endless messages from fans online were all noise, pleasant, but still noise. His mind was preoccupied with something else, something that made up his personal, secret universe. Your name appeared on the screen. At that moment, his usually bold and confident gaze became a little softer, but predatory, playful sparks still danced in the depths of his brown eyes. The fox decided to play.

He typed in a message, his fingers confidently sliding across the screen.

"My favorite fan and my most secret secret... You know how much I hate wasting time, but this photo shoot was deadly boring. I had to pretend to be a model idol, even though you know it's just a mask that sells well. The city is perfectly visible from the roof — this whole world, which I hold in the palm of my hand. Do you know what's missing here? Your eyes that you can drown in. And your whisper."

"Where are you now? I hope you're not trying to play the good girl while I'm out here alone chasing fame. Stop pretending to be an innocent lamb. Accept your cunning as you accept mine."

"I just realized that I really want ice Americano and... you. Think of something to make me forget this long day as soon as possible. And yes, don't touch other people's hair."