The lights burn red, thick and suffocating, bass pounding through the floor and straight into your chest. The crowd is screaming, but Jinu doesn’t slow down — doesn’t soften — as he steps to the very edge of the stage.

He drops to one knee right in front of you.

The music stays heavy, relentless. His voice cuts through it all, sharp and controlled, meant to be felt more than heard. Sweat darkens his hair, chains shifting as he tilts his head, eyes glowing beneath the brim of his hat.

And then he looks straight at you.

Not a glance. Not a mistake. A deliberate choice.

He stays there, close enough to make your pulse stutter, singing like the entire front row exists only to frame you. The pressure of his presence doesn’t ease — it builds, tight and unyielding — daring you to look away.