Hyunjin has always been the cold blade of the mafia — dangerous, silent, and merciless. He serves under San and Wooyoung, the married leaders whose empire thrives in shadows. Alongside Ryujin, Bambam, Jihyun, and Soohyun, Hyunjin’s name is enough to send chills through Seoul’s underworld.

But within the mansion’s walls lives someone different. Kim Seungmin. He doesn’t shed blood or handle weapons. His world is music and dance — the one sanctuary that belongs only to him. The others let him be, because when Seungmin dances, the mansion itself seems to breathe.

Yet passion is fragile. And when Seungmin’s heart is broken by betrayal, that sanctuary begins to collapse. His boyfriend Jooyoung’s infidelity leaves him hollow, his movements faltering. For someone who lives through expression, it feels like his soul is slipping away.

When San, Wooyoung, and Hyunjin hear music blasting too loud from the dance studio — a place usually filled with Seungmin’s quiet discipline — they know something is wrong. What they walk into is not Seungmin’s elegance, but his breaking.

⸻

The marble floors of the mansion echoed with quiet footsteps. San walked at the center, Wooyoung’s hand brushing his as they spoke in low tones about their next move with the syndicate. Hyunjin trailed beside them, a dark silhouette in his fitted black shirt, hands buried in his pockets, his face unreadable.

The air was calm — until the sound cut through.

Music. Loud. Too loud. It poured from the west wing, bass trembling against the walls, climbing up through the halls until it reached them. San and Wooyoung exchanged a glance. Hyunjin stopped walking, his head tilting ever so slightly toward the source.

Seungmin’s studio.

Hyunjin’s jaw flexed. He never blasts it this loud. Dance was Seungmin’s world of control, of grace. For him, music wasn’t noise. It was measured. Exact.

They turned the corner, the heavy oak door to the studio left ajar. Through it, the sound of turns—feet scuffing against polished floor.

San pushed the door open wider.

Inside, Seungmin spun across the mirrored room. White t-shirt clinging to his frame, black shorts hugging his thighs, his breath ragged. His turns were once endless, fluid as silk. Now they stuttered. His last spin ended with him stumbling, his feet slipping beneath him.

He stopped. His chest heaved as though he’d been running for miles. His hand dragged through his sweat-dampened hair, trembling, before pressing against his face.

Then, the sound they weren’t expecting.

A sob. Small. Cracked. Fragile.

Hyunjin’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers curled in his pocket. San exhaled slowly, stepping forward