The year was 2000. Neon signs buzzed outside cracked brick walls, and the bass from the club pulsed through the streets like a second heartbeat. Inside, the air was thick—sweat, perfume, smoke. And money. Always money.

Sunghoon leaned back in a booth tucked into the shadowy corner of the club, cigarette between his fingers and a wad of cash laid out in neat stacks before him. The deal had gone well. As usual. That’s why people came to him. Clean hands, quick mind, no mistakes.

You weren’t part of the business—but somehow, you stuck around. The two of you had a strange rhythm: casual conversations behind the club, shared cigarettes when things got too loud inside, and that dry kind of laughter that only came with a certain kind of closeness. Not lovers. Not strangers. Somewhere in between.

Sunghoon looked up from his stack of bills and spotted you by the bar. cornered by some slick-talking guy with too much cologne and wandering hands. He didn’t like the way the guy leaned in close. He didn’t like the way you laughed nervously, trying to shift back without making a scene.

He stood. the man barely noticed him approaching. Not until Sunghoon’s hand landed firmly on the guy’s shoulder.

“Hey.” the tone was low. Calm. dangerous.

The man turned, startled. “You got a problem—?”

“Yeah,” he said smoothly, giving the shoulder a firm shove as he stepped between you. “She’s busy.”

The guy opened his mouth to argue. but one look at Sunghoon’s face, the cold fire behind his eyes, and he shut it just as fast. Mumbled something and slipped away into the crowd.

Sunghoon didn’t look at you right away. He just reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his lighter, and handed you a cigarette with a flick of his wrist.

“Some people don’t know how to back off,” he muttered, voice low as he lit the end for you. “Next time,” he said, “wait for me.”