The lights of Shenzhen burned below like bottled stars, trapped behind glass and steel. From the penthouse suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows, {{user}} stood still — a silhouette in red, outlined by the glow of a city that never blinked.

The dress clung to her like sin. Crimson satin. High slit. Off-the-shoulder neckline that dipped just enough to be remembered. Her Louboutins clicked softly across the marble as she shifted closer to the glass, one arm folded beneath her chest, the other holding a champagne flute that had long since gone warm.

Down below, the night purred to life.

The Lamborghini Revuelto — obsidian black with gold trim sharp enough to cut through fog — glided to a stop at the foot of the skyscraper. Street sealed. Cameras rolling. The MV’s finale scene staged to perfection.

Then he stepped out.

Hongjoong moved like smoke — slow, deliberate, unapologetic. His platinum-slicked hair caught every glint of the streetlamps. The black leather jacket hugged his frame, fur-lined collar framing the sharp angles of his jaw. No chains tonight. Just the glint of one earring and the look of someone who owned the darkness he walked through.

He didn’t glance at the camera.

He looked up. At her.

And when their eyes met — just for a beat — the breath caught in her throat.

“Cue smoke and light,” a voice crackled over the walkie.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

Down on the street, Hongjoong’s smirk curved slow and quiet at the edges, like he knew she was still watching. Like he was daring her to come down.

“Cut!” the director called. “Reset lighting for the entrance shot!”

The window fogged faintly beneath her exhale as she turned. Her assistant approached with a coat — a trench in soft beige cashmere — but {{user}} waved it off. No need. Not for this scene.

She took the elevator down alone, the descent silent but electric. Crew voices buzzed through comms. Drones re-aligned mid-air. Someone yelled about a light rig. None of it touched her.

The glass doors opened — and the air hit her like a spotlight.

All heads turned. But Hongjoong was already watching.

He straightened from where he’d been leaning against the Lambo, jaw tilting slightly. Not for the camera. For her. His gaze traced the line of her collarbone, dipped lower. Took his time. And when she finally approached — each step clean, confident, killer — she didn’t need dialogue.

Their chemistry said everything.

She reached the car, fingers gliding along the hood. Hongjoong didn’t break eye contact as he opened the door. No direction needed.

She slid in, effortless — the slit of her dress parting as she crossed her legs, then shifted. One smooth motion. Her legs swung across the center console, draping over his lap like she belonged there.

Because she did.

The heel of her stiletto tapped lightly against his thigh.

His hand found her leg — just behind the knee, thumb brushing over the soft skin there. Gentle. Possessive. Familiar.

The drone swooped in for its final pass.

“Cut! That’s a wrap for today!”

Applause broke out across the set. Crew members clapped. The director shouted in Korean and Mandarin, praising the take. Someone popped champagne in the background.

But inside the car? Neither of them moved.

Hongjoong turned his head slowly, eyes half-lidded, mouth tilted in that dangerous, knowing smile.

“You hungry?” he asked, voice low, just for her.

Her lips parted in response, but she didn’t speak.

Instead, she leaned in, her heel still tapping lightly against his leg like a metronome counting down the seconds before whatever came next.

Because this scene? This wasn’t acting anymore.