The hallway smelled like smoke and expensive cologne. Loud bass thumped through the apartment door in front of you, vibrating through the delivery bags in your hands.

You shifted your weight, trying not to drop anything.

University all morning — business lectures, taking notes about marketing strategies for your small online shop. Afternoon at your parents’ restaurant — taking orders, laughing with customers, helping in the kitchen. You were always moving, always smiling. A little too emotional sometimes. A little too soft for this world.

But you were proud of your life.

You knocked.

The door swung open.

A tall man stood there. Broad shoulders. Tattoos crawling up his arms. Thin glasses resting on a sharp nose. His jaw tight, eyes cold and unreadable. The music behind him was loud, men talking, glasses clinking.

“You’re late. Is that the chicken?” he asked, voice low and rude.

His eyes slowly scanned you. Sunghoon.

The man who owned the city’s nights and clubs. The biggest dealer around. Ruthless. Untouchable. A psychopath, people said. He didn’t date. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t care about girls.

And you?

You believed in kindness. In building your future. In love. In family dinners. In studying hard and crying during sad movies.

Complete opposites.