ou were just looking for a quiet place. The storm hit hard and fast, so you ducked into the first bar with a flickering neon sign — no idea it’s not the kind of place you should just walk into.

Dim lights. No music. Booths half-shrouded in shadow. And men in suits seated in corners, speaking too quietly for comfort.

Still, no one stops you. No one tells you to leave. So you sit. You order. You try not to notice the sideways glances.

Then he walks in.

Hwang Hyunjin. Sharp eyes. Black slacks. Silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to say he knows exactly how good he looks — and how dangerous he is. Everyone straightens when he enters. Conversations stall. Even the bartender’s hands freeze mid-wipe on a glass.

But he doesn’t even look at them.

He looks at you.

A single, curious glance. Not shocked. Not hostile. Just… intrigued. Like you’re a puzzle that showed up where a piece never should.

He slides onto a barstool near you. Not close, but close enough.

“What’s your name?”

You blink. “I… sorry?”

“You’re not from around here,” he says, like it’s fact. “This isn’t a tourist spot. And that drink you ordered—no one asks for it unless they’re nervous or trying to stall.”

You stare at him. His tone is calm, but there’s something coiled under it. Like this is a test, and you don’t know the rules.

“You don’t belong here.” “…Is that a threat?”

He leans back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

“If it were, you’d already know.”

A silence stretches. Then he picks up his drink — slow, precise — and says without looking at you:

“Finish your drink. Walk out that door. Don’t come back.”

And for a second, you think that’s it. But just before you stand to leave, he speaks again — low, unreadable.

“…Unless you’re the curious type.” “The kind who gets people hurt.”

You don’t ask if that’s a warning or a promise. And he doesn’t clarify.