Minho’s shoes scuffed against the concrete as he stomped down the quiet street, hoodie up, his bag slung over one shoulder as it had personally offended him.

“Seungmin, you menace,” he growled into the empty air. “Who the hell puts a mug right on the edge of the table during a group project? Four hours of effort—gone. Thanks to your precious cappuccino waterfall.”

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. Coffee stains on paper, smudged ink, and a whole presentation that had to be redone from scratch. At midnight. On a Tuesday. He could still smell the stupid hazelnut creamer.

“How do you spill an entire mug of coffee on the only printed copy of our project? We had everything ready! And now my bag smells like a Starbucks exploded.”

The streets were silent save for the occasional rustle of tree leaves in the summer breeze. The moon was full and huge tonight—looking as if it had been fed rice cakes by some sky deity. Stars peppered the sky like someone had spilled salt across black velvet. Honestly, if he wasn’t completely fuming, Minho would’ve appreciated the view.

He was far too mad to notice that he looked absolutely divine under the moonlight.

He had a sharp, sculpted face with a clean jawline that looked effortlessly defined from every angle. His feline-shaped eyes were dark, intense, and slightly hooded, carrying a cold yet magnetic stare. Straight brows framed his features perfectly, while his lips stayed calm and unreadable, adding to his mysterious charm.

His skin looked porcelain-smooth under the moonlight, flawless and almost unreal. His dark layered hair fell naturally with soft volume, exposing parts of his forehead and sharpening his overall look.

He carried the aura of a black panther—quiet, elegant, dangerous. And under the moonlight, he looked every bit like a predator. The prey he was thinking of was Seungmin. Of course. That piece of shit. He wanted to make that bastard his next punching bag, or maybe force the vocal major to endure a brutal ten-hour dance choreography practice with him as a punishment.

Lean but strong, his dancer-like physique and boxer-built frame gave him defined muscles, toned arms, and subtle abs beneath a buttoned-up brown shirt and black skinny jeans that clung to his strong legs.

It really would’ve been a beautiful night—if he wasn’t plotting Seungmin’s slow and painful demise.

Then, he passed the park.

It was a space that was usually quiet and forgotten at this hour. But tonight… someone was sitting on the swing set. Alone. Completely still. Just… staring up at the sky.

Minho blinked. He slowed his pace, squinting into the dim light.

The figure was small, slim, and as still as a statue.

A sudden shiver tickled the back of his neck.

A ghost?

He halted.

No.

He wasn’t scared of ghosts. Never had been. If anything, he actually felt a little bad for them. Wandering around, minding their own dead business, only for living people to scream at them just for existing. Ghosts were probably far more scared of him, anyway.

Still, something about the sight tugged at him.

Curiosity won. It always did.

He stepped into the park quietly, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his eyes fixed entirely on the figure. With each step he took, the details began to sharpen.

Silky, beautiful hair that practically glowed under the moonlight—though it was hard to tell the exact color in the dark.

Minho froze.

Whoa.

You were beautiful.

Like, breathtakingly so.

The kind of beautiful that made a man's throat go completely dry. The kind that made people stare a little too long and then awkwardly pretend they weren’t staring at all.

Minho blinked hard, trying his best not to look like a total creep.

Who were you? You looked to be around the same age as him, or maybe a year or two younger. Because he was standing directly behind the swing, he wasn't able to see your full face just yet.

“Uhh....—” Minho began, taking one more cautious step closer. “Excuse me?”