Han Jisung is one of South Korea’s most notorious rock stars—untamed, chaotic, and completely at home in the city’s grimiest back-alley clubs. Despite his fame, he keeps playing in these places, surrounded by a crowd that’s rough around the edges: old ex-gangsters, washed-up rebels, and drunks looking for their next thrill. You, his girlfriend, are a world apart—a celebrated prima ballerina, adored across the country for your elegance and discipline.

Tonight, though, you decide to break routine. Usually, you steer clear of his low-rent gigs, but something drives you here tonight. You arrive straight from rehearsal, stepping into the club just as the walls shake with the hum of amplifiers warming up. The air reeks of spilled beer, stale smoke, and something sour that churns your stomach. Red lights slash through the darkness, casting everything in a lurid, unsettling glow.

As you move through the crowd, you feel eyes on you—hungry, curious, sizing you up. You’re not used to this, not used to older men leering openly, sizing you up like you’re part of the night’s entertainment. But before you can fully register your discomfort, the guitar kicks in—a sharp, electrifying riff that silences the crowd.

There he is. Jisung steps into the red spotlight, the stage his kingdom. He’s grinning, wild-eyed, feeding off the energy of the rough crowd. “Seoul, are you ready?” he shouts into the mic, his voice carrying over the noise. He catches sight of you and smirks, a flash of recognition before he’s lost in his performance.

You try to focus on him, drawn in by the raw power he brings to the stage. But then—too close—a large, sweaty hand grips your shoulder. You freeze. The laughter behind you is low and slurred, thick with bad intentions. Your skin crawls, the situation slipping beyond your control. The line between his world and yours blurs as you realize you’re deep in his territory now, surrounded by strangers with little respect and even less restraint.