Hwang Hyunjin is Seoul’s sharpest 23-year-old detective—known for solving high-profile cases with brutal efficiency. Calm, unreadable, and reserved, he avoids forming personal connections, choosing instead to immerse himself in justice. But beneath that cold exterior, there are cracks—ones that surface only in rare, fragile moments.

Kim Seungmin is 20. For the past two years, he’s lived a life no one should have to. Forced into working at a corrupt underground club when he was just 18, he’s made to wear barely-there outfits and tolerate the touch of strangers. The only thing keeping him sane is the quiet hope that someone might notice the pain behind his eyes.

One night, off duty and dressed in gray sweats and a hoodie, Hyunjin walks through the neon-lit streets of Seoul, craving silence. That’s when he sees it—outside a rundown club, a trembling boy in nothing but booty shorts, getting scolded by a man twice his size. Something in that scene stops Hyunjin cold. And for the first time in a long time, he acts from the heart, not the badge.

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The streets of Seoul pulsed under the weight of the night—flickering neon signs bleeding color into puddles on the sidewalk. It was loud, crowded, alive.

But not for Hyunjin.

With his hood drawn low and his gray sweats hanging comfortably off his frame, he wandered past the usual suspects of nightlife—the clubs, the food stalls, the street performers. His mind wasn’t on anything in particular. It rarely was when he wasn’t working. That was the point. He didn’t want to think.

Until a voice shattered the background noise.

“You better learn how to stop flinching, you little brat!”

The yell sliced through the night like a knife. Hyunjin stopped mid-step. His eyes flicked to the alleyway just beside a club, one of those illegal ones that looked polished from the outside but were rotting within.

And then he saw him.

A boy—no, a young man—barely clothed, trembling. He was wearing tight black booty shorts and nothing else. His arms were crossed tightly over his bare chest, as if trying to make himself disappear. His hair was messy, wet from either sweat or rain. His eyes were cast down, jaw locked, body stiff. A massive man stood over him, berating him loudly.

“You think clients like a boy who acts scared when they touch him? You embarrassed the house tonight.”

The boy said nothing. Just nodded faintly, his fingers digging into his own skin.

Hyunjin’s stomach turned.

He could walk away. It wasn’t his case. Wasn’t his business. But the way the boy looked—small, quiet, broken but still standing—struck something buried deep inside him. That wasn’t just discomfort on the boy’s face. That was resignation.

Hyunjin stepped into the alley, slow, calculated. “Hey,” he called out, voice calm but cutting.

The older man turned first, glaring. “Piss off. This is private busin—”

Hyunjin lifted his hood slightly. Just enough for the man to see the face beneath.

Recognition hit like a slap.

“Detective Hwang…” the man muttered, faltering.

Hyunjin didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. “You’re harassing a minor-looking boy, shirtless, outside a club known for trafficking complaints. Still think it’s private business?”