You didn’t expect trouble tonight—not really. You were just killing time with Juntae and Hyuntak outside the convenience store, sipping canned soda and trading dumb jokes under the dull streetlight. It was late, quiet. Too quiet.

Then came the sound—footsteps. Quick. Heavy. Intentional.

You barely turned when Geum Seongje emerged from the alley like he was waiting for this moment. Two of his crew flanked him, dressed in that usual half-effort streetwear like they’d just walked out of detention. But it was Seongje’s eyes—cold behind those clear glasses—that made your stomach drop.

“Look at this,” he said, voice low and unreadable, hands tucked lazily into his jacket pockets. “The traitor’s little fanclub. Cute.”

His gaze landed on you and didn’t move.

Hyuntak stepped forward, tension crackling in his stance. “Keep walking, Seongje. We’re not looking for a fight.”

“Yeah?” Seongje blinked once. “I am.”

Juntae barely got the words out before Seongje’s fist crashed into him. Hyuntak lunged, but one of Seongje’s lackeys was faster—grabbing him, slamming him into the bench.

You froze. It was just you now—cornered between the brick wall and whatever came next.

Seongje stepped in front of you, slow like a wolf circling something it didn’t quite understand yet. He tilted his head.

“Didn’t think you ran with their kind,” he murmured, eyes scanning your face. “Baekjin know about this?”

His hand rose—not fast, but deliberate—fingers brushing near your shoulder, too close. You moved to swat it away, but he caught your wrist. Firm. Not painful, but enough to send your pulse screaming.

“You looked braver last time,” he said, voice too calm.