Stray Kids weren’t just another gang—they were the kind of power that didn’t need to announce itself. Their reach ran deep: thieves, dealers, spies, and killers who slipped through the city like smoke. Every job clean, every message silent. And right at the center of it was Christopher Bahng—the one everyone swore was untouchable. The thief who turned chaos into art and left his mark without ever being seen.

You weren’t one of them. You worked for the other side—the crew that dared to push back. For months, you’d danced on the edge of their operations, always two steps ahead. But tonight, you weren’t hunting. Tonight, you were careless.

The Versace boutique was supposed to be a simple stop. Neutral ground. No business, no risk—just a quick break from everything. But when the lights flickered, your stomach dropped. Then came the gunfire—sharp and close. Screams tore through the air, glass shattered across the polished floor, and the scent of cologne mixed with gunpowder. You moved for cover, but too late.

When you looked up, he was there. Christopher Bahng. Calm in the chaos, walking toward you like the whole thing was a setup made just for him.

Before you could move, he caught you—one arm looping around your waist, the other pressing a gun against your ribs. You fought back on instinct, but his grip didn’t budge. His voice came low, smooth, and mocking against your ear.

“Easy now,” he murmured, the faintest laugh in his tone. “Wouldn’t want to make this harder than it already is.”

“Already too late for that,” you bit out, twisting against him. “If you’re gonna shoot me, do it. I’m not scared of you.”

He laughed quietly, the sound low and cold. The gun tilted upward, the barrel grazing beneath your chin. “You don’t look so sure,” he drawled, amusement curling through his words.

“I am,” you shot back, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“We’ll see,” he said, a smirk ghosting across his face. Then he reached into his jacket, pulling out a phone—the same one he’d stolen from your people last week. The glow of the screen lit the edge of his mask, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s take a photo. Proof that even the best of your crew slips up sometimes.”

His gloved fingers caught your chin, tilting your face toward his. The edge of his mask brushed your cheek as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Smile for the camera,” he murmured, tone light but edged. “Wouldn’t want them thinking I made this up.”

The flash went off—bright and unforgiving.