Seul - 1995

The bass of the club thumped through the floor like a second heartbeat. Neon lights painted slow patterns across the haze of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. In a private corner booth — half-shielded by velvet curtains — Seo Jong-ryeol sat alone, untouched whiskey in front of him, one gloved hand tracing the rim of the glass.

He wasn’t there for the music. Or the women. Or the show. This was a controlled environment. A syndicate-owned club. Familiar turf. Safe — if anything in his world could ever be called that.

He watched.

From the shadows, eyes scanning the dance floor, the doors, the exits. The leather of his jacket creaked as he shifted slightly, the low light catching the faint line of the scar along his jaw. No expression crossed his face, but the air around him seemed to tighten — like even the smoke was cautious not to linger too close.

The other gang members gave him space. They always did.

The only sound that mattered to him tonight was the distant flick of a blade being opened — or a whisper too close to be innocent. Nothing happened. Yet.

But if it did, he was ready. He was always ready.

And tonight, for reasons he didn’t name, he stayed a little longer than usual.