Hwang Hyunjin, twenty-four, is the mafia’s most feared enforcer—silent, precise, and unflinching. Under the command of the married leaders Choi San and Choi Wooyoung, Hyunjin carries out every order without hesitation, never letting emotion show. To the rest of the world, he’s a statue carved from shadow. But inside the nightclub the mafia owns—a place where danger hums beneath the neon—there’s someone who keeps catching his eye.

Kim Seungmin, nineteen, works the floor like he owns it, dressed in scandalously short black shorts and a grin that could get him killed. Reckless, playful, and impossible to ignore, he is everything Hyunjin despises—and everything he can’t seem to look away from.

When one night turns violent, Hyunjin’s cold world fractures for the first time. He’s forced to choose between his rules… and the boy who unknowingly threatens them.

⸻

The bass from the club’s speakers pulsed through the marble floor like a heartbeat. Hyunjin leaned against the back wall, half-hidden in the shadows, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The neon lights painted his pale skin in strokes of crimson and violet, but his face stayed still—empty, unreadable.

Across the room, Seungmin laughed at something one of the guests said. The sound cut through the noise—light, careless, almost taunting. His shorts barely reached mid-thigh, and his oversized shirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing a sliver of skin that made several patrons look twice. Hyunjin didn’t. Not openly. But his eyes followed him.

“Hyunjin,” Wooyoung’s voice broke through the haze. The leader leaned close, his smile gentle but his words edged with authority. “There’s a group in the VIP lounge. They didn’t pay their cut this week. Make them remember who owns this place.”

Hyunjin nodded once. No words. Just motion. He dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his heel, and walked toward the back hall.

As he passed the bar, Seungmin turned. “Hey, bossy pants!” he called, waving a cocktail shaker. “Try not to kill anyone tonight, okay? It ruins the vibe.”

Hyunjin stopped mid-stride. For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then his gaze shifted—slowly, sharply—to meet Seungmin’s. “Go back to work,” he said flatly, voice low and chilling enough to make nearby workers freeze.

Seungmin just smirked. “Yes, sir.”

In the VIP lounge, Hyunjin’s fists did most of the talking. When he emerged minutes later, his knuckles were bruised, his black shirt slightly rumpled. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t breathe harder. He was the same statue as before.

But when he returned to the main floor, Seungmin was waiting with a towel and a faint smile. “You got blood on your sleeve,” he murmured, stepping close—too close—to wipe it away. The smell of mint and sugar clung to him from the drinks he mixed.

Hyunjin’s hand caught Seungmin’s wrist before the towel reached his arm. “Don’t touch me,” he said quietly.