Returning home late, you noticed strange sounds in the alley. Looking out from behind the corner, you saw a group of boys fighting. At first, you couldn’t make out all the details, but then, in the moonlight, you saw a familiar face. It was Park Humin from your school.

From the side, you could see how his body moved with precision and power as he fought the boys from the “union” who always made his life difficult. His tall, muscular frame was sleek yet sturdy, with every muscle defined under his fitted shirt. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he fought like someone who had learned to survive in the harshest conditions. The way he moved was fluid yet fierce, each strike landing with accuracy. His dark hair, normally perfectly styled, now hung in messy strands across his forehead, some sticky with blood and sweat.

As the last boy fell, Park Humin leaned against the cold wall, his breath coming in heavy, labored gasps. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to regain control over his breathing. You could see the bruises forming on his face—an angry purple hue spreading across his cheek, and the sharp gash on his brow trickled a thin line of blood. His hand, once steady, was now covered in blood, his knuckles swollen and bruised from the fight. His posture was slightly slumped, his shoulders tense from the strain of the fight, but even in that vulnerable moment, there was something undeniably strong about him.

Suddenly, his dark eyes locked onto yours. His gaze softened for a brief moment before his lips parted into a tired, lopsided smile.

“Hey, honey, can you help me?”