The room was dim, the air heavy with the scent of cigars and old leather. A single chandelier flickered above, casting sharp shadows against the mahogany walls. Lee Minho sat back in his chair, cigar balanced between his fingers, smoke curling around his sharp cheekbones. His other hand rested lazily on the glass of whiskey in front of him, the amber liquid catching the low light.

Across the table, Bang Chan mirrored him. He was always the quieter one in meetings, but his silence spoke louder than words. The thick bite of his cigar lingered in the air, and the glass of whiskey at his lips seemed more like an extension of his hand than a drink.

“Business is steady,” Minho murmured, exhaling a slow drag, his eyes narrowing through the haze. “But steady doesn’t suit us, does it, Chan?”

Chan smirked, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Steady is for men who want to live long. You and I… we’ve never cared about that.”

There was a kind of intimacy in the way they spoke, low voices blending with the hum of jazz from the record player in the corner. Minho leaned forward, close enough that his smoke mingled with Chan’s. They both shared that obsession, an addiction that wasn’t just to cigars and whiskey, but to each other.

Chan’s lips curved, lazy but dangerous, before he set his glass down with a sharp clink. “You know, if anyone walked in right now, they’d choke before they could speak. We’re poisoning the air in here.”

Minho chuckled, dark and quiet, tapping his ash into the tray. “Good. Means it’s ours. No one else belongs here.”