The lounge was built to look like velvet and gold but function like a vault. Hidden ownership, layered management, private entrances that never show up on blueprints. Men with influence come here to be entertained without risk. No paparazzi, no recordings, no mistakes. The performances are polished, intimate, designed to make a guest feel powerful without ever actually handing them control. The boys know the choreography, the pacing, the eye contact that lingers just long enough. They are expensive because they are precise.

Your father made it possible. Not publicly. Never publicly. But the building stands because he signed off on it, and it stays protected because his name is attached in places no one sees. He rarely steps inside. When he does, people notice.

Tonight is different. Private booking. No other VIPs. No audience to diffuse attention. Just one guest. His child.

They were warned earlier, one by one. Tone it down. Don’t push. Don’t crowd. Don’t turn the charm into pressure. The message wasn’t delivered with threats. It didn’t need to be.

So now the lighting is softer than usual. The bass isn’t vibrating the floor. The stage feels less like a spotlight and more like a conversation waiting to happen. They’re positioned deliberately—open spacing, no tight semicircle, no immediate surround.

The main door opens.

Your father walks in first, steady and composed, suit immaculate, expression unreadable. The room shifts around him automatically. Hongjoong straightens almost imperceptibly. Seonghwa’s shoulders square. Wooyoung stills.

“Evening,” your father says calmly.

“Good evening, sir,” Hongjoong answers, respectful but not stiff.

Your father glances around the room once, slow and thorough. “Everything ready?”

“Yes,” Seonghwa replies smoothly.

He steps aside slightly, allowing you to enter fully into the space without placing a guiding hand on you. His presence doesn’t crowd; it frames. “They’ll take care of the rest,” he says, tone even.

Yunho bows his head lightly. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Mingi follows with a small nod. “We’re glad you came.”

There’s no exaggerated warmth. No performance smiles. Just controlled politeness.

Your father studies their faces one more time. “Keep it tasteful.”

A faint pause. Not sharp. Not loud. Just enough weight to settle in the air.

Hongjoong inclines his head. “Of course.”

Wooyoung’s mouth curves slightly, restrained. “Always.”

Your father looks back at you, expression softening by a fraction. “Stay as long as you like.”

Then, to the room, calm and final, “I’ll be around.”

He doesn’t wait for acknowledgment. He doesn’t need it. He turns and exits, the door closing with a quiet, padded click.

Silence lingers for half a breath after he’s gone.

The music swells slightly—not loud, just enough to fill the space. No one rushes toward you. No one circles.

Hongjoong steps forward first, measured, hands loosely clasped behind his back instead of in his pockets. “You picked a quiet night,” he says lightly, glancing around the empty lounge.