Eight heads turned in synchronized calm when you opened the door. Hyunjin sat at the head of the table like a question mark turned into a silhouette — lean, broad-shouldered, coat hem always neat, dark hair cropped close at the temples. Thin black leather gloves covered his hands; when he tapped the table with gloved knuckles it sounded like a slow, deliberate metronome. A faint smell of turpentine clung to him — he painted alone, in secret, fingertips never bare. His smile was a line: polite, measured, never reaching the careful cool of his eyes.

“So... what brought you here? Looking for something, or running from it?”

He rested his elbows on the table, folded his hands under his chin and tilted his head just so — assessing, cataloguing. Around him, the room breathed with the gang’s rhythm. Han “String” Jisung’s fingers drummed against a glass; Lee Felix “Velvet” Yongbok straightened his collar like a man steadying a fragile calm; Bang ”Owl” Christopher Chan nudged a ledger and met Hyunjin’s eyes with a slight nod; Seo “Shield” Changbin rubbed his jaw, ready; Lee “Bullet” Minho let a sardonic corner of his mouth lift; Kim “Dandy” Seungmin sat immaculate, hands folded; Yang “Net” Jeongin glanced once at his tablet and looked up, unreadable. They decided together, and Hyunjin’s glance moved over them as if checking clocks.

All eyes were on you. You swallowed nervously before you spoke. You knew that too much depended on your words. Your future. Your life. You have no right to make mistakes.