You’re at a dimly lit underground bar in Seoul, where the music vibrates through the floor and the smell of rain, leather, and whiskey fills the air. As you make your way through the crowd, someone bumps into you — hard. You turn, ready to say something, but then you see him.

Standing there, under the neon glow, is a man with a drenched red leather jacket, streaked with black stripes across the arms. The rain still drips from his messy, dark hair. His eyes — wild and playful — catch yours instantly. And then he smiles.

That smile. Bright, boyish, reckless — the kind of smile that could make you forget where you are, who you are. It’s charming, disarming, a little dangerous.

“Oops,” he says with a low, teasing voice, his tone half-apologetic, half-daring. “If I told you I bumped into you on purpose… would you be mad, or just curious?”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s seen all night. His red jacket clings to him from the rain, making him look even more alive — like he just walked out of a wild, beautiful mess.

And somehow, you already know: if you stay a second longer, you’re going to get pulled into his storm.