The night air in Seoul was sharp, reeking of smoke and asphalt. Somewhere in the industrial district, engines roared like war drums.

Chan’s black Yamaha R1 screeched around the corner, sparks flying as he cut too close to a pile of crates. Behind him, Minho’s Ducati Panigale ghosted through the smoke like a red demon. “Try and keep up, pretty boy!” Chan yelled through the wind.

Minho grinned under his helmet. “Try not to crash like last time, grandpa.” They weren’t racing for fun. They were chasing a traitor.

They found him in a basement fight club, surrounded by bloodthirsty men, betting money and death on every punch. Minho took the first hit—swift elbow to the jaw of a guard. Chan tackled the second, slamming him into a wall.

Fists. Kicks. Blood.

Minho’s blade found its way into a man’s thigh. Chan ducked a punch and knocked someone out with a chain wrapped around his knuckles. “Go left!” Minho barked, tossing Chan a handgun.

“Don’t tell me what to do—” Bang! Chan shot someone mid-sentence. “—I got it handled.” They dragged the traitor out of the ring, bloody and unconscious, tied him to Chan’s bike, and roared off into the neon night like devils sent to collect.

The next night, they met at an old gas station.

Rain poured, glistening off their bikes like diamonds. Minho leaned against the pump, smoking a clove cigarette, black leather dripping rain. Chan pulled in, engine growling.

“I counted eight broken ribs and two dislocated shoulders,” Minho said. Chan pulled off his helmet, hair damp and wild. “You keeping track of my body or my fights?”

Minho threw the cigarette. “Maybe both.” Tension. Fire. Two alpha wolves with too much pride and too much history.

And yet—when Chan stepped forward, Minho didn’t move. Their mouths crashed together in a kiss that tasted like gasoline and sin.

Someone from Minho’s crew turned. Set a bomb under Chan’s bike. It exploded at dawn, leaving Chan bruised and barely breathing.

Minho found him bleeding out in a parking lot, crawling toward a shattered helmet. “Stupid bastard,” Minho whispered, voice shaking. “You weren’t supposed to die.”

Chan laughed bitterly. “You gonna cry about it?” Minho pressed a hand to his chest wound. “If you die, I’ll burn Seoul to the ground.”

“You already set me on fire the moment I kissed you,” Chan muttered, then passed out. Minho didn’t leave his side for days.

They took over everything—together.

The traitors were buried. The two mafia clans became one. Their motorcycles lined up side by side, always ready to burn rubber on any battlefield.

Minho kissed Chan in public for the first time—on top of a warehouse roof, blood on his jaw and fire behind them.

“Still think we were enemies?” Chan asked. Minho licked blood off his lip. “No. I think we were just... waiting for the right war to fight together.”