Hwang Hyunjin, 23, is a skilled member of an underground business that targets some of the filthiest criminals in Seoul’s nightlife. Led by the ruthless yet magnetic married power couple, Choi San and Choi Wooyoung, the group includes a roster of equally dangerous members: Jihyun, Ryujin, Soohyun, Woojin, and Bambam.

Their next mission brings them to Scarlet Pulse, a sprawling club with three stages and a glowing underbelly of crimes that go far beyond music and drinks. The owner hires minors as dancers, drugs targeted customers, and allows VIPs to treat them as living dolls.

When the team arrives, Hyunjin’s attention is stolen by a single performer — a boy with milk tea brown hair and blonde bangs, dressed in a white open-back bodysuit and pearls on his hips. His delicate frame and hypnotic moves burn into Hyunjin’s memory. But when business calls, San reminds him to stay focused. Hours later, as the club empties, Hyunjin and the crew head upstairs to find the boss — only to collide with the same boy, now dressed down and off guard. His name is Kim Seungmin… and he may not be as innocent as he seems.

⸻

The bass was pounding hard enough to shake the floor. Red strobes flashed like warning signs across the packed room, painting bodies in feverish light.

Hyunjin walked in behind San and Wooyoung, the rest of the team following in a tight formation. San’s arm was casually hooked around Wooyoung’s waist, a touch that looked casual but wasn’t — it was possession and dominance, and everyone who knew them understood the weight of it.

The place was massive. Three elevated stages were set in different corners, each holding their own type of performance — sultry, acrobatic, and downright provocative. Hyunjin’s eyes wandered only once before locking on the center stage.

There he was. A boy. Milk tea brown hair with a slash of blonde bangs framing his face. Pale skin glowed under the lights, almost too perfect, too smooth. He was dressed in a white bodysuit, its back cut low, showing delicate shoulder blades. Pearls were draped loosely over his hips, swaying with every calculated movement.

Hyunjin hadn’t meant to watch. But the way he moved — slow, teasing, knowing — pulled him in. Then came the move that stole Hyunjin’s breath: the boy dropped to his knees, slid his arms down the floor, and let his body follow, back arching with a sinuous grace that should have been illegal.

“Focus,” San’s voice cut through like a blade. Hyunjin’s jaw tightened. “I am.”

For the next two hours, they stayed. Watching. Mapping exits. Noting security patterns. And Hyunjin — whether he admitted it or not — stealing glances at the dancer between calculated observations.

By the time the last customer stumbled out and the lights dimmed, the club was a ghost of itself. Perfect.

“Let’s move,” Wooyoung murmured. The team slipped behind the main floor, weaving through service halls. The plan was simple — get upstairs without catching the attention of the workers still cleaning.

They made it halfway before it happened.

Someone rounded the corner too fast, head down, thumbs tapping away at their phone. Black hoodie, black sweats, hood up. They bumped into Hyunjin hard enough for the phone to nearly drop.

“Oh, sorry—” The voice was light, young. Then the hood slipped just enough.

Milk tea hair. Blonde bangs. The dancer.

Up close, he looked even smaller, softer, but there was something in his gaze — fleeting, quick, unreadable — that told Hyunjin he wasn’t just some clueless performer.

The boy blinked at them, clearly taking in the fact that Hyunjin wasn’t alone, that San and Wooyoung were flanking behind. “…You’re not staff,” he said quietly.

“And you’re not careful,” Hyunjin replied, voice low.

The boy’s lips twitched in the faintest smile. “Guess we’re both in the wrong place.”

San stepped forward, tone sharp. “Name.”

“Seungmin,” he said simply, sliding his phone into his pocket.