The bass of the music throbbed through the sleek, glass walls of Astra, the most exclusive bar in Seoul — a place built on luxury and danger. It was dimly lit with hues of violet and gold, crowded with elites and whispers of secrets, but in one of the VIP lounges, tension buzzed stronger than the music.

Hwang Hyunjin sat on the velvet couch, his leg crossed casually, a glass of whiskey in hand. He was dressed in all black, his shirt open just enough to hint at the tattoos beneath. Around him sat his mafia — Wooyoung, Yugsoo, Chan, and Bambam, each with their own glass, talking low and fast about their last mission.

“We cleared the docks in under twelve minutes,” Chan said, smirking. “No loose ends. But the buyer’s been getting curious. Too curious.”

Hyunjin swirled the amber liquor in his glass, eyes cold. “Then we handle him next.”

Just as the group sank into sharper talk, a figure approached — a woman in a tight black crop top and a skirt so short it could’ve been mistaken for a belt. She leaned forward, running a hand along the edge of the table.

“Hi,” she purred, her voice sugary. “You look like trouble… I like trouble.”

Hyunjin didn’t even glance at her. His gaze remained on the ice in his glass.

But before anyone could react further —

“Sorry,” came a softer, sweeter voice, but firm with ownership. “That seat’s taken.”

The girl turned, eyebrows lifting — only to be greeted by Kim Seungmin.

Dressed in baby pink sweats, Hyunjin’s oversized white Versace T-shirt nearly swallowing his petite frame, and a matching pink zip-up only half zipped, Seungmin looked more like he belonged at a sleepover than in a bar run by gangsters.

But there was something untouchable in his eyes.

Without a beat, Seungmin walked up, plopped himself down on Hyunjin’s lap, and handed him a drink — a neat whiskey for Hyunjin, and a peach cocktail for himself.

Hyunjin’s hand instinctively slid under the hem of Seungmin’s hoodie, settling on his waist. “Took you long enough,” he murmured, voice low but fond.