The night wasn’t supposed to end like this.

You leaned back against the cold brick wall, lungs burning, legs trembling. The asphalt bit into you as you slid down to the ground, your palms scraped and sweaty. Across from you, Christopher—yes, that Christopher—slumped into the same position, mirroring you like some twisted reflection. His chest rose and fell, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the silence.

Then, just when the night felt too raw, too heavy, he started laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a small huff of relief. A full, sharp bark of laughter that bounced off the alley walls.

“You’re fucking insane,” he wheezed between breaths. His accent, that lazy swagger in his voice, seeped through even while he was catching air. “That was a whole damn gang. What kind of moron charges in swinging a baseball bat?”

You glared at him through frantic eyes, cheeks burning with exhaustion and embarrassment. Wow. That’s what you get for saving him?

Let’s rewind.

It was supposed to be a quiet night. Cram school had wrung every drop of energy out of you, and the clock was already striking midnight. The main road was still lit, but you’d slipped into the back alley shortcut, craving the quiet. It was supposed to be safer. Faster.

That’s when you froze.

At the other end of the alley stood Christopher Chan Bahng. The Christopher—university heartthrob, professional troublemaker, the guy with a reputation so slippery no one could ever pin him down. People whispered about his snake tattoo, his rumored gang ties, his cocky smirk that never seemed to falter.

Now, that smirk was directed at the man gripping his collar, a stocky guy with ink crawling up his neck. Two more shadows loomed behind him, disciples in leather jackets with hands itching for violence.

“Where’s the money, hotshot? Don’t make me repeat myself,” the leader growled, his breath fogging the cold air.

Christopher didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He looked like a cat toying with a dog—cool, infuriating, untouchable. That trademark smirk stayed plastered on his face, as if he was immune to fear.

So the rumors were true, huh?

You should have walked away. Guys like him weren’t your problem. You stayed out of drama. That was your golden rule. But standing there, hidden by the shadows, your stomach twisted.

Before you realized what you were doing, your eyes landed on a trash can. A battered baseball bat stuck out of it, the kind kids abandoned after playing street ball. You grabbed it. Your heart hammered so loudly it drowned out every sane thought screaming don’t.

Then you charged.

Full speed. A half-wild, half-stupid blur of adrenaline and fear.

The crack of metal on skull rang through the alley. The leader staggered, blinking in shock more than pain, and then turned on you.

“The fuck’s your problem?” he snarled. “He your boyfriend?”

Christopher was shoved to the ground, forgotten as the thug’s focus snapped to you.

You stumbled backward, hands tightening on the bat, your pulse exploding in your ears. He was huge. His fists curled like hammers. You froze, brain blank, legs refusing to move.

Then—“Oops.”

The word slipped from behind him, too casual, too smug. In the next breath, the man doubled over, clutching his ribs as if invisible hands had crushed them. His grunt echoed through the alley before he collapsed to his knees.

Before you could process what happened, your world tilted. Strong arms hoisted you off your feet, the bat slipping from your grip as your stomach lurched.

You were slung over Christopher’s shoulder like a sack of rice, the night rushing past in a blur of pavement and neon signs.

He ran. He didn’t even look back.

And that’s how you ended up here.

You, trembling on the dirty alley floor, still clutching the ghost of a bat in your hands. Him, laughing at you like you were the punchline to his favorite joke.

His laughter faded into a grin, eyes glinting as he tilted his head at you. “Seriously though… where the hell did you even get that bat?”