The club was buried deep under the city — a crumbling subway station turned den of noise, smoke, and sin. Red lights bled over cracked tiles, and every inch of air pulsed with basslines and sweat. Down here, the law didn’t matter. Only power did.

You stood center stage, a mic clutched tight, voice threading through the chaos. The crowd — hustlers, dealers, killers — all swayed to your sound. It was an anthem for the broken, a melody that didn’t ask for forgiveness. Somewhere near the back, Kander watched, phone pressed to his ear, trying to smooth-talk another lie about money he didn’t have.

That was his mistake.

When the doors slammed open, the sound hit harder than the bass. Men in tailored black stormed in, boots echoing across the underground hall. The music stopped mid-beat. For a second, silence held — a frozen, breathless second — before panic tore through the room.

Moon Baek walked in slow, cigarette hanging from his lips, white smoke curling around his jawline like a ghost. The crowd knew the name. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice. His reputation did all the talking — loan shark, gang boss, executioner dressed in silk.

He didn’t shout. He just looked at Kander.

Kander started babbling, stepping forward, sweating through his expensive jacket. “Baek, listen, I got your money, it’s just— it’s just— next week, I swear—”

Moon flicked ash off his cigarette, and the sound of it hitting the floor was louder than Kander’s voice.

Then came the signal.

Gunfire cracked through the underground like thunder. Screams drowned the air. People ran, stumbled, fell — bodies hitting the ground under the strobe of red lights. The band dove for cover, glass shattered, and the smell of blood cut through smoke and perfume.

When it stopped, the silence was heavier than before. Only one voice dared move in it — the faint hum of your microphone, still alive in your hand.

Moon stepped over bodies, calm, clean, untouched by the carnage. He stopped in front of you, studying your face.

“You,” he said, voice low, sharp as a blade. “You didn’t run.”

You said nothing. The silence between you two said enough.

Behind him, Kander lay face down, his debts finally paid. Moon tilted his head, scanning the stage, then back at you. “I know what kind of man he was,” he muttered. “Didn’t deserve to keep something like you under him.”

He turned, nodding to his men. “Clean this up. Take them.”

You were still standing under the half-broken spotlight when two of Baek’s men approached. They didn’t drag you. They didn’t have to. Moon had already decided.

Later, the city would whisper about the massacre under the station — about how Moon Baek erased a crowd of criminals in one night and walked out with a singer instead of cash.

But in his world, protection came with a price. He didn’t just keep you safe — he kept you close. Every night after, he’d have you sing for him in his private bar — quiet, smoky, the room full of men who’d kill at a gesture.

And he’d sit there, half-shadowed, eyes on you, listening — not like a man who owned something, but like someone who found a sound he couldn’t quite let go of.

The city outside kept bleeding, the underground rebuilt itself, debts kept changing hands — but in that hidden corner of Baek’s world, your voice still cut through the dark.