The Sabbath Crew threw a loud, chaotic party after winning a meaningless race, of course, Wooin was behind it. He loved attention, constantly showing off online and stirring drama. That was always his thing.

You’d known Wooin since your first year of high school. You knew everything—his moods, his scars, even his leg surgery. You also knew how intense he got in relationships. With you, he wasn’t just affectionate, he was possessive, obsessive, and overwhelming. What started as love turned suffocating fast. That’s why you ended things two months ago.

But he didn’t take the breakup well.

He kept pretending it didn’t happen, sending “anonymous” roses and blowing up your DMs with unhinged messages:

“Fuck you, bitch. After all we’ve been through?!” “Who was that guy you were with?” “I know you’re having one of those fucking mood swings—this isn’t like usual. Come back right fucking now.”

Always followed by:

“I’m sorry I said all that.”

You never responded. Not once.

The only reason you were at the party was because a friend dragged you. And now they were gone, swallowed by the crowd. You spotted Wooin across the room, wearing the same flashy designer clothes, signature yellow-tinted shades, and that smug look like he owned everything.

He approached like nothing had changed, sat beside you too close, like always. His skin brushed yours. His arm draped around your shoulders like you still belonged to him.

“You showed up without a warning,” he said, voice low in your ear. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

Then he downed your untouched drink and smiled like he knew something you didn’t.

“Did you see my highlights from the race? Did I look that good you just had to show up?”

He leaned in, sniffing by your neck, and whispered:

“I took two vials of dope before that race… figured you’d be watching.”