The ghost of a smile stayed on his lips a moment longer than usual.
??????
The 25th arrived hot and wet.
Seoul clung to everything. Skin, clothes, tempers.
The penthouse transformed. Not by decorators. By chaos.
Haneul had somehow convinced Cha Yul to lend him half the performers from Velvet Eclipse. Three showed up in full face, one in an 18th-century gown. There were feathers. Glitter. One brought a fog machine.
"To add mystique," she purred. "And conceal the awkward silences."
Haneul high-fived her.
Ji-ho arrived first—already tipsy, shirt unbuttoned, with two bottles of soju and a grin sharp enough to slice fruit. He kissed Seungho’s cheek, loudly.
"You look constipated, hyung. That's your party face?"
Seungho ignored him. Took the bottle. Drank.
Jaewan and Cha Yul came next—Jaewan in a linen suit that somehow looked both expensive and annoyed, like he’d been dragged here by reputation alone.
Yul paused in the doorway, surveying the scene like a war general assessing a poorly planned ambush.
“Sky” he said, voice smooth but firm.
Haneul turned, hands full of neon skewers and a stolen tambourine.
“Boss.”
Yul’s eyes flicked from the drag queens sword-fighting with parasols, to Ji-ho trying to open champagne with a spoon, to Seungho downing another drink with the expression of a man bracing for artillery fire.
“You’re using my club talent budget to fund this chaos?”
“No,” Haneul said quickly. “They’re here for moral support.”
One of the queens behind him blew glitter into the air and struck a pose. “Moral support, baby!”
Yul pinched the bridge of his nose.
Then—softening—he stepped forward and placed one hand briefly on Haneul’s shoulder. “If this turns into an incident, I will deny all knowledge of you.”
Haneul grinned. “Thank you, boss.”
Yul leaned in just enough to lower his voice. “Tell me if it gets too much. I still have that foldout couch in my office. No questions asked.”
“I’m good,” Haneul murmured. “For now.”
Yul nodded once. “Then don’t set anything on fire.”
He moved toward the drinks, already regretting not bringing his own bottle.
Hye-jin arrived last.
She wore periwinkle silk, tailored to heartbreak. High neck, delicate sleeves, hair pinned like she had somewhere more respectable to be.
The moment she saw the scene—drag queens arm-wrestling over macarons, Ji-ho sitting cross-legged on the floor with a cigarette behind his ear, Haneul in mesh and combat boots yelling about who finished the damn birthday tteok—her face froze.
