??????
The phone buzzed near his hip.
He let it ring once. Twice.
Then checked it.
Junseo:
— you up?— boss says you’re on the list for Saturday— the corporate gig I told you about, all suits and ties. rich crowd.
— bring the fox mask. They like that shit.
Haneul snorted. Tossed the phone onto the mattress and lay back, arms above his head.
The paper was still in his lap.
He closed his eyes and whispered the last line again, lips barely parting.
“Before the snow falls,
I would love to see you.”
He didn’t know who he was saying it to.
But something in his ribs ached like it might answer.
??????
The room had become overly warm, stuffy and perfumed with synthetic musk, cologne so expensive it smelled cheap, and the lingering, stale bite of champagne. Men in sharp suits lounged around the plush private room, their eyes glistening with alcohol and lustful anticipation, each waiting for their chosen entertainment, a fantasy to make them forget their lives, wives, stress, and emptiness.
This was business as usual: transaction masked in glitter, drunken laughter and debauchery, every gaze greedy, every touch invasive.
But not for Seungho.
His figure stood apart, imposing in a tailored black suit that hugged his broad shoulders like battle armor, crimson-golden eyes cold as winter fire, a wall of silent disdain. Unlike the others, he did not lounge. He didn't relax. He stood and then sat, distant and stiff, near a massive mahogany desk, his jaw tense, eyes sharp.
This gathering was a concession to his shareholders—a sordid ritual he despised, yet couldn't entirely avoid. His authority stretched vast, but not absolute. He had resisted vehemently, only to be cornered by cold corporate politics. So here he was, tolerating the indignity with grim patience.
Then the door opened.
Music hummed gently, velvet-edged and sultry, but suddenly no one heard it. Every set of eyes snapped to the newcomers, aquartet of beautiful boys, all edges, mischief, and dangerous allure. And among them, burning brighter, more violent and dazzling than the rest, was Haneul.
He entered like a sharp breath, lightning wrapped in human skin, his body a provocative weapon, lithe muscle exposed shamelessly beneath the cropped black top, porcelain skin luminescent under strategic star-shaped glitter. His legs stretched miles in impossibly tight black denim, and the silver-goldenblue fox mask that covered half his face gleamed cold and sharp under the soft lights, making his already striking features devastatingly lethal.
And Seungho’s world tilted.
Flashbacks slammed into him without warning, visceral echoes from another lifetime—silver fox mask, lethal grace, a dance of death and ice upon a Joseon rooftop under the full moon. A heart thundering, confusion surging, wonder flooding. Breath caught painfully in his throat. Impossible. A face he couldn’t have seen. A voice that never existed. Yet something in him folded—recognition without name, ache without origin. There he stood, unmistakably, brutally alive, dazzling with untempered, raw rebellion, glittering, snarling, familiar and heartbreakingly strange.
Across the room, eyes hidden beneath the silver mask flickered, locked onto Seungho. And in that instant, the chaos creature—still a boy, always a storm—froze utterly. Recognition without memory rippled visibly across his taut body, tension coiling in muscles that suddenly seemed too sharp, too wild. Instinct flashed in his eyes, confusion pooling dangerously.
Another boy laughed flirtatiously and tried to approach Seungho, already offering a coy smile, hand outstretched as if to claim territory. But Haneul snarled sharply, moving quickerthan thought, slamming a merciless elbow into the other's ribs, his voice a harsh whip-crack that sliced across the murmurs.
"The daddy is mine."
The intruder recoiled, breath knocked sharply away, face twisting with irritation. Yet no one dared protest, least of all Seungho. Every gaze in the room lingered for a heartbeat longer, then moved away hastily. This one belonged only to the storm.
Unhurried, defiant, utterly unapologetic, Haneul prowled toward Seungho, each step a provocation, an invitation and a threat. His eyes glittered coldly beneath the mask, blue enough to drown in, intense enough to burn. And when he reached Seungho, the boy planted himself on the desk before him with languid arrogance, knees spreading shamelessly wide, unashamed and bold, devastating in his casual vulgarity.
