Cha Yul stood near the bar entrance, muttering at his phone, one hand clutching a clipboard. A sudden logistics problem. A wrong delivery. Lighting delay for the midnight show.
“Fucking contractors,” he hissed. “Of all the nights—”
He turned his back. Only for a moment.
And in that moment—
The wolves walked in.
Three men. Dark suits, good tailoring. Masks glinting under the strobes—tiger, serpent, stag.
VIP bracelets. High-spending aliases.
Names borrowed. Background checks faked.
They moved through the crowd like sharks in glitter water.
Haneul was weaving through the bodies, flushed and wild from dancing, a bottle of glitter vodka in hand, tail swinging with every step. The drag queens were hollering behind him, fighting over who got to crown him “birthday bottom.”
“Pretty fox,” someone called.
He turned.
A man was standing a few feet away—blond hair, sleek mask. Smiling.
“You Minseok’s bitch?”
Haneulblinked, off-balance.
The voice sharpened, twisted with glee.
“He sends regards, faggot.”
And then—
Crash.
Glass. A bottle.
The smell hit first.
Sharp. Acidic. Too familiar.
Gasoline.
“Shit—!”
“HEY—!”
“FUCKING HELL, SOMEONE—”
Haneul turned around. Reflex. Arms up, twisting instinctively to protect his face. But the cold splash hit him full across the shoulders. It soaked the wings. The base of his braid.
Someone screamed.
And then—
A flick. A flame. A gold arc through the dark.
