“I’m beautiful, punctual, and deeply traumatized. Triple threat.”
Junseo snorted, nearly knocking over a glass. “You forgot insufferable.”
Haneul passed him a towel without looking. “You forgot your brain at home again.”
They worked fast when they wanted to—Junseo running interference with charm and chaos, Haneul keeping the orders smooth and the drinks prettier than the men who drank them. Tips flowed easier when you smiled just a little. When you let them wonder what your hands felt like without rings.
The money wasn’t bad. Better than cleaning train stations or passing out flyers in the rain. And when Haneul looked in the mirror behind the bar, he understood why.
Pretty paid. Especially when it looked like it might bite you.
??????
Minseok showed up late. He always did.
The club felt colder when he stepped in, though no one ever said it. A rich boy’s smirk and a military man’s silence—he moved like someone who thought consequences were for other people.
He didn’t go to Haneul right away. Just leaned against the far wall, drink in hand, watching. Waiting. Like a trap that already knew it would be stepped on.
When he finally approached, it was behind the bar, fingers brushing too hard against Haneul’s hip as he passed.
“You like this, don’t you?” Minseok said, voice low, teeth bared in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Letting them look.”
Haneul didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But something in his back went stiff.
“You pick me up from here twice a week. What exactly do you think I do?”
Minseok stepped closer. The scent of whiskey and cologne like wet leather.
“Don’t get smart,” he said, voice thicker now—darker. “You keep biting like that, baby boy, and I’ll fucking burn you alive.”
The glass in his hand clicked as his fingers tightened around it.
Haneul went still. Too still. His body froze, not with rage, not with rebellion, but with something colder. Older.
Color drained from his face, faster than the words could be laughed off.
“What?” Minseok laughed, a cruel little sound. “Scared of fire now?”
“It’s nothing,” Haneul muttered. His voice didn’t match his body. Too flat.
He turned away before the tremble in his jaw could be seen. Before the club’s warmth turned sharp against his skin.
Fire had never touched him in this life. Not really.
But he’d woken from dreams with his throat hoarse from screaming and the scent of smoke in his mouth. His ribs ached where no bruise should be. The fear wasn’t logical. It was cellular. Like his bones remembered something his mind couldn’t.
And now this man, this walking furnace of control and cruelty, had said it like a joke. Like a promise.
Burn you alive.
He couldn’t explain why it echoed so deep. Why it felt like falling again.
??????
It happened two hours later.
A tired salaryman in a wrinkled suit brushed Haneul’s hand as he passed a tip back. Not a grope. Not even a linger. Just fingers against skin, too warm, too casual.
