And then—
“DANCE WITH ME, BABY—"
One of the queens, Misty Moon, hauled him out from behind the bar and into the center of the floor. The music wasn’t even fast. Just a low-slung synth groove, heavy bass, purple light bleeding across the floor.
He tried to resist and failed, so he danced like he didn’t give a fuck.
Like his limbs were spells and his hips had nothing left to lose.
Somewhere above them, leaning on the mezzanine rail with a drink untouched, Seungho watched.
Cha Yul was already on his second glass beside Jaewan. Both of them leaned against the bar, not speaking at first.
Jaewan, who’d come with Seungho straight from Yeol Holdings’ final strategy meeting of the quarter—four hours of performance audits, internal reshuffling, and a thinly-veiled power grab from two board directors who still thought they could bend Seungho into a dynasty puppet—looked like he’d aged a week in a day. His tie was tucked into his breast pocket, sleeves rolled, the thin gold pen he used for signing deals now shoved behind one ear like a cigarette he’d never light.
His phone vibrated twice—once with a follow-up from compliance, once with a question from legal. He didn’t answer.
He watched the way Haneul dipped low, slow grind against Misty Moon’s thigh, all fire and smirk. He lit a cigarette off a candle and exhaled toward the fans.
“You think it’s a good distraction?” Yul asked, finally.
“I think he’s the first real thing in Seungho’s life in a long time.” Jaewan said.
Yul didn’t look convinced. “He’s always been a walking spark. Sparks are pretty. Sparks burn out.”
“Yeah. But some of them start fires you can’t put out. And whatever the fuck this is…” Jaewan tipped his glass slightly, watching the mezzanine. “We can’t stop it.”
??????
Seungho had arrived late. Not out of rudeness, but resistance. He hadn’t wanted to come, but he had. Driven not by schedule but something wild, compulsive.
He hadn’t said hello, or taken off his jacket. The black wool still held the faint chill of Yeol Holdings’ twenty-ninth floor—air-conditioned ambition and backlit boardroom cruelty. He stoodin the mezzanine shadow like a statue carved out of something sharper than stone. His drink didn’t move. His eyes did.
The day had left dents in his calm: a meeting with the PR consultant the Jangs had hired (all veiled threats and fake apologies), a call from his father that went unanswered, and two hours re-reading the same financial summary without absorbing a word. A junior associate had commented that he looked “especially cold today.”
He’d been colder before.
But tonight, it wasn’t business that iced his blood. It was heat.
It was Haneul.
And it was Ji-Ho, just walking in like he owned gravity. He had never been interested in Seungho’s private life, but lately he was keeping in touch way too often for his liking.
His drink didn’t move. His eyes did.
They moved when Ji-Ho showed up.
Charismatic bastard. Grin like a devil and walk like he owned the air.
Haneul hadn’t expected him, but he played it cool. When Ji-Ho slung an arm around his shoulder, Haneul leaned in like it was routine. Like they did this every Thursday.
They didn’t.
But the banter landed like they did.
“That shirt’s illegal in five provinces, fox.”
“Tell your mom I said thanks.”
