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Stephen Choi.

The world’s most famous South Korean rapper.

He stops the moment he spots Minho, and the room somehow grows even quieter.

If that’s even possible.

Then his dark brown eyes land on me.

Thud.

Thud.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I press a hand against my chest, annoyed by the sudden ache beneath my ribs.

What the hell is that?

I’m not sure I want to know.

His penetrating gaze shifts to my luggage and then back to me.

One dark eyebrow rises.

Slowly.

Judgmentally.

I know that look. I’ve been giving it to people since birth.

Usually idiots who insist on pestering me.

“Who the fuck is moving in?”

His voice is deep and entirely too calm for someone standing in his own doorway, looking at me like I’ve personally offended him by breathing in his general direction.

I stare at him while he stares daggers at me. He’s giving me a look harsh enough to make most people think twice before saying the wrong thing to him. Unfortunately for him, I’m not most people.

I lift my chin and give Khaos my best “I don’t care who the hell you are, and you don’t intimidate me” stare. It’s a look I’ve perfected over the years.

It never fails.

Except this time, he meets it with an identical one.

Interesting.

I don’t flinch and neither does he.

For the first time in my life, I’m looking at someone who seems completely unimpressed by everything I am.

I should find that irritating.

I do.

Mostly.

But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes my pulse stumble again.