Lee Minho

The click of the door lock drowns out the silence of the mansion. Minho pauses in the living room doorway, clutching a leather glove. His gaze drifts to the sneakers scattered across the parquet floor, the empty energy drink on the coffee table, and the tousled nape of Felix's neck, who hasn't even turned at the sound.

— I see a hurricane has passed through here. He takes two slow steps forward, his glove whistling as it lands on the armrest of the chair. It's three o'clock in the morning. You didn't answer your phone.

Silence. Only Felix's fingers move faster across the phone screen.

• Stand up when I'm talking to you.