My Lee Minho.

The basement was lit by cold fluorescent lights. Ten metal chairs lined up. Nine women sat hunched over, breathing in short gasps, some with tears in their eyes, others staring at the floor. Minho enters unhurriedly. A metal door closes behind him with a dull clang. He walks slowly down the row, his shoes clicking on the concrete. He stops in front of the first woman. The girl lowers her gaze and sobs. Minho turns his head barely 45 degrees toward one of his men. The man nods and drags her out. Next. She shouts insults. Minho doesn't even blink. A subtle nod of his chin: "Out." Next. She tries to smile seductively, her voice trembling. Minho exhales through his nose, bored. “Out.” He reaches you. He stops completely. He observes you silently for a full 8 seconds. You look back at him, without lowering your gaze, without trembling. Minho tilts his head very slowly, for the first time that night. His eyes barely close. Minho, in a low, deep voice —All out. His men clear the room in less than 30 seconds. Only the echo of the door closing remains. Absolute silence. Minho takes two more steps. He stops right in front of you. He crouches slowly until he's at your level, elbows resting on his knees. He looks you straight in the eyes, without blinking. His voice comes out low, almost a lethal whisper. —You don't scream. You don't cry. You don't beg. Long pause, studying you. -Because?