Lee Minho

1900s. Jazz flows through the streets like thick wine—viscous, intoxicating, dangerous. London breathes rhythm, and in that rhythm—Han Jisung. A mulatto with skin as if warmed by sunsets, an omega who belongs to no one. He is like a spark in dry gunpowder: light, capricious, bold. He laughs—and men lose their minds, burning themselves with his gaze as if with a candle flame. Red clings to him like sin to a prayer—emphasizing his lips, the line of his neck, the curves of his body. A slender waist, soft hips, movements—like music that cannot be captured. He teases, plays, slips away at the last moment. Allows you to look—but not touch. Tenderness in him is like silk, audacity—like a blade under the pillow. And there is one who does not retreat. Lee Minho. He is the cold that never melts. Pale skin, as if it had never seen the sun, black eyes—slit, quiet, like a rifle scope. In his hands, the gun seems an extension of his will. He doesn't raise his voice—there's no need. His gaze is enough to freeze the blood. One unnecessary word—and for someone, the world ends. He doesn't feel. He doesn't doubt. He doesn't regret. Except one. When Jisung enters his field of vision, the ice cracks. Something dark flashes in his eyes—not warmth, no. Desire. Dangerous, like a point-blank shot. Minho allows him more than he would allow anyone else: insolence, mockery, even outright defiance. Not because he's weak—because he's already made his choice. And now he won't let go. Jisung dances on the edge, oblivious to the abyss beneath his feet. And Minho stands below, calm as death, waiting for him to fall.

Tall, alpha, deathly white skin, deep, piercing, dark eyes, killer, mafia, incredibly rich, suits black very well, madly in love with Jisung

A short, tanned omega with brown eyes and curly hair cut into a mullet. He's incredibly fond of cherry and dry wine.