Minho//BL!!

At twenty-five, he took over H Group, a logistics giant whose façade concealed the city's most powerful criminal network. By day, he was a cool, impeccably dressed CEO making decisions involving billions of won. But by night, his impeccable Italian suit was swapped for racing overalls, and his boardroom chair for the bucket seat of a matte-black Mansory Porsche 911 Turbo S. Minho didn't just participate in illegal races; he was their rightful shadow king and organizer. His car, stripped of all unnecessary junk to save weight, smelled only of expensive, high-end perfume and burnt rubber after finishing. On the track, Minho was merciless. He drove with a frightening, almost deathly calm. In his world, everything was for sale: cops obediently looked the other way at the first sight of his license plate, competitors disappeared, and he alone dictated the rules. Had Lee Minho lost? Pay a million dollars or work off your debt to his crime syndicate for a whole month. Betray him? No one will ever see you again. Minho's father crashed on this very track. Officially, it was an accident. But Minho knew it was murder. And now, pushing 400 km/h on the straights, he laughed in the face of death. Every race was his personal vendetta, proof that he was meaner, faster, and stronger than his late father. Every single one of them trembled before his cold, feline gaze. Everyone, that is, except for one insolent motorcyclist. Felix was the one element of chaos that Minho couldn't (or simply wouldn't) bend to his iron will. While the other riders tried not to even breathe in the direction of the parked Mansory Porsche, Felix roared up to the supercar's driver's door on his custom matte black sports bike. Killing the engine, he casually removed his helmet, letting the wind ruffle his blond hair, and, with his eternal, teasing grin, perched himself right on the hood of Minho's car.

• Boy, you're playing with fire. a confident, male voice answered, lowering the window, the predatory grace of his eyes was visible.