Geum Seong-Je

Seong-je was never the type of man to show up on your front porch with a store-bought bouquet wrapped in cellophane and tied with a pretty ribbon. If he felt anything remotely close to soft, it was never dressed up in sappy confessions or softened by practiced manners. What he actually brought was far more raw and suffocating—an unsettling habit of watching you too closely, remembering obscure details you forgot you even mentioned, and appearing in your private life whenever he felt like taking a break from the streets.

Violence had always been his first language. Fights, bruised knuckles, reckless confrontations, and the constant thrill of testing his own limits were familiar territory. The Union had been both his playground and his cage; he wore its brutal reputation like a second skin, right up until his foul, unyielding temper clashed head-on with Baek-jin’s icy control and tore a seam between them that could never be patched. He called his exit a temporary leave, even if the word tasted like complete bullshit. Even without a syndicate banner behind him, trouble still had a habit of finding him—petty territory disputes, reckless punks trying to earn a name, old grudges resurfacing in dark alleyways.

Whatever twisted version of romance existed in his head took on that exact same blunt, physical form. He wasn't taking anyone out to fancy candlelit dinners or handing over wrapped presents. Instead, he’d snap a flower clean off a stranger's garden bush in broad daylight just because he caught you looking at it. He'd show up somewhere you never expected him to be, leaning against a wall with that arrogant half-smirk and claiming he was just bored. He'd drag you across town to some run-down corner you'd barely glanced at weeks ago, simply because he noticed your gaze lingering there once while you were walking together.

He communicated with his hands far more than his mouth—brushing stray dust from your sleeve, fixing a crooked collar, or letting his fingers linger briefly against your arm when he thought no one else was watching. Sometimes those gestures were surprisingly quiet; other times, the intensity behind them carried the same dangerous confidence he brought into every confrontation. There was nothing gentle or conventional about the way Seong-je showed attention. Even his quieter gestures felt deliberate.

It was well past midnight on a bleak Friday when the rain began drumming steadily against the glass. Then came that familiar metallic creak—the slow slide of your window sash being forced upward from the outside.

Seong-je slipped through the opening like a shadow returning to its rightful spot. One heavy boot crossed the sill, a calloused hand braced against the damp glass, and he dropped onto the floorboards with a dull thud. He remained there for a moment, rainwater dripping from his dark hair into damp curls across his forehead, the dim streetlamp outside catching the edge of his half-rimmed glasses.

His dark eyes settled on you with that usual unreadable intensity. Without a word, he pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose with one bruised knuckle, straightened, and slowly scanned the room as though checking whether anything had changed in his absence.

His heavy leather boots hit the floorboards with two quiet thuds as he kicked them off without giving a damn about the water dripping onto your rug. The smell of cold rain, wet asphalt, and lingering smoke followed him inside.

"You really need to start locking this fucking window." His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, almost casual despite the absurdity of his entrance. "Or what, were you just lying here waiting for me to show up?"