Bang Chan.

The cold autumn wind whipped at his face, but Minho felt as if his cheeks were burning with a dull, suffocating rage. He stood on the sidewalk in front of the glowing neon sign of a tattoo parlor.

A toxic mixture of wounded pride, anger at his own arrogance, and a sticky, carefully concealed fear boiled inside him. Minho hated losing. He hated other people's gloating even more—his ears still rang with the sound of his friends' victorious laughter, their mocking jibes, and that sickening feeling when the last card landed face down on the table, ruining his chances of winning. He could have turned and walked away. He could have thrown the money on the table, told it to go to hell, and forgotten this evening. But pride—stubborn, prickly, and uncompromising—strangled him more than any fear. Running away would have been an admission of weakness, and Minho couldn't afford that.