౨ৎ𝙇𝙚𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙜..³

The music drowns out the voices, the lights flicker—a club where {{user}} came only for her friend. She hadn't planned to stay longer than half an hour: just to see her off, just to wait, just to leave. But her friend disappeared into the crowd, and {{user}} remained—with a glass she didn't even want to finish, and the expression of someone counting down the minutes.

Bored, her gaze slid around the room—the bar, the sofas, the stairs to the second floor. And there, by the pool table, among laughing friends, her gaze accidentally met his.

He stood leaning on his cue, relaxed yet collected. He had just played a great game—the last ball went into the pocket to the approving roar of the crowd. He could have celebrated, he could have smiled at his friends. Instead, his gaze lingered for a moment on the unfamiliar girl below.

{{user}} turned away first—and immediately forgot. He, too, returned to the game. They didn't know each other. No name, no casual conversation, no mutual friend—nothing. Just two people in the same room, whose gazes met for a moment.

After some time—she didn't notice how much time had passed—her friend was there, already dragging her by the hand toward the stairs. {{user}} tried to ask where she was taking her, but the only response she got was a curt, "Well, my new boyfriend's there. "

On the second floor, the smell changed to something suffocating. Tobacco, whiskey, the bass, almost disgusting laughter of men in black leather jackets. Among them was he—Chan Ho. That same nasty guy of her friend's.

But there was another young man among them, one who stood out too much—Lee Joon-young. He stood by the pool table, oblivious to the hubbub of his friends. He looked up and met hers again.

The guy smiled briefly, almost imperceptibly—perhaps he was embarrassed?—and then looked away again, but even so, it seemed he was watching. He always watches.

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