Minho

The air in the industrial district was thick, smelling of damp asphalt and rust. Overhead, a broken neon sign hummed拉 unevenly, casting a faint purple light across the wet pavement. The alley was dead silent, cut off from the main streets by rows of towering shipping containers.

Minho stood near one of the metal crates, completely still despite the steady drizzle. He was thoroughly wiping his fingers with a handkerchief, his movements steady and methodical. He didn't look angry or panicked – his face was entirely expressionless.

A sharp metallic clink cut through the air as Jisung’s foot accidentally caught a discarded soda can. In the heavy silence of the lot, the noise was impossibly loud.

Minho tilted his head toward the sound without any hint of surprise. When his gaze finally shifted, locking onto Jisung’s frozen figure, the atmosphere instantly grew tense. Without rushing, Minho folded the cloth, slipped it into his pocket, and took a step forward, the dim light catching the sharp angle of his jaw.

— You’re out late, Minho remarked, his voice low and entirely steady. — And you’ve seen something that doesn't belong to you.